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Best Poems From
C RICHARD MILES
(1961)
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181.
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Night-blooming Cactus
Though I stay silent, innocent and green,
I’m no tame tiger, sleeping in the grass.
I have sheathed claws to catch you as you pass
And hide sharp talons, weaponry unseen.
My barbed ambition: human flesh to spear,
For, in my silver hair, as white as snow,
Spiked, piercing needles I conceal below.
If you brush past me, dare to come too near
As you sweep by me, I attract your touch.
You’ll not ignore me, for I pounce so fast
You’ll not outrun me: you are in my grasp
And you’ll implore me not to stab too much.
But in the night-time, in your sleeping hours,
You’ll see my glory; fragile, fragrant flowers.
C Richard Miles
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182.
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Not The Answers, Dust The Questions
What part of the plan, in the great scheme of things, was made
For dust?
When God made the world, didn’t he just guess he’d made
Raw dust?
Would the dandruff that fell, when he scratched his head, have made
Pure dust?
And why did there all run, like floods from a dam, on parquetted
Floor, dust?
So why didn’t I think that the chair, which the sale displayed,
Bore dust?
And how was I to notice that its plush, golden brocade
Wore dust?
And how did it make, when the cat scratched with sharp, splayed
Paw, dust?
And why forget God chose that a woodworm should, un-allayed,
Gnaw dust?
How fierce were its teeth, to mince in that sharp, razor-blade
Jaw, dust?
And how was it the chair was composed, in its now-frayed
Core, dust
And why did I forget and knocked it on the sides, so they’d
Pour dust?
How big could it get, that mountain that grew from decayed
Saw dust?
And why am I so scared to do that household, unpaid
Chore: dust?
Why don’t I ever succeed when I try, gently, to dissuade
More dust?
Is the thing they must ban is, in some future, yet-unmade
Law, Dust?
Will scientists make something that will (or is it still delayed)
Cure, dust?
Or will it have to be swept, until they tell me, “I’m afraid
You’re dust? ”
Is what will be, the thing that’s, for me, the last, down-laid
Straw, dust?
Do you know what will haunt me, when in the coffin I’m laid?
Sure, dust!
C Richard Miles
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183.
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November Moors
Dour, frowning skies hang looming low across the sheep-less moor
All set for sleep beneath November’s grim, hypnotic gaze
A sombre shroud of grey bedizens weary telegraph poles
Upon the cheerless tops. like aching masts of age-ancient sloops
Sloping slowly home in shame from encounter in lost wars,
Slung with sullied sheets of sail before the battering breeze.
Abandoned pastures sore lament their loss of fleecy flocks
Their woolly denizens betrayed them to seek solace, safe
In the valley’s pleasant plain with greener grass to satisfy
And silent fall the fells until the distant, wished-for spring
When leaping lambs will rouse them from their dreamless doze
And rebirth will bestow relief to lonely, pining hills.
C Richard Miles
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184.
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Now spring is sprung
Now spring is sprung and all is verdant green,
Why does my outlook still seem dark and dull?
Why do sad sentiments exert their pull
To take me to a gloomier, dismal scene?
And though I try to raise a hopeful head
Your crushing cruelty drives to drag me down.
For when you flash that chiding, chilling frown
All aspiration fails and drops down dead
Till, timidly I shrink back from your sight
Expecting yet more bitter, biting blows
Of wounding words which, cold as winter’s snows,
Descend to kill all green with trackless white
But harsh rebukes can soften, melt to nought
As reconciliation’s warmth is wrought.
C Richard Miles
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