Prayer

Credit: Martin Pohner

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
 utters itself. So, a woman will lift
 her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
 at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

 Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
 enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
 then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
 in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

 Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
 console the lodger looking out across
 a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
 a child's name as though they named their loss.

 Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
 Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

~ Carol Ann Duffy

Prayer

Credit: Martin Pohner

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
 utters itself. So, a woman will lift
 her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
 at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

 Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
 enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
 then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
 in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

 Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
 console the lodger looking out across
 a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
 a child's name as though they named their loss.

 Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -
 Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

~ Carol Ann Duffy

Words, Wide Night

Photo credit: krystle from morguefile.com

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable.  Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad?  In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la.  See?  I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you.  For I am in love with you

and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.

~ Carol Ann Duffy

Words, Wide Night

Photo credit: krystle from morguefile.com

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable.  Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad?  In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la.  See?  I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you.  For I am in love with you

and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.

~ Carol Ann Duffy

Valentine

Photo credit: solrac_gi_2nd from morguefile.com

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

Here.

It will blind you with tears

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife.

~ Carol Ann Duffy

Valentine

Photo credit: solrac_gi_2nd from morguefile.com

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

Here.

It will blind you with tears

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife.

~ Carol Ann Duffy