Emlyn Wentwhistle

Emlyn Wentwhistle Poems

When all,
my love,
you've left
of love
...

2.

I'm watching snow melt on trees
from the window of a room
turned reliquary,
harbouring the bones
...

3.

Up in Idaho
night's a starched taut canopy
all owl-hoot song and woodcock coo
presaging blear eyed dawn
...

4.

In such sullen heat
words themselves,
as if they bore some talismanic balm,
drip like perspiration from the lips.
...

5.

I carry with me
a small wedge
of Connemara marble
...

I juggle with words
Smuggled from a thesaurus
And rhyming dictionary
...

-The usual please.
-And that would be?
...

This world should not contain:
canvas shoes, rain
pneumatic tyres, itinerant nails
stepping stones, snails,
...

Six thirty a.m.
and a holiday!
I throw aside the tangled sheets,
too early woken
...

'A little grey suits you' she says.
'Gives you a most distinguished air'.
'It never used to' he says
noting the gaunt yellowed skin,
...

Three wet days,
and a ceacked rib to boot!
So much self inflicted pain
and every other thing
...

Each morning,
sometimes on the east side,
sometimes on the west side of the street,
I walk the quiet five minute stretch
...

Talking to myself

out loud
again
...

As the knot,
That held us through a faltering winter
Disentangles,
Unconstrained capricious spring
...

Maybe in New England in the Fall
with the trees all plush and plump like fireballs
and the waters still warmed by a patient sun
I'd write the poetry I should have done
...

In the glare of a thousand fluorescent lights,
these fledgling feet you'd think
might flail and flounder,
merely fail.
...

Thia is the Bauhaus
where lumbering maverick hands
-a kind of tragedy unfolding-
mould cumbersome laminate
...

To make a living
I hang out incommunicado in a classroom
looking for a centre-
the glue and mortar
...

No, not my amatory indiscretions
But the crumbs spilled from God's table.
Egg or chicken?
He made Himself an umlaut and saw that it was good.
...

Imagine if we
could avoid in words,
she said,
the garrulous complexities
...

The Best Poem Of Emlyn Wentwhistle

Self Sacrifice- W B Yeats To Maud Gonne

When all,
my love,
you've left
of love
is ash and
cinder,
my
dessicated
heart will
make good
tinder.

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