Aubade

It’s all the same to morning what it dawns on —
On the bickering of jackdaws in leafy trees;
On that dandy from the wetlands, the green mallard’s
Stylish glissando among reeds; on the moorhen
Whose white petticoat flickers around the boghole;
On the oyster-catcher on tiptoe at low tide.

It’s all the same to the sun what it rises on —
On the windows in houses in Georgian squares;
On bees swarming to blitz suburban gardens;
On young couples yawning in unison before
They do it again; on dew like sweat or tears
On lilies and roses; on your bare shoulders.

But it isn’t all the same to us that night-time
Runs out; that we must make do with today’s
Happenings, and stoop and somehow glue together
The silly little shards of our lives, so that
Our children can drink water from broken bowls,
Not from cupped hands. It isn’t the same at all.

– Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
Translated by Michael Longley

Postscript:

An aubade is ‘a love poem or song welcoming or lamenting the arrival of the dawn’.
I like how this poem starts with a conversational, casual tone. In the first two stanzas, there’s a rather detailed description of how it doesn’t matter to the morning sun what it dawns on, rises on, with these lovely pastoral images. Then it segues into talk of whom it does matter to, and how much, and why.
You can read another aubade we’ve run by Philip Larkin here, one which is a huge contrast in tone and content even within the constraints of the form.
You can read a biography of the poet here and a longer biography here, and an interview with her here.

Is/Not

Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise

sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities

you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,

nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/traveler

Give up this medical concern,
buttoned, attentive,

permit yourself anger
and permit me mine

which needs neither
your approval nor your surprise

which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease

but against you,
which does not need to be understood

or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead

to be said and said.
Permit me the present tense.

– Margaret Atwood

Postscript:

What can I say about this pitch-perfect poem? The word play is clever without being off-putting. Professing love, love not being a profession, the construction of fellow/traveller, the juxtaposition of the clinical concern of medicine and the passionate anger of a relationship falling apart; and my favourite bit – ‘Permit me the present tense’, which can also be parsed as present, tense.
You can read about her here and here, and see her answers to the Proust Questionnaire here. You can read an interview with her in The Guardian here, and another in the Paris Review here.
We’ve run poems by Margaret Atwood on this site before; Siren Song, The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart, and Variations On The Word Sleep.

The Nonconformist

X, whom society’s most mild command,
For instance evening dress, infuriates,
In art is seen confusingly to stand
For disciplined conformity, with Yeats.

Taxed to explain what this resentment is
He feels for small proprieties, it comes,
He likes to think, from old enormities
And keeps the faith with famous martyrdoms.

Yet it is likely, if indeed the crimes
His fathers suffered rankle in his blood,
That he find least excusable the times
When they acceded, not when they withstood.

How else explain this bloody-minded bent
To kick against the prickings of the norm;
When to conform is easy, to dissent;
And when it is most difficult, conform?

By Donald Davie

Postscript:

What a gorgeously quixotic stand… Just the kind of thing I can really get behind.
You can read a long-ish biographical sketch of Donald Davie here, and an article on his poetry here.
Here’s a tangentially related article about Donald Davie’s abhorrence of poetry readings and poets gathering back in the ’60s, which also makes interesting points about poetry being read out vs read.