Poetry from Lucy Crispin

NOVEMBER SENDS ME A POSTCARD


Across the wan November sky
a lone heron is ferrying
the slack bag of his body, slung
beneath the neat-tucked neck. Not high


nor hurriedly he goes, but slow,
under a dough of cloud thin-stretched
and risen over fields; he’s fetched
from here to there by something known


in arrow-beak, and steady wings,
and sinew. Wide, diffused, the light
slants like a skimmed stone, and the night
sits, ready, inside day. Air brings,


all leaf-rot-rich, the smell of rest:
though not yet fierce with coming cold
it’s promise-pricked, and says What’s old
may be surrendered, and what’s next


will come. Inside me, something yields
and drops its gold, like leaves released.
The far crows caw in bared, black trees,
and tupped sheep wait in ochre fields.



SUBJECT TO GRAVITY


Like a soft, high chord on a piano
or a pianissimo shimmer of strings


a white chiffon mist has been shaken out
across the valley and hangs there


oblivious to the coming hours
which are being forged


in the astonishing molten orange sky
behind the eastern hills. That held-breath


moment, the parabola’s high point:
the unbearable beauty of beginnings


and your heart’s prayer for exemption,
that you might stay here and never drop


out of those incandescent crucible heavens
into the merely blue.

About Lucy Crispin as SC Poet Laureate

If you enjoyed this work by Lucy Crispin then you should also read Mary Buchinger

As well as being a poet, Lucy Crispin is a person-centred counsellor and facilitator

About the contributor

Related Articles

Poetry by Jennifer A. McGowan

Jennifer A. McGowan has appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, The Rialto, and The Connecticut Review.

Strike- Arathy Asok

strike The farmers held Dead rats in their mouths, Wearing green loin clothes Hiding what is left of their pride. They sit in the capital city Waiting for some eyes...

More Like This

Featured Poet, Anne Casey

AFTER MAKING LOVE WITH THE LIGHTS ON, DOORS WIDE OPEN resting my head on your shoulder when you said there is no...

E.V. McLoughlin Poetry

On the ward this is about a pad. a thick one, hospital-walls green. I’ve run out. a one-day mother in pink pajamas with out-of-season snowmen. Don’t you have your own? a piece-of-liver...

Spotlight on J. Taylor Bell

GOLFING ON THE MOON 5 Poems for The Blue Nib By: J. Taylor Bell 1. TO BELIEVE THAT HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS...

Carlow Poem #61 and Other Poems- Derek Coyle

Carlow Poem #61 In the dream I’d shrunk to the size of a pea. Maybe that way I thought I...