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Do We Become by Frances Howarth
In the threshing of the crop and the thrashing of a tree,
at the midnight hour, in a midflight soar,
water striking stone, wind turning vane,
the racing of the wave, the chasing of the shade,
the mystery of wine, the breaking of time,
stalk cut, blood let, up root,
owl hoot, lamb bleat, night jar,
breeze through a door, light dance on the floor,
cloth shaken, folded, lain in a drawer,
wool wound, tower round, bell sound,
leap, lilt, low, lope,
echo, thunder, clatter, glance,
rattle, tumble, tremble, chance,
clouds build, count yield, wound healed:
not in the pull and push of passion's plea
do we become, but in this downdive into self
for each coin, every piece, of this world's wealth.
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That fine poem, written by my mother's cousin, was published in the Guardian and included in Earth Songs (editor Peter Abbs, publisher Green Books).
Know one million poems that you love enough to want to share with or tell the world? Had the thought? Then how about going to www.passonapoem.com, connect with others and read aloud in a cafe, school or bar.
The forum is Frances' current project, which fights to catch the public imagination and get hitherto unknown verse to a wide audience.
A fight well worth the effort.
Be local! Be vocal!
O Skill!
Don't freeze, fly. Don't fold.
Stage-fright chilled the blood
Hold your nerve, feel it dude
Call that friend; he'll be there,
Lend an ear and hell will end.
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