{"id":11489,"date":"2020-07-22T12:09:13","date_gmt":"2020-07-22T11:09:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11489"},"modified":"2020-07-29T11:53:40","modified_gmt":"2020-07-29T10:53:40","slug":"3-poems-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11489","title":{"rendered":"3 Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/h4>\n

Change<\/b><\/span><\/h4>\n

It felt a bit like approaching the king
\n<\/span>in the counting house we had sung about,
\n<\/span>the frown amidst the glowers of gold-tipped smoke <\/span><\/p>\n

at the hesitant <\/span>Ten 2ps please<\/i><\/span>,
\n<\/span>said again as the music fizzed and throbbed
\n<\/span>and the lights thrilled in their circuits.<\/span><\/p>\n

After the glance down at the tendered coin,
\n<\/span>judged just enough, he thumbed the lever \u2013
\n<\/span>like the quick flick of a bell on a bike \u2013<\/span><\/p>\n

but the impact as if a Viking
\n<\/span>had just hacked a groaning coin-hoard open,
\n<\/span>which scattered helter-skelter down <\/span><\/p>\n

and clinked into a scoop like a lazar\u2019s bowl.
\n<\/span>And there was always gratitude for the handful
\n<\/span>that could last an afternoon, wonderment<\/span><\/p>\n

at the weight greater than you had given,
\n<\/span>at the feeling for once that not everything
\n<\/span>is treasured less for its presence than its loss. <\/span><\/p>\n

Or so it seemed then, awaiting the next time
\n<\/span>the silver would be given, the lever tipped,
\n<\/span>and the change sent clattering down the rim-smoothed chute.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Ghost Notes<\/b><\/span><\/h4>\n

Sometimes, on the other side of the earth,
\n<\/span>where the road is a sword driven six months in,
\n<\/span>and the lettings of the school dreep away<\/span><\/p>\n

like rapids into the heavier water,
\n<\/span>and the sharp shoulders of a chest of drawers
\n<\/span>impose where a dog is not nudging for warmth,<\/span><\/p>\n

the crackling of the traffic on the ice,
\n<\/span>the potato-seller\u2019s sad, piping call
\n<\/span>through cavities in the gummy snowbanks,<\/span><\/p>\n

and where the snow-bundled clouds, like buds
\n<\/span>figuring out how to blossom, are backlit
\n<\/span>like a throat clearing into no speech,<\/span><\/p>\n

sometimes all this can filter into a bubble
\n<\/span>stung in a glass of water, like the sigh
\n<\/span>of the radio off by an apron-hung chair,<\/span><\/p>\n

so the tick-tick twitch of the mantelpiece clock
\n<\/span>ghosts the notes of her knitting, my mother there,
\n<\/span>undemented, forming the comfort of a jumper, <\/span><\/p>\n

as if that was the sole thing that mattered,
\n<\/span>as if that could go on muffling everything else
\n<\/span>but a snow-slit afternoon room in Japan,<\/span><\/p>\n

as if it could \u2013 the point \u2013 at some point \u2013 click.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Sweeney\u2019s Trees<\/b><\/span><\/span><\/h4>\n

When Sweeney praises the trees,
\n<\/span><\/span>the big-sea heaving of the oak,
\n<\/span><\/span>the crimson-splashed ash,
\n<\/span><\/span>the birch that hoards the moonlight, <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and the alder, sheltering elder brother
\n<\/span><\/span>above the briars\u2019 shady clutches,
\n<\/span><\/span>the whisper-shivery, wind-flashed aspen,
\n<\/span><\/span>the hazel full of autumn,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and bow-backed gathers of apple trees,
\n<\/span><\/span>holly bringing winter\u2019s sting,
\n<\/span><\/span>and the blackthorn, gemmed with juicy sloes
\n<\/span><\/span>that in rain outshine the rowan,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I reach like a man to the canopy
\n<\/span><\/span>for the words to breeze the boughs,
\n<\/span><\/span>give breath to earth, to highlight like leaves
\n<\/span><\/span>in final flourish evening sun <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

against the dark heavily descending;
\n<\/span><\/span>but the forms have disappeared,
\n<\/span><\/span>which leaves me somewhere between a man
\n<\/span><\/span>compacting into overspill,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

crushing the fluted body of a bird,
\n<\/span><\/span>and a bird panic-flitting
\n<\/span><\/span>the cathedral aspiration of a man, instinct
\n<\/span><\/span>there must be some way out;<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I reach as if the sheets of a psalter
\n<\/span><\/span>better held the integral beauty
\n<\/span><\/span>(knowing full well that they were vellum)
\n<\/span><\/span>of any of the deep-beloved trees <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

that lifted Sweeney\u2019s spirit into praise. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Change It felt a bit like approaching the king in the counting house we had sung about, the frown amidst the glowers of gold-tipped smoke at the hesitant Ten 2ps please, said again as the music fizzed and throbbed and the lights thrilled in their circuits. After the glance down at the tendered coin, judged […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":275,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[394,395],"tags":[398],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n3 Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11489\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=11489&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"3 Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Change It felt a bit like approaching the king in the counting house we had sung about, the frown amidst the glowers of gold-tipped smoke at the hesitant Ten 2ps please, said again as the music fizzed and throbbed and the lights thrilled in their circuits. 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