Thom Gunn Poems

He died, and I admired
the crisp vehemence
of a lifetime reduced to
half a foot of shelf space.
...

Mr Pierce the butcher
Got news his son was missing
About a month before
The closing of the war.
...

I stand upon a hill and see
A luminous country under me,
Through which at two the drunk sailor must weave;
The transient's pause, the sailor's leave.
...

Though night is always close, complete negation
Ready to drop on wisdom and emotion,
Night from the air or the carnivorous breath,
Still it is right to know the force of death,
...

Two dumpy women with buns were drinking coffee
In a narrow kitchen—at least I think a kitchen
And I think it was whitewashed, in spite of all the shade.
They were flat brown, they were as brown as coffee.
...

Your dying was a difficult enterprise.
First, petty things took up your energies,
The small but clustering duties of the sick,
Irritant as the cough's dry rhetoric.
...

I have reached a time when words no longer
help:
Instead of guiding me across the moors
Strong landmarks in the uncertain out-of-doors,
...

You go from me
In June for months on end
To study equanimity
Among high trees alone;
...

Nightmare of beasthood, snorting, how to wake.
I woke. What beasthood skin she made me take?

Leathery toad that ruts for days on end,
...

From the private ease of Mother's womb
I fall into the lighted room.

Why don't they simply put me back
...