james watkin

james watkin Poems

Nothing in my beat, irretrievable
That takes to treks, as something
Exiled of its own volition
Ever dispirits, within

A life is not lived once
But many times over
In the memory.
Perusal of which read

Time, void of use, a wasteland
Is how we see you now.
Stretched out, monotonous. Gladder
Passed through having to plough!

Lifted from the book of Miracles
Set beside, what's blushed awake
For those wood out of snow images
A coherent picture make

That gaze, once turned
Smiles upon me forever.
Those eyes, once burned
As the stars never go out.

Walk me through these feelings.
These your private grounds
hurtful-stepping, moaned through.
Engulfed darkly too.

Rain's eloquent sorrow, unheard when
Youth's surge was proceeding
More impressionably wrung out of
A subsequent heeding!

Reinforcing that sense upon him
For a new world has just broke
Man at peace with man, and himself
Unto this shows clearly woke:

Addressing their easy to sway hearts'
Vulnerable fearing
Wind warned: 'from out tree's blown distress
At your heels, harmless


Throwing up near distance
Of neighbourhood, the limit
For the degree of our
Dislike of it!

Earth shakes; only is it
A disaster called
When that for town, hushed, is
Stood back from, appalled.

All that's sought after in a Day's face
Relieves, in its brightening
Unpleasantness of this:
What for sullen darks, to hide behind

Soaking up the sights, the smells
A drizzly Autumn day
Stepping through. Unheard thereafter
For myself, to answer:

We glowed with a life.
Unspoiled by which love
Those fireballs of kissing's
With shy shrieking, dodged.

Of this great swelling, Love's rarefied
Feeling nature o'ermasters
Does self lose its everyday bearings;
In focusing on others.

World-peace, and the age-long fight
Decisive to win it
No hearts for God fought and won as
O'ercome of His spirit.

Sullen-inclined, ere these shades
Do gain on us
And a day of high spirits
Is descending

Sun flickered; no more demonstrably
Blown of one silk thread o'er
The whole of his wing'ed motion
Cocoon-spun did as shudder.

This, life? For a heart, besides
Of no joy-pulse beats!
You're not its child-lover. Nor
Who swoons for love's heats!

james watkin Biography

Began writing poesy aged 20. Discovered Emily Dickinson 6 years later. A shy soulmate. And along with Mary Coleridge and Sara Teasdale my dearest friends in time. 'A strange thought, simply wrought'. My personal axion.)

The Best Poem Of james watkin

Nothing In My Beat, Irretrieable

Nothing in my beat, irretrievable
That takes to treks, as something
Exiled of its own volition
Ever dispirits, within
What is both the acquainter
Of Nature, and admirer.

Gull-surrounds of loneness though tipping!
Though with an ached forlornness
Heard shore-broke. For there kinship's found.
With what of its sacredness
Is for a domain blown through.
Is that what soul responds to.

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