Poem of the Week

Porphyria's Lover (Robert Browning, 1812-1889)
First Line: The rain set early in to-night

A Night With An Old Flame

She's licking at the window pane,
Curling the glass,
Distorting her twisted frame,
Pressing for release.

Don't let her near the bed, they said.
Don't let her out the door,
She's bent upon destruction,
And evil to the core.

She's in your room by night,
Creeping up the walls,
Smearing fingers down for spite,
Questing for a breath of cool night air.

And then she's gone.
That mistress of the twilight hours.
And all that's left is the mess you made,
The two of you beyond your powers.

Loving Pandora

If only her face appeared in dreams alone,
If only she were a hazy morning memory,
A spectre drifting from my door as I awake,
Her smile just mine reflected in a mirror.

To be her friend is to recall my loss at every turn.
So much happiness locked away by faith.
A trust, to which I have the key,
The key I'm afraid to touch.

It's innocent enough, that key.
And in my dreams I hear it turning.
Over and over in my mind,
Yet even there I never turn that handle.

For that small step might open love,
Or split Pandora's box,
Spilling its contents,
And tearing my very life in two.

Watchmaker

I wish I were a watchmaker,
Steady hands nudging fine cogs
Or perfect crystals
Measuring the passing flood of time

But I only see the face,
Two twitching hands embracing
Celestial complexities,
Concealing secret operations.

I wish I were a watchmaker
Seeing the feathering tick
Behind you and me
Calculating for infinity

But I only see two hands,
Joined at the centre.
While you can see the wheels turning
And the faults that make them stop.