Two Poems | Rowland Bagnall

Freighter

How much can it

take – the level evening

and its centre like a season

shifting gear?

Hardly any time

has passed – is it just me, or

is it just me that’s getting this?

The​​ bait-and-switch

of the dying light,

the unfinished business

of the waves, the feeling

something’s missing – and I mean

really​​ ​​ missing.

On the mainland –​​ 

now radiating some of​​ 

its great strength – granite,

breccia, hornblende

schist – best understood

in​​ motion – you can feel the tilting

of the earth.

A few miles

down the coast a town has lost

its people, proving

nothing – or nothing yet.

Still, can you hear​​ 

The susurration of the headland?

See the insanely circular movement​​ 

of the gulls?

And this is​​ what the poem

is like – the shape of a room

and the objects in it

scattering like fish – arriving

into somewhere else – a pendulum

distributing its weight – dragooning us along

with it, like sailing into secret

waters – different when remembered –​​ 

and​​ disembarking nimbly

somehow here and now refreshed.

At sea the freighter​​ 

starts to run, heaving its cargo.

Beneath it, infinite currents and trenches –​​ 

multi-coloured, splaying reefs.

The Hare

I wake into the morning

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and find unanimous spring

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and the windows are pale with filtered light

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and the day asks,​​ How shall I survive myself?

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and read a poem which ends,​​ let it be enough

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and my throat feels dry

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and the new rains have defanged the night

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and the blackthorn is over, or its blossom is

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and the lights burn blue

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and imagine a harvest and dry stacks of wheat

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and answer my e-mails in record time

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and feel deep currents of understanding

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ to find a living mosaic, polished and repetitive

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ smothering the yellow dawn

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and the white sky is canoeing south

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and have certain phrases in my head, including​​ silent stroboscopic waves

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and see ghosts and know that one of them is Robert Frost

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and consume a pear from Argentina

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and take in the general feel of the place

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ fading like a set of tracks

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and write,​​ I wake into the morning / and find unanimous spring

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and pass my hand through my own body

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ and feel omnipresent cloaks of rain

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ and the oceans appear silvery

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ which is stabbing into months of ice

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ and think,​​ what kind of poet writes, ‘I wake into the morning / and find unanimous spring’?

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ and the harvesters are lying down, taking a rest

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ and its knowable sequence​​ 

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ and its caverns

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ and it opens like an eyelid

 ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​ ​​​​ ​​ and it stalks us as you stalk a hare