#jon silkin

[encre-et-loisirs]

[affectusworld]

Nada es más hondo que una ausencia admitida.

Jon Silkin.

[kaggsy59]

Penguin Modern Poets 7 – Richard Murphy, Jon Silkin, Nathaniel Tarn

Penguin Modern Poets 7 – Richard Murphy, Jon Silkin, Nathaniel Tarn

Well. Don’t all faint with shock, but after my agonising back in June about my failure with challenges and the like, I have actually got going again with a project I started back in 2015 (gulp) – that of reading all 27 of the Penguin Modern Poets collections…. I even gave the project its own page on the site (which is still thereand you can go and have an explore if this interests you); and I…

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[indolencja]

//Jon Silkin

[myimaginarybrooklyn]

In the sun, the leaf, hesitant but active this fluorescence of plain wood; with joy I saw the fields of England, as new, chartered shapes, bargained for, and so, snipped with standing sheep, their snowy garments by the limestone walls, bulbous fossils, their thick inert forms braids dangling the soft wealth of England: selah. Except some people here are brutal, the fist, because of standing in the wrong place, at the cheekbone. Fist, or snide arrowy word.

I rose from England much refreshed, but returned at evening; much undone that was once good prior to this mean juncture. It was joy, beside myself, to see the new fields. Whose this land that, like waiting flesh, turns with a kiss, domestic, but yet it is a local habitation no substance or name for it? It is the ship’s pasture, its interlinking husk of submarine, sea-spike, the sleeted fields of destruction: for payment, for emolument. I am part of this: the bee, cutter of wood, the timbered house unimaginably hospitable. This is what it is. Northwards, a new Jerusalem with the lamb lies separate, its shade dense and lovely. The woman starts again, as though each portion of this were knit afresh.

Jon Silkin, The Ship’s Pasture

[blackjackdavey]

CARING FOR ANIMALS

I ask sometimes why these small animals With bitter eyes, why we should care for them. I question the sky, the serene blue water, But it cannot say. It gives no answer. And no answer releases in my head A procession of grey shades patched and whimpering, Dogs with clipped ears, wheezing cart horses A fly without shadow and without thought. Is it with these menaces to our vision With this procession led by a man carrying wood We must be concerned? The holy land, the rearing Green island should be kindler than this. Yet the animals, our ghosts, need tending to. Take in the whipped cat and the blinded owl; Take up the man-trapped squirrel upon your shoulder. Attend to the unnecessary beasts. From growing mercy and moderate love Great love for the human animal occurs. And your love grows. Your great love grows and grows. - JON SILKIN

[a-pocketful-of-imagination]

This was different this was altogether something else: Though he never spoke this, this Was something to do with death. And then slowly the eye stopped looking Inward. The silence rose and became still. The look turned to the outer place and stopped, With the birds still shrilling around him. And as if he could speak He turned over on his side with his one year Red as a wound He turned over as if he could be sorry for this And out of his eyes two great tears rolled, like stones, And he died.

Jon Silkin