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Contemplative, Henrietta Clarke, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

From the Sea

From one small window I looked out and saw A square of well-kept lawn, close-cut and neat, Where sunlit branches swaying in the breeze Made patterned shades across the narrow street. Along this narrow street where shade trees grow I saw four tired grey survivors go. Their very walk showed they were men of ships, And on each face there was a look of awe, As if what they had suffered had not passed And time alone would dim the things they saw. The square is empty now, branches still sway, Was it a dream I dreamed but yesterday?
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Derelict

Is it possible that I Here in shallow waters lie, Keeled to starboard on the sand Far too near to be to land? Three strong masts are misty white, Bleached by days of burning light; Time indeed has done enough, But I'm made of stronger stuff Than the other wrecks around, Skeletons upon the sound. Nothing but their shriveled bones Through which tide-rip creeps and No, my hulk's as strong to-day, Strong as when the ladies gay Walked my decks with sailors bold Telling tales of days of old,
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Rapier Blades

Years ago and oftentimes forgotten Was the message sent into the night. The paper crackled as it was thrust furtively Into its heavy parchment envelope. Cold sweat was on your brow Though the room was hot; The odor of the wax came to your nostrils As you sealed it, Having signed away your honor. All this returns with harsh, vivid detail As someone closes a missive with a purple seal. Memories roused by odors are keen As rapier blades.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Straight Stick

In the Spring through the forest her walk was quick As she searched here and there for a straight-grown stick; When in Summer the forest lay hot in the sun She still labored on for her task was not done; For perfection is always hard to find, Yet the thought of its promise obsessed all her mind. Now she stands, while the winds of Autumn moan, With regret as her guest in a field unsown.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Coal Miners

Out of the bowels of earth they come, Blackened and smoky and grim, Climbing the slope for the shift is done; They stand erect on the rim. Strong and husky their muscles show Under the coating of black; And they stretch their arms and blink in the sun And wonder if tallies are slack. With lights that glitter on shabby caps, They go their way without talk; Their heavy pit-boots caked with clay Give a thudding sound to their walk. They walk, and think as they thud along Of days that are turned into night, These men who slave in endless gloom To give us light.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Men Fishing

I have seen men fishing. In the cool shade of the blue-shadowed hills The water flowed over white pebbles, And the amber pools were hiding places for opal beauties. The swish of a line, the gay trill of a bird on a sun-patterned tree, Or the splash of a wary fish upstream were the only sounds. I have seen men fishing for pleasure. I have seen men fishing. Off the Grand Banks, in the fog and cold Men in dories, men hardy and strong, hauled in white-bellied cod. The yellow boats rocked and rolled in the ocean swell, But work went steadfastly on. As the fog lifted other craft came in sight, Heavy-laden with their silver prey managed deftly with rough hands. While the rank air of the sea enveloped all.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Lunchboxes

Lunchboxes must be filled .... In golden-shaded afternoons in Spring, when children laugh and play across the square, the mothers are at home, and with a skill that comes from years of patient toil and care, they quickly make up lunches for their men. Nearing midnight, with half the world asleep, when strange night noises pass along the narrow street; before the whistle blows, to break the quiet with voice blatant and strong, tired women give to this small task their best. At early dawn before the sky is settled and soft new eager morning sounds are heard; the clop-clop of the milkman's ancient horse, the gentle flutelike notes of some small bird, the women of the house are busy then.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Screen Doors

We sat and talked; the shadows grew more tall And golden sunlight blended over all. We spoke of crops that failed, of horses, men. He said, “I started work when I was ten. I peddled cottage cheese from door to door. The youngest of us six, and we were poor.” His blue eyes looked beyond the fall-ploughed loam, Where on the sunlit hill he saw his home; He filled his pipe, lighted a match and stood, The whole six feet of him were staunch and good. “It matters not,” he said, “how much I’ve seen; I learned of human nature through the screen.”
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

Blind Pig

Every day he sits Outdoors with his chair tipped back, The same old derby And cane; his small eyes blink, Guarding a pig that is blind.
ContemplativeHenrietta Clarke

There Is a Beauty

There is a beauty only Winter brings. The hills of early morning, pure and white; Silver-peaked roofs and fences topped with snow, A new gay canvas painted overnight. A high church spire becomes a magic tower When viewed in sunshine, jewel-bedecked and bright. While from low eaves clear icicles hang down With all the beauty of a stalactite. The branches of the trees are trimmed with tulle; The brook is now a shining moire band Fit to be worn on any bridal gown, With swirls and patterns never made by hand. There is a beauty only Winter brings . . . Across the snow the pale mauve shadows pass, And the blue crystal of the oval creek Becomes a large encrusted looking-glass.

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