Welsh Journals

I praise Coiled hair, copper heaped Behind your white neck. I welcome small trading strands Floating their intelligences about Your pale head. Incline to them for breathing In my ear of future darkness, Rumouring When molten metal all Must spill around, all round, All round. NARROW GAUGE Short men, strongly turned But sharp; harp string Straight narrow gauge lines Through those woods; when You had passed before Your body burning in The sprung green trees, you would not Have objected bright, constructive Steels, passionate themselves, Knowing where they want; and now Broken rust leaves are covering Half the red old rails and when the Engine does not work this section That seems right. ON A TWELFTH CENTURY AWDL Naked the poem stands As a woman on azure carpets, Royal against white, reflecting, walls. Diamant flesh, it burns On its blue setting, Cut hard against the light. Its shapliness no argument will give, Utter discipline binds unity Into these colours, element, erotika. The poem springs from paper Against the brain, whips the eyes, Ripples of pain salt the opening wounds Saying Truth and truth and truth. NICHOLAS EVANS