Michael Longley Ceasefire is my favorite poem ‘I get down on my knees and do what must be done And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.’ I also like Seamus Heaney I may be German but I think I might have and Irish heart Reply
Oh, I find it too difficult to settle on one poet. I particularly like Ted Hughes, though. The Thought Fox I imagine this midnight moment’s forest: Something else is alive Beside the clock’s loneliness And this blank page where my fingers move. Through the window I see no star: Something more near Though deeper within darkness Is entering the loneliness: Cold, delicately as the dark snow A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that now And again now, and now, and now Sets neat prints into the snow Between trees, and warily a lame Shadow lags by stump and in hollow Of a body that is bold to come Across clearings, an eye, A widening deepening greenness, Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still; the clock ticks, The page is printed. Reply
Michael Longley Ceasefire is my favorite poem
‘I get down on my knees and do what must be done
And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.’
I also like Seamus Heaney
I may be German but I think I might have and Irish heart
I think we are all a bit Irish when it comes to poetry.
Oh, I find it too difficult to settle on one poet.
I particularly like Ted Hughes, though.
The Thought Fox
I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
So good, thank you for sharing it.