David Jackson 
Storms, yes all of these storms
They crumble my world
And leave me to bleed in the rain
Suffering from the wounds of the wind
Whipping me so it cuts in my skin
Never knowing the damage of the lost
Only to find that its gone
Storms,yes all of these storms
Flooding my view
As if my eyes were never to see
Caught in the downward spiral
Of all the floods
Never leading to nowhere
Storms, yes all of these storms
– Robert Patrick Jackson
***
futures
and now my love, these words
painted in an imperfect world
cannot be more than
graffiti on a subway wall
but is Wordsworth
not graffiti
on a subway wall
is Hitler ever dead
ever a burned corpse in an old film
ever dead
ever waiting
or
in the matter itself
always there
the laws of science say that all is decay
all is decay
so what are we to do
what is the element which is our catalyst
try anyway
that is what we are to do
say it anyway
do it anyway
be the ball
***
Worry and debate
sends hope far away
seldom do windows open into
reality
seldom do poets cry for nothing
for hope maybe
for love surely
for nothing never.
Simply write he says
simply write.
Do not stop to think.
Thinking is out of vogue with me.
Carry me there to the edge of
the water
to the side of the cliff
so I may see the river
so that I may hope again
hope for the natives who walked these ways
hope for me
again
***
Richard Vallance”s recent translation into an English quatrain of Arthur Rimbaud”s “Ophelia”:
Richard Vallance, translator. Ophelia, d”après, Ophélie d”Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
Ophelia
In black waves becalmed where stars fell asleep,
Ophelia lily-like dreams dreams too white.
Where she slowly floats, through her tresses seep
The forest”s morts still serenading night.
It”s been some thousand years since she has passed,
The phantom waif, along that long black stream,
And some thousand years since those eyes were glassed
With madness murmured in her faded dream.
The wind will kiss her breasts where it unfolds
Fair tresses cradled in that lapping pond;
Will weeping willows dare touch rippling folds
Her cold raiments trail round every tired frond?
The waterlilies weep around her bier;
Now and then she stirs in her alder”s shade
That must comfort her in her wildest fear,
While silver stars sing her their serenade.
© by Richard Vallance 2004 (All Rights Reserved) *
***