Mary Spain

Mary Spain Poems

As though a deaf musician, I am part
Of some great orchestra I cannot hear.
The only notes that fall upon my ear
Are those which rise unbidden from the heart

The day I could no longer walk with ease
Beneath the table, made it clear to me
That I was growing. Soon my parents' knees
Were way below my eye-line. I could see

Were I allowed a single word each day
Perhaps I'd value it. I'd give it thought
And speak it slowly, as a child is taught
To do. And then, who knows, each word might say

He said he'd ring as soon as he returned.
At nine, indulgent of her eagerness,
She settled down with joy to wait and turned
Her chair to face the 'phone. At ten the stress

I'm sitting here and you are sitting there,
You're telling me what's happened since we met,
And I am happy for I love to share
All aspects of your busy life. And yet -

A sea of living crimson caught my eye
Of oriental splendour, out of place
Beneath the pastel of an English sky
Where soft-toned pastures etch the tranquil face

At times it feels as though I'm trapped below
The slatted floor of heaven. Fleetingly,
I glimpse an angel's foot, or what might be
The shadow of a trailing wing, and know

I know how Thomas felt; although he saw
Their shining faces telling him what they
Had seen, for him it could be nothing more
Than second-hand experience: the way

My home for fourteen years, but, in your eyes,
It's termed a saleable commodity.
Absurd to feel defensive, but it's me
You're wounding when you pause to criticise

On Summer afternoons, from two to four,
The sunshine's probing fingers gently trace
A passage 'twixt the city roofs to pour
In fullness on a basement dwelling place.

I'm sure they would be happier outside;
You're sure they would give greater joy indoors.
I'm certain they would take far greater pride
In brightening the earth; you plead the cause

An organism crumbles from the core
And we, who dance on the circumference,
Stick paper on the cracks in the pretence
That they will disappear if we ignore

'An angel never wriggles, sulks or talks, '
The small boys' harassed teacher told her class;
Then marked out on the floor with coloured chalks
Where each of them should stand. 'Nor does he pass

She sits there, fingering her wedding-ring
With restless hands, while counsel for the Crown,
Urbane and skilled, concludes his questioning.
She listens, keen and anxious, quick to frown

I had a form to fill the other day
Which, when completed, could be said to be
An outline of my life. How carefully
I edited the story to portray

Sometimes I wonder, Lord, just what you plan
For me. It isn't power, or great success,
Or tranquil and domestic happiness
That flows from motherhood; and though I can

I watch the workman place the paving stone
And, with a craftsman's dextrous care, smooth fine
The ridges of cement which blur the line
Between the butting slabs. These hands have grown

You wear your badges with such pride and I
Admire you unreservedly. I share
Your consternation and concern. I care
About the principles you're standing by,

How can true knowledge fade and disappear?
Where does it go? Only the other day
My fingers touched the stars; and yet today
Known formulations blur, to re-appear

There is no overture to art, no time
Of introduction whilst the painting grows
To fullness and the viewer slowly knows -
As with the steps of melody or rhyme -

Mary Spain Biography

weekly up-dated on: http: //

The Best Poem Of Mary Spain

A Deaf Musician

As though a deaf musician, I am part
Of some great orchestra I cannot hear.
The only notes that fall upon my ear
Are those which rise unbidden from the heart
And offer teasing glimpses of the art
Of harmony. Yet have I heard, in clear,
Still moments of perception, what appear
As distant drum-beats; pulses that impart
A rhythm to the cosmic melody.
Then, with a quick'ning joy, I see that I
Am moving to creation's symphony.
As birds that wheel and dart across the sky
To secret music, so it seems that we
Can sometimes see the patterns as we fly.

Mary Spain Comments

annie lemeuthe lagane 22 August 2018

bonjour mary annie d orleans j adore tes poemes je ne t ai pas oubliee ainsi que ta maman

0 0 Reply
Michael Shepherd 04 September 2009

Mary Do you feel like adding your blog address to your (non-existent!) biodata here? I keep losing track of it.. Michael with love

0 2 Reply
Babasaheb Salve 14 July 2009

very butiful indeed arousing closeness to the divine sound

3 2 Reply
Gina Onyemaechi 04 August 2006

I am so grateful to Michael Shepherd for announcing Ms Spain today on the forum. She writes with skill, elegance, and innovation using unforced and almost inconspicuous rhyme. When I wrote this (4th August 2006) , Ms Spain had 11 sonnets on show and I enjoyed every last one immensely. Thanks for sharing your writing, Mary.

0 2 Reply
Michael Shepherd 02 August 2006

Mary Spain is one of those poets who published 'slim volumes' of fine poetry in the days before the internet, read by discerning readers; then found other good things to occupy her time, which continue to touch many people young and old. She writes skilful, relaxed sonnets among other verse, and I commend her wisdom to what I hope is a new extensive readership worldwide in this 'poetic renaissance' - hers and ours!

1 2 Reply

Mary Spain Popularity

Mary Spain Popularity

Error Success