All Poems

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Men with trivial scars

© Ivan Donn Carswell

We wear scars from our youth, trifling things
reflecting those earnings from growing days,
of battles raised and wounds worn in simple
praise of a Spring of early learnings.

Lawstudent And Coach

© Lesbia Harford

Each day I sit in an ill-lighted room
To teach a boy;
For one hour by the clock great words and dreams
Are our employ.

Love stopped before it began

© Ivan Donn Carswell

It would have been love, I am sure of it,
and I held her hand torn between concern and pride
whilst she cried and cried on her first day at school.

To Myra

© James Thomson

O thou, whose tender serious eyes
Expressive speak the mind I love;
The gentle azure of the skies,
The pensive shadows of the grove;

Sure, I sip my lemon tea with spoon of amber honey,
trying to decide which things to do, things I didnt need
to think about before this day, praying for the strength
to ride these doldrums out, to see them to their squalid end.

Haunted

© William Schwenck Gilbert

Haunted? Ay, in a social way

By a body of ghosts in dread array;

Lake Otamangakau

© Ivan Donn Carswell

II Awake, aware in tented night,
a flax bush shuffled glissé tread
of frond on frond and seed-pod prattle
marching on the fractious wind
surrounds the tent, and lake, and night.

The Sea to the Shell

© David MacDonald Ross

The sea, my mother, is singing to me,
She is singing the old refrain,
Of passion, of love, and of mystery,
And her world-old song of pain;
Of the mirk midnight and the dazzling day,
That trail their robes o'er the wet sea-way.

Key economy

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Words today are
howd you say,
in sad retreat,
or obsolete?

Compensations

© Alfred Noyes

Not with a flash that rends the blue
Shall fall the avenging sword.
Gently as the evening dew
Descends the mighty Lord.

Just wasnt right

© Ivan Donn Carswell

You lift the lid in awe, a seat and lid
upon an inside stall where you can go,
quite unlike the outside loo at home,
but oh the smell, the hellish smell

Waiting For The Beloved -- English Translation

© Rabindranath Tagore

My dearest friend, for your tryst

You have chosen this stormy night

Joys of the chase

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Colours fade into nameless shades of grey
and where the tonsure of bas-relief crudely
stands effete, semantic symbolism degrades
into meaninglessness. The artefacts of an old

The Acorn

© Francis William Bourdillon

An acorn swung
On an oak-tree bough;
So long it had hung,
It would fain fall now

Jessie of Gibraltar

Our lives were founded on this rock, this Jessie of Gibraltar
Whose unfailing love endured beyond her ample nursing,
And we grew out of a rich and favoured childhood aware
Her powers were real (we tested them enough to know their soundness) into

The Fugitive

Oft have I seen yon Solitary Man

Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow

Jacks Legacy

The critic gushed and said, Just like Jack,
so raw, I never thought to see another writer just
like Kerouac! Kerouac, who the fuck is he? A writer?
Christ, thats a laugh, compare me to a writer!

Limitations

EF you's only got de powah fe' to blow a little whistle,

Keep ermong de people wid de whistles.

It was your first outing

It was your first outing, or more rightly, our first outing
with you. We were as proud as new parents could be,
wheeling our son in the crowded Sunday shopping throng,
glancing down again and again to reassure ourselves, and you,