Search

Search results

Hazel Hall, memory, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeHazel Hall

Sands

My days are like sands; colourless, Each matched to each, unerringly They drift. The salt bleach of a sea Has washed them clean and lustreless; The teeth of rock on ragged strands Have ground them to an even grey, And one wind blows them a one way. But Oh, the slow making of sands. All is here; forgotten things Mix with the unforgettable. Granite blends with tinted shell. And nothing so stable that it clings To its stability. Had there Been more of marble, more of gold. The sands would hide in their grim hold Nothing more wise, nothing more fair.
ContemplativeHazel Hall

The Listening Macaws

Many sewing days ago I cross-stitched on a black satin bag Two listening macaws. They were perched on a stiff branch With every stitch of their green tails, Their blue wings, yellow breasts and sharply turned heads, Alert and listening. Now sometimes on the edge of relaxation My thought is caught back. Like gathers along a gathering thread. To the listening macaws; And I am amazed at the futile energy That has kept them, Alert to the last stitch. Listening into their black satin night.
ContemplativeHazel Hall

To A Door

Door, you stand in your darkened frame Mindful of your wooden might, Flaunting relentlessly your claim As guardian of sound and light. Yet for all your vigil. Door, Shadows that slip on panting feet Over your threshold tinge the floor With what was sunlight on the street. And sounds fluttering in to die (Door, you thought I should not know!) Were started by an echo's cry That was a voice not long ago.
ContemplativeHazel Hall

Paths

Needle, you make me remember things . . A path through a wood that ran like wine, A turn, and the bubbling smell that clings Close as breath to the lips of springs Where the sun is sprinkled fine. Needle, you have a path to run Where never the boughs of trees have met And never has seeped the rain of the sun; But long is the way you have just begun . . Needle, you make me forget.
SadHazel Hall

Shadow-Bound

You whom the shadows beckoned Long and long ago, Who taught me the flaming utterance Of words, now strange and slow On my lips that loved them Long — Oh, long ago . . . Why have you stirred the silence That flowered from my pain? Just now your anxious footstep Sounded above the rain; Just now your eyes, beseeching, Shadowed my windowpane.
DreamyHazel Hall

Because of Jonquils

A ray of jonquils thrills the grey And frowning winter of a room . . . Out from the depths of an old day A burst of spring-light cuts its way, Lifting the vague perfume Of walled-in gardens long, long dumb, Of blooms that never bloomed at all . . . Then quickly, as autumn's keen winds come. Shadows, like dead leaves, fall.
DreamyHazel Hall

Stairways

Why do I think of stairways With a rush of hurt surprise? Wistful as forgotten love In remembered eyes; And fitful as the flutter Of little draughts of air That linger on a stairway As though they loved it there. New and shining stairways, Stairways worn and old, Where rooms are prison places And corridors are cold. You intrigue with fancy. You challenge with a lore Elusive as a moon's light Shadowing a floor.
DreamyHazel Hall

Silence

Silence is the sound of footsteps Hushed upon a stair, The fluttering of ruffled garments, A song's forgotten air — All the old, forbidden echoes That quenched their fevers there.

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: