The Collected Poems of Edward M Robertson - Volume IIby Author / Edward Robertson
The Collected Poems
Edward M Robertson
(1928 - 2011)
The Collected Poems of Edward M Robertson
Author – Edward M Robertson
Copyright 2017 Edward Robertson
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.
This second volume of The Collected Poems of Edward M Robertson has been produced so that additional material, discovered while sorting through his papers, can be made available.
Those who knew Edward will, no doubt, be able to identify with many of the images and emotions he expresses and will hopefully take pleasure in exploring these additional poems.
For those who did not know Edward personally, we hope that reading this small volume of poetry proves to be a rewarding experience.
Table of Contents
On Reading Poetry
March In The Borders
The Force Within
For Will Ogilvie
ON READING POETRY
(Reply to Edith Sitwell)
Suddenly, as I read your poetry,
the whole world tilts sideways,
and the pretences, defences and confident senses
drop from all people
like plates flying out of the waiter's hand
as the ship strikes rock
and lurches up
Suddenly the feeling of all the
shipwreck of the poised commonsenses
becomes unbearable ....
the little people - and I
one of them -
breaking in pieces, flying crockery,
leaving only the hand
which tried to communicate
thin, brittle words
in accepted restaurant rituals -
the pain unrealised and
the feeling unadmitted.
And I, wrecked on your poetry,
fling myself into the
swelling waves vast empathy.
Better drown in pain loved
than seek safety where there could be
MARCH IN THE BORDERS
The red fields lie
open to the dry March wind -
rolled flat and burdened with seed -
corn, wheat, barley and rye.
They wait for life, rain-awakened.
And always they sweep the eye on, up
to a sea of hills,
wind-tossed and bare -
or suck sight down to
deep-clefted and filled with trees -
a hundred years old or more -
where vision follows the circling bird
down and down into
the blue depths
of a Chinese pattern of peace.
I sit on top of Ruberslaw
and feel myself like a windhover
hang in the air,
but where he sees and clutches with
his eye only the quivering blade
and threads the vole's individual,
all- excluding heart beat
I see all at a rolling endless sweep of the eye.
And while the kite-kestrel
tugs at the taught thread of sight
that draws him down suddenly,
I am made one with all that I see -
give myself to the prey of my eye
to be devoured by it.
Sliding in on slanting rays
of March morning sun
five lapwings came.
There was no calling.
Almost like fingers of
a blind man's hand
exploring a half-forgotten room
they moved about the fields
falling and rising,
rising and falling.
Were they a vanguard
of the returning array of life
unsure if this were in fact
the mating-ground where
once more they would engage
in love's war of self-giving?
Thus to their ears that would hear
the ground moving beneath
the shrilling hail's vituperation
would be in vain.
Again their vibrant gliding wings
gave muted celebration
to unforeseeable victory
in the relentless division of cells
within the stippled shell's
true, irresistible fragility.