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Contemplative, Thomas McAfee, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeThomas McAfee

Early Retirement on North Street

The house I lived in hadn't a lawn or porch; It rose straight up from sidewalk into sky. At night cars idled, voices floated in, But floated out more quickly, to my ease. Sometimes a nightmare woke me up to hear Quiet or the quietening street—sometimes The clock tick measuring out the dark. And though My room was almost bare, the rent was cheap. I cherished those four peeling walls which kept Me close to life yet far enough away.
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

Housecleaning

The usually staid, comfortable rooms— Decked with antiques not too old or too extreme— Metamorphosed suddenly into The dislocated setting of a dream. Beyond stacked furniture I saw the blooms Of roses— "Sutter's Gold" and "Peace"— all new Because the slightest sign of crinkling death On a rose's skin, brought out sharp scissors fast. The roses were arranged and rooted, staid. Around me was the awful price you paid For being decently clean and in good health. I had a feeling the temporal would last: Those brand new roses waving to the past. Soon I would be—Unhandsome child of seventeen and marked With pimples and post graduate Adolescence; I no longer ate
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

There Are Peripheries . . .

There are peripheries of excellence, Small towns where crafty robbers never chance A bank, but also where no buildings tower Breathlessly out of the street. Yet there is power. And ladies who have not had princes to tea, Have lived completely out of mystery But are mysterious as they declare Their views on table manners, babies, war. And lovers bounding on back seats of cars, Crude, unlovely, talking clichés about stars; These, too, know heightened minutes just before The muscles ease, then say What else? What more?
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

The Border

My mother's border grew on a clean dirt mound; No weeds undid its pure formality. Some years dark blood verbena laced and wound Among itself, but never wild, never free. Whatever flower stood on guard, it found A raging land of colors there, a sea Of grass the other way. Boys turned around, They might expect some instant laxity On the border's part: purple asters now unbound, White rose petals shattering mutinously. And boys might never know a woman's hands Work always early mornings, pulling weeds. The woman, with wet shears, who understands What ruthless care the clean and formal needs.
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

To a Child

Little girl I see your wisdom What it is Inspection freshly Of the changing grass And here within Tired skin My sameness with each tree Congratulate you morning With a smile I am not yoked to Madness death Or even children In my wondering Or in my sadness, still I must admire
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

From the Pier . . .

From the pier I fish with worms, finally with bread; Usually a blue-gill jerks the bait, but sometimes A bream. A baby snapping-turtle's head Emerges, eyes bewildered, though he seems Content to have the hook caught in his throat. I cut the line, throw turtle and hook, now one, Into the tricky water floating my boat. The splash quietens, receiving early sun. The river's facade of ripples, liquid sun, The incalculable sound of the small blue boat Sloshing—all of these gather as one To feed my five unmighty senses. Throat Is hard with lump, and what-is only seems To be: rusty cans, soft mud, fierce glass, the head Of a woman, eaten by fish. But thank God! sometimes
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

To My Godson

Now I am named a father to this child The stars are not so easy to accept: Each foot of night blue heaven is a wild Presentiment; the blazing moon, once kept Romantic by the sonneteer, is gray, Deep-pocked—an impotent, unlovely child Of Earth and Sun. This other child, my son, Has made me look too close: the natural way To look again with half-shut eyes. The one Course left for me is by the harsher say Of reason, so that I may see each thing For its sad worth, and those few lovely joys. And so that I may teach myself to sing Instructive songs, and give instructive toys.
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

Bats in the Philippines

She told me that in the Philippines, As they all sat on the veranda, Bats would come up in hordes— Small-bodied bats with great wing-spread— Like clouds of rain. While they all sat, she said, With their bamboo glasses And smelled the beginnings of evening, They remarked the bats only an instant Between the casual gossip. Now, she said, those miles away And years away, she remembered the bats But none of the talk, Not one living soul! Except a young man, exceedingly drunk, Who told her bats were important.
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

The Song of Painter X

My gift is gaining. Call it paradox. The thing I do not have, a yellow bird, I gladly give and gain it. I take it from a purple tree With purple boughs and leaves. Or take it from some oak so ordinary, Slanting towards the street, Not even birds remember it, Not even birds with bleached brown wings. But gained I give it up, Because the yellow bird was there And what I give I gain.

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