After you’ve negotiated that artfully-conceived
sharp elbow bend in the long, grand drive
through the fields of its estate,
and it hoves into view,
you always gasp – this palace
- no, more like a temple with living quarters –
set deep in the countryside, yet as sure
as one in Athens or in Rome;
yet that too is artfully contrived -
the slight mound it’s built on,
the cunning proportion that magnifies,
disguises, with its public face
the aptness of a family home;
its public rooms so grand, just echoing enough
to magnify a public speech; its family rooms
smallish, cosy; love and friendliness
live here. It says to the world,
stability; tradition re-affirmed; yet
this is our familiar family home.
It has its rooms, as rooms should be,
devoted to each family pursuit:
here’s the grand library
but here, with books so evidently, lovingly well read;
you almost missed the little girl, her hair and knees
curled round a book, deep in that leather green armchair;
the study, where your breathing seems to change,
there’s such a still and living silence here;
the nursery that emanates a lifetime’s care;
the children’s bedrooms set around it,
through which you ran and laughed and ran again; the window seats
from which you looked so wistfully
as childhood’s assurance faded into teenage questioning;
a house to leave,
a house to come back to;
a metaphor
as living, haunting, as the poetry it is.
do you know what felt reading this...like i am back after a long holiday...just want to flop into my sweet sweet bed and stare for long outside the window...thanks...michael...nalini
Thank you for the armchair tour of a grand Manor...and for the glimpse of the little blond haired girl, curled up, reading in the chair...warm and lovely. I truly enjoyed this quick look...
Wow, glad I caught this one Michael. An excellent piece crafted with skill, as the reader dances lightly from word to word. Well written.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
People can squabble over what poetry is until they give themselves a stroke, OR, they can write brilliant poetry such as this poem where, for me, the argument has ended. Standing ovation, Michael.