James Deahl

The Sorrow of God

A Morning Poem
for Robert Bly

I awake at dawn to a day of frozen sleet,
A cold day at the end of February
With the mountain’s face buried in cloud.

It’s so early no one else seems to be up;
Then I hear a car start, its engine warming
By the house next door. Silently the mists lift.

I read last night that a moment of sorrow
Preceded creation, that act that summoned
The Earth into being, and us with it.

The house finches have already returned;
I see them waiting on the telephone wire.
My neighbour enters his car and drives off.

My mountain ash stands locked in a ring of ice,
But the night’s wind has dropped to nothing.
Later, I suspect, this ice will melt.

The day’s still quiet, my children asleep
In their rooms under the eaves. And I cannot
In my moment of time believe in a god of sorrow.

James Deahl

James Deahl was born in Pittsburgh in 1945, and grew up in that city as well as in and around the Laurel Highlands of the Appalachian Mountains. He moved to Canada in 1970 and holds Canadian citizenship. He’s the author (or, in the case of Tu Fu’s poetry, translator) of twenty literary titles.

Ann Alexander

Four in the morning talking

Four in the morning is a lost dog,
wandering down paths that used to lead to home
but now go nowhere.

Four am is a bed as cold as a failed marriage;
the February of the day
before the first birds or shards of light
discover the edge of the blind.

Four in the morning is the only house in the road;
is a passer-by with a voice like a dustcart,
yelling at a mobile phone;
the guest come far too early to be welcome.

Four am is neither day nor night, light nor dark,
neither fully awake nor asleep;
where problems grow like a cuckoo chick
in the nest of your mind.

The party is long since over, but four in the morning
still waits on the wet curb of the day
for the taxi that never comes,
the sleep that never comes, the slow tick tock till light.

Ann Alexander has published four collections of poetry, two from Peterloo and two from Ward Wood. Many of her poems were inspired by her 30 years living in W Cornwall. She has won first prize in the Mslexia, the Frogmore Prize, Bedford Open, and Grey Hen competitions, and was placed third in the BBC’s Poem for Britain competition. She lives in Stratford upon Avon now.

Anne Ballard

Black Dog

He’s grey now, grown old in my service:
werehound with inflamed, gummy eyes
who lopes head down, wheezing.
Together, grown stiff and slower,
we walk the dank ways. He can sniff out,
find for me, anything rotten or dead.

He has a wild streak, will leave me
for long jaunts alone; returns
when I call, hears that high whistle
beyond my ears. At other times
he comes without warning
as if I dream him awake:
then he’s eager, bounds at me barking,
fetches his leash, woos me
till I’m recaptured.

I no longer fear him, have learned
to welcome him, my dog-for-life.
He’s good news, brings renewal,
makes me pause
give myself full attention,
go to earth in his lair,
while he curls at my side, offering
long ears to be stroked, twitching
with possibilities.

He will see me out.
While he lives, so can I.

Anne Ballard recently returned to Edinburgh after many years in London. Her poems have appeared in Acumen, Orbis, Magma, The Interpreter’s House, Artemis and elsewhere. She won first prize in the Poetry on the Lake Competition 2015 and 2018.
Her pamphlet Family Division was published by in 2015.

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