Malala

No tears. Her name’s all 
Song and it’s all 

Ready a rallying cry.

Rash

Looking back 

In your great haste, that moonlit snail 
Trail you rashly took for inspiration, now 

Having barely scratched the surface, the soiled 
Spectacle of lunatic ants over the moon 

In your underpants, dejection.

That Last Chapter, Just Like That

“I think as I age, I’m becoming more historical.” 
—Sylvia Plath, from a 1962 interview 


Not what you might think at first but simply that 
She was beginning to read more history, 
Nothing more than that.

 . 


2012 and now looking at a photograph of her, 
Young and looking so vivacious 
Some fifty years back, it’s hard to imagine 
How that lovely head could have 
Put an end to it all—

.


(So terrible a timeworn phrase, 
To be avoided at all costs)

 . 


Yet the longer and harder you look, 
You cannot help but see 

Her eyes are trying hard 
To focus on whatever it was 

That made it all so easy.

Study

On clear days, always 
Above my PC screen, 
The small square 

Window composed of dark
Green cypress boughs before 
A backdrop of cloudless sky-blue— 

On moonless starry nights,
Introspection shining through. 

Artiste

With greatest of ease 
Before high 

White sidewall, grey 
Brown sparrow 

Flittering on be 
Spattered pied 

Scaffolding.