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About This Book
Moyra Caldecott's best poems about love, death, war, family, nature and the universe have been brought together in this book in celebration of her 80th birthday. Novelist Moyra Caldecott has been writing verse for most of her life, and has had many poems published in magazines and anthologies. She has frequently read her poems at venues in London and the West Country. Moyra was a member of the Dulwich Group in the 1960s and 70s, and in 2005 she was made an honorary Bard of Bath.
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Yes, you can access The Breathless Pause by Moyra Caldecott in PDF and/or ePUB format, as well as other popular books in Literature & European Poetry. We have over one million books available in our catalogue for you to explore.
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Subtopic
European PoetryIndex
LiteratureWhile I was wasting the day
While I was wasting the day
the grass was growing,
daisies opening,
sunflowers
pushing up tall stems.
While I was wasting the day
the bee pushed its way
into a hundred foxgloves
and went home tired.
Now the light fades.
The rain wets my hair.
I smell honey-suckle and musk-rose
and take a deep breath
for tomorrow.
endchunk027 the grass was growing,
daisies opening,
sunflowers
pushing up tall stems.
While I was wasting the day
the bee pushed its way
into a hundred foxgloves
and went home tired.
Now the light fades.
The rain wets my hair.
I smell honey-suckle and musk-rose
and take a deep breath
for tomorrow.
Spring
The whole green underworld is on the move.
Fists of bracken
rise for green power,
banners of tulip
proclaim the Sunās hour.
All stirring, whirring nature leaves
the ground
and pushes up
and out.
The forces of the City
in their dark towers
are under siege
and every concrete playground
has infiltrating green.
The buttercup sneaks up behind
the tarmac in the car park,
grass grows on roofs
and spilled Budgie seed
becomes a meadow on a window sill.
Praise be for such a revolution!
Iād fight with them
to topple every tower of faceless office down,
till every man
and woman, child,
had space on earth
to grow at least
one leaf.
endchunk028 Fists of bracken
rise for green power,
banners of tulip
proclaim the Sunās hour.
All stirring, whirring nature leaves
the ground
and pushes up
and out.
The forces of the City
in their dark towers
are under siege
and every concrete playground
has infiltrating green.
The buttercup sneaks up behind
the tarmac in the car park,
grass grows on roofs
and spilled Budgie seed
becomes a meadow on a window sill.
Praise be for such a revolution!
Iād fight with them
to topple every tower of faceless office down,
till every man
and woman, child,
had space on earth
to grow at least
one leaf.
Garden at evening
Out of darkening green
comes lupin light
and the blue flame of delphinium
and iris.
Roses fold light
into themselves,
petal on petal,
until the centre
glows.
Trees gather shadows
around them
like cloaks,
settling tired birds
into silence.
The moth shakes its wings.
I hold breath
hoping to see
the Presence I can feel...
catch the swish of feet
in the Long grass...
the brush of shoulder
against leaves.
endchunk029 comes lupin light
and the blue flame of delphinium
and iris.
Roses fold light
into themselves,
petal on petal,
until the centre
glows.
Trees gather shadows
around them
like cloaks,
settling tired birds
into silence.
The moth shakes its wings.
I hold breath
hoping to see
the Presence I can feel...
catch the swish of feet
in the Long grass...
the brush of shoulder
against leaves.
A good day
London slides past.
I pick out the bits I want
and throw away the rest.
Everywhere I tread
diamonds spring up.
endchunk030 I pick out the bits I want
and throw away the rest.
Everywhere I tread
diamonds spring up.
Dawn
When I looked out at dawn today
the clouds were threaded
with filaments of copper
and red gold.
As I turned my head away
and looked back again
a moment later,
the clouds were dull and grey.
How fast the glory fades...
but in that brief flush
it has lit the soul...
and, sometimes,
memory can replay it
when it is needed
on a dark day.
endchunk031 the clouds were threaded
with filaments of copper
and red gold.
As I turned my head away
and looked back again
a moment later,
the clouds were dull and grey.
How fast the glory fades...
but in that brief flush
it has lit the soul...
and, sometimes,
memory can replay it
when it is needed
on a dark day.
Spring in Cambridge
Spring in Cambridge
is all old stone
and new leaves...
Trees shaking off tired thoughts...
bud and bough rich
with sunlight and bird call.
Cambridge in Spring
is all bells
and choirs
ringing and singing...
willows like skeins
of green silk,
and lawns
so fine
only dreams
may walk of them.
endchunk032 is all old stone
and new leaves...
Trees shaking off tired thoughts...
bud and bough rich
with sunlight and bird call.
Cambridge in Spring
is all bells
and choirs
ringing and singing...
willows like skeins
of green silk,
and lawns
so fine
only dreams
may walk of them.
Kingās College Chapel, Cambridge
Poised between dark and light,
between movement and stillness,
this is a moment of gathering,
of tension, before flight,
like a swan on a still lake
looking to the sky.
Then the chapel,
stone wings reaching,
tall neck stretching,
rises on song...
wheels over Cambridge
and soars out of sight.
endchunk033 between movement and stillness,
this is a moment of gathering,
of tension, before flight,
like a swan on a still lake
looking to the sky.
Then the chapel,
stone wings reaching,
tall neck stretching,
rises on song...
wheels over Cambridge
and soars out of sight.
Spring
Heavy we lie in the womb
And the earthās dark beginning stirs in us.
Sinews shoot with the flood bud of the spring,
And all the dark ways of light
Grow in our nerves.
This urge to sap and leaf is primeval
And the tall stones of the city
Have no word to say to it
Nor strength to hold it back.
endchunk034 And the earthās dark beginning stirs in us.
Sinews shoot with the flood bud of the spring,
And all the dark ways of light
Grow in our nerves.
This urge to sap and leaf is primeval
And the tall stones of the city
Have no word to say to it
Nor strength to hold it back.
Dawn
Ah lovely the dawn!
London turning towards the light...
bird song, like Haydn
and the last stars
clinging to the sky.
Creeping out of their holes
the early cleaners come,
the milkman
riding his chariot,
and the trains
bustling on the rails
almost empty
their windows bright rosaries
drawn through the fingers
of the trees.
Struggling from dreams
we flounder...
wondering.
Awake or not
we see visions...
glimpse truths...
wing
with the wild duck
that cries
between Brockwell and Dulwich.
London innocent
briefly.
life promising...
Death forgotten.
endchunk035 London turning towards the light...
bird song, like Haydn
and the last stars
clinging to the sky.
Creeping out of their holes
the early cleaners come,
the milkman
riding his chariot,
and the trains
bustling on the rails
almost empty
their windows bright rosaries
drawn through the fingers
of the trees.
Struggling from dreams
we flounder...
wondering.
Awake or not
we see visions...
glimpse truths...
wing
with the wild duck
that cries
between Brockwell and Dulwich.
London innocent
briefly.
life promising...
Death forgotten.
Monetās Water Garden, Giverny
Beneath the water
dark weeds and mud...
corms holding the future
coiled like springs.
Yet illusion
on this smooth surface
fools us all
suggesting
we may climb down ropes of willow
and find a world
the same
and not the same...
lilies of light
floating effortlessly,
and trees full of singing birds.
endchunk036 dark weeds and mud...
corms holding the future
coiled like springs.
Yet illusion
on this smooth surface
fools us all
suggesting
we may climb down ropes of willow
and find a world
the same
and not the same...
lilies of light
floating effortlessly,
and trees full of singing birds.
London
We have ...
Table of contents
- Cover
- Title page
- Copyright page
- Table of contents
- THE UNIVERSE
- NATURE AND PLACES ON THE PLANET
- SPECULATIONS AND MUSINGS
- WAR AND DEATH
- LOVE AND FAMILY