Lee Harwood

Rating: 4.67
Rating: 4.67

Lee Harwood Poems

The white cloud passed over the land
there is sea always round the land
the sky is blue always above the cloud
the cloud in the blue continues to move
...

Clouds scattered across the sky        all so far away
and then the space between        this strange 'distance'
What does 'normal' mean, after all?        you move
toward the window        lights marking the headland
...

The table was filled with many objects

The wild tribesmen in the hills,
whose very robes were decorated with designs
...

The ridges either side of the valley
were covered in dark pine forest.
The ploughed hill sides were red,
and the pastures were very green.
...

for Marian

Looking at the zoo the great white park
of a misty winter’s afternoon
...

The blur of sky and sea
this white grey morning
before the day burns
moves into blue
...

(for Peter Ruppell)

You wrote such a love poem that I was
dumb-founded & left to scratch the sand
...

The scent - bog myrtle
pressed between fingers,
even brushed through when
walking across this empty valley
fenced by crags.

A flat moor - the colours muted
as dusk closes in
the red rust of grasses and bracken.

A sense of calm almost,
the silence.
No bird nor beast.

"In a remote land far from here . . ."
No, not that far
the mountains and bogs.

As though in a dream,
as though in an underworld
suspended between "life and death"
wondering
"Is this what it's like?
it feels so good."

But no, here and awake.

The minutes pass as
silk air wraps itself
around my head.

May my children feel this touch

one day.
...

for Marian



Looking at the zoo the great white park
of a misty winter's afternoon "You're great!
and I love you for it"
All the animals have their thick winter coats on
- the childish humour of this is so enjoyable -
A brass clock strikes the hour of three and
sets in motion mechanical chimes that are
beaten out by rampant bears and prancing monkeys
with heavy metal limbs jerking to the rhythm
- this obviously moves the crowd of children who're
watching - some laugh with "joy", others gasp with "wonder"

Let's call this charming story "A day at the zoo" -
all essays to be handed in by the end of the week

But back to the winter and coats
It's very crisp today and the air is clear
The buffaloes are magnificent and beautiful - they are a rich brown, and the hair is not matted as it was in summer "alas"
A pair of bobcats lie with their front paws round each other's necks - like lovers - they lick each other's fur (in turn) - it is a golden yellow
A pair of badgers
A pair of lynx
Two pairs of raccoons
and the grizzlies and polar bears lie sleeping in the sun

Let's call this "The Peaceable Kingdom: A Painterly Reference"
or "Winter in the Zoo" or "A Day at the Zoo"
In fact let's forget what we'll call this
Instead let's . . . returning to
the zoo in the corner of the park
the white mist hanging over the trees
The fact we can become children again
shows how right we were in
believing in our love despite the canyon
which we entered stumbling along the dark bed
of the Bad Water river
But we climbed out the other side
though taken by surprise on topping the rim
never having realised the end was so very near
But there it was - the herd of buffalo
grazing on the lush plains
Geography in our sense is exciting
Plotting the whole course now
Sunlight and the shadows of fast
moving clouds sliding across the grassland
I imagine North Texas or even Dakota Montana

"The end" only of this canyon but a continuation
of something greater compare it to a plateau
of great size and richness laced with gentle
deaths at its edges the spirits of the tribe
waiting with a deep love for us
It's not so much of a descent either - but these
details can wait you see

"You're great! and very wise" we laugh as
we reach the top of the rock outcrop
"and I love you for it"

We flower we continue from where we left off before
though the statement of this can only be
something secondary for us and therefore decorative
There's no worry
"People of the World, relax!"
We walk among the animals
the cages upset you
When I really think I know you're always right
there's no worry we're on the same planet
and so very lucky
that the poem should end like this
is very good
...

The ridges either side of the valley
were covered in dark pine forest.
The ploughed hill sides were red,
and the pastures were very green.
Constable's landscape entitled "Weymouth"
is always in my mind at such times;
my memory of this small part of the
National Gallery surprises even me,
and maybe only I know how inevitable it all is.
The horsemen are riding through the forest
and at dusk they will halt on its edge
and then, after checking their instructions, ride carefully
down into the valley - delicately picking their way
through the small wood and fording the shallow river.
From then on it is not very far
to their destination. We both know this.

Somehow the action has at last gone beyond
the painting and this is for real.
But there can be no self-flattery on this account
- it has all been decided for us.
The illusions of freedom are at last
shown to be so obviously ridiculous that
most people cry at this point.

What it left is a canvas and paints
and a little time for distraction before the event.
It is not so much a justification - but saying
"Goodbye" now appears irrelevant.

All the lists and secret worlds have now been
exposed - there is little left to say.
"I did care, and the love I claimed
was and still is the miracle that continues
to astonish me. I love you.
It is only that death has forced
me into obeying its commands.
I am powerless and in its power."
And that's a personal statement and as true
I and honest as I can force the words to be.

The saddles creak and it's almost dusk.
It doesn't really matter whether this is
the real or a symbol - the end's the same.
...

The blur of sky and sea
this white grey morning
before the day burns
moves into blue

the sweet butter scent of gorse
the sweet scent of you
dear daughter ghost in my head
dear daughter

the mudflats and sailings shine
as the children run by
along marsh edge and the high dyke bank
egret and oystercatcher dunlin and sandpiper

In the distance a train passes
where a short neat man
pushes a refreshment trolley
his clean white shirt immaculately ironed
his black waistcoat just right
the quiet dignity of him
as he passes through the hours

You'd know this the particulars
were you here
held in the wide sky arc
the children running on the dyke bank
absorbed in this world
...

12.

it's that
the quiet room
the window open, trees outside
"blowing" in the wind.
the colour is called green.
the sky.
the colour is called blue.
(sigh) the crickets singing


windows open. You move . . .
No, not so much a moving
but the artificiality of containment
in one skin. "No man an island" (ha-ha Buddha)
. . . lonesome, huh?

THE music, THE pictures
(go walkabout)
Small wavy lines on the horizon

somewhere over the distant horizon
the distant city (I hadn't thought of this,
but pull it in) and you

the children are sleeping
and you're probably sitting in the big chair
reading or sewing something
It's quarter past nine
I find you beautiful

***


the words come slowly. No . . .
your tongue the lips moving
the words reach out -
crude symbols - the hieroglyphs
sounds, not pictures

the touching beyond this -
I touch you

in the water
as though I'm in you

that joy
and skipping in the street
the children hanging on our arms

***


You know . . . - the signals (on the horizon?)
"blocked off" the ships at night
keep moving

these clear areas beyond the clutter
that clearing

on summer nights as we lie together . . .

there are green trees in the street
yes, there is the whole existence of
our bodies lying naked together
the two skins touching
the coolness of your breasts
the touch

The setting . . .
it doesn't really matter
We know
So much goes on around us

on the quay they're playing music
we'll eat and dance there,
when the wind gets cold
we'll put our sweaters on
it's that simple, really . . .

***


. . . the dry fields
Up on the mountain sides
white doves (of course) glide
on the air-currents hang there

someone said tumble
"the sound of words as they tumble
from men's mouths" (or something like that)

there are these areas,
not to be filled, but . . .

it's a bare canvas, but not empty -
all there under the surface

This is not about writing,
but the whole process
You step off the porch into the dry field
You're there
You see, you're there
Now, take it from there . . .
...

Lee Harwood Biography

Lee Harwood was born in 1939 and grew up in Surrey. He has spent the majority of the past 35 years living in Brighton. In a writing career that began in the early 1960s he has published over 20 volumes of poetry and prose, as well as translations of Tristan Tzara. His work has been widely anthologised and he is regarded as one of the finest poets working in England today.)

The Best Poem Of Lee Harwood

The Final Painting

The white cloud passed over the land
there is sea always round the land
the sky is blue always above the cloud
the cloud in the blue continues to move
- nothing is limited by the canvas or frame -
the white cloud can be pictured like any
other clouds or like a fist of wool
or a white fur rose
The white cloud passes a shadow across
the landscape and so there is a passing greyness
The grey and the white both envelop
the watcher until he too is drawn into the picture
It is all a journey from a room through a door
down stairs and out into the street
The cloud could possess the house
The watchers have a mutual confidence
with the approaching string of white clouds
It is beyond spoken words what they are
silently mouthing to the sky
There was no mystery in this - only the firm
outline of people in overcoats on a hillside
and the line of clouds above them
The sky is blue The cloud white with touches
of grey - the rest - the landscape below -
can be left to the imagination
The whole painting quietly dissolved itself
into its surrounding clouds

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