John Montague: "A Slow Exactness"

A BRIGHT DAY

for John MacGahern

At times I see it, present
       As a bright day, or a hill,
The only way of saying something
      Luminously as possible.

Not the accumulated richness
      Of an old historical language --
That musk-deep odour!
      But a slow exactness

Which recreates experience
      By ritualizing its details --
Pale web of curtain, width
      Of deal table, till all

Takes on a witch-bright glow
      And even the clock on the mantel
Moves its hands in a fierce delight
      Of so, and so, and so.

--John Montague

Robert Graves: "Arrow Shots" and Hitting The Mark

ARROW SHOTS


Only a madman could mistake,
          When shot at from behind a tree,
The whizz and thud that arrows make--
          Yours, for example, fired at me.


Some bows are drawn to blind or maim,
          I have known others drawn to kill,
But truth in love is your sole aim
          And proves your vulnerary skill.


Though often, drowsing at mid-day,
          I wince to find myself your mark,
Let me concede the hit, but say:
          "Your hand is steadiest after dark."




SHE TO HIM


To have it, sweetheart, is to know you have it
Rather than think you have it;
To think you have it is a wish to take it,
Though afterwards you would not have it--
And thus fear to take it.
Yet if you know you have it, you may take it
And know that still you have it.




THE YET UNSAYABLE


It was always fiercer, brighter, gentler than could be told
Even in words quickened by Truth's dark eye:
Its absence, whirlpool; its presence, deluge;
Its time, astonishment; its magnitude,
A murderous dagger-point.
                                            So we surrender
Our voices to the dried and scurrying leaves
And choose our own long-predetermined path
From the unsaid to the yet unsayable
In silence of love and lover's temerity.


--Robert Graves