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Amlanjyoti Goswami
At the butcher’s

I can smell rain, mutters the butcher
Cleaving the shoulder.
Does rain have a smell, asks the younger man,
Learning the ropes.
Where you make the incisions, where the
First chop must fall.

Yes, the wet earth, I step into
The conversation, a stranger to the ways of knife and blow.
The fragrance of earth, he remembers,
As one more deft stroke
Cuts to the skin of the matter,
As the flow dyes the wooden block,
A shade darker.

We wait patient in the shadows, for umbrellas
To spring to life.
This dead afternoon quiet, where ants prowl lonely,
And flowers stay thirsty.
This dry blaze of May
Rain far as Marrakesh, or Persia.

But he felt it, that is true, as he cut deeper
Into cloud, poking the open blue,
Reaching the emptiness from which all things must spring,
Rain coming, soon,
and filling our borders with music.

Thea Nikolova
pray for rain

i dance across the cracked cobblestones
wildly, and without restraint, summoning clouds.

i am so big in my love, and hungry too,
i pray spring rain washes the prints of my grubby hands off your skin

i don’t know how to keep my hands to myself,
i come to you, heart in hand, jumping in puddles

i hope spring rain drowns these noises out
i hope i stop screaming, brakes screeching as

i skid to sudden halts on my knees before you: let me walk out of this love alive,
i pray spring rain will heal me, please i had tried to cast my eyes away

i had hoped to yearn more quietly, to be more worthy
the sun peeks above those sprawling cotton candy clouds

i pray the spring rain is quiet as am i,
i pray you let the aftermath be swift

i pray to be less hungry, i pray you kinder
i am struck blind by your teeth flashing in a smile

i had not known my own desperation, until you quieted it
i didn’t even know i was in love

i write us into happy mornings, street lamps breaking into glittering lovelights
i walk alone in the drizzle

i leave my marks on you, impermanent, my lipstick in your bleached hair
i dance across the cracked cobblestones wildly, and without restraint

i pray you out of my heart and i pray for rain.

Meryl Stratford
Aubade
           after Mayakowsky

When I went walking one morning,
the clouds went walking with me,
wearing their grey trousers,
flaunting their sun-dresses of white lace,
hinting, as they do, of rain.

The trees stood patiently, waiting,
the trees in their green bonnets,
whispering, rain, rain.

A breeze came hurrying toward me,
naked, perfumed with blossoms,
promising rain.

Bob Ward
A Ballad of Bassenthwaite

Halfway along one side of Bassenthwaite in England’s Lake District stands an old inn, The Swan. Up on the nearby steep fellside, two white-painted boulders can be seen. These mark where a Bishop and his Clerk came to an untimely end on a stormy night.
 

                                        Our Bishop’s dining at The Swan
                                        Where food is of the best
                                        He lifts a final brandy glass
                                        To lend his mission zest.

                                        Across the table see his Clerk
                                        Who serves the Bishop well
                                        When traipsing round the diocese
                                        Through dale and over fell.

                                        ‘I have spare room, the beds are fresh,
                                        You should stay on tonight;
                                        Rough winds come rattling at the door
                                        To leave now can’t be right.’

                                        ‘Good Landlord so you say,’
                                        The Bishop thumps his fist.
                                        ‘But I will ride to Lorton Vale
                                              –    Fetch horses, I insist.’

                                        Another gust, a slash of rain,
                                        The Clerk he looks askance;
                                        He fears the Bishop once resolved
                                        Will always take his chance.

                                        ‘The hour is late, winds gather strength,
                                        Your Grace, it’s better we should stay.’
                                        The Bishop quells him with a glance
                                        One might dread on Judgement Day.

                                        ‘I need ever take God’s path
                                        Led where the Spirit flies.’
                                        The Ostler whistles through his teeth,
                                        The Landlord rolls his eyes.

                                        Gaitered, upright on his horse,
                                        The Bishop waves farewell,
                                        Behind him trails the anxious Clerk
                                        As they approach the fell.

                                        Steep, steep the path around the rocks,
                                        Ahead the slopes of scree,
                                        The Clerk recycles quiet prayer,
                                        Grips tighter with his knee.

                                        Their horses falter, get urged on,
                                        Why pick this awkward track?
                                        But Bishop with a mind made up
                                        Accepts no turning back.

                                        Scree slides, the lead horse overturns,
                                        Falls on its mate, all suffer harms!
                                        Two travellers pitch headlong straight
                                        Down into their Maker’s arms.

                                        ‘Didn’t expect you back so soon,
                                        There are more souls need be won,
                                        What a cheek, to think you’ll sneak
                                        Into Heaven just for fun!

                                        Now I’ll pop you both in Limbo
                                        Till I get the next supply
                                        Of hymn-sheets for daft people
                                        Far far too keen to die.’

                                        Hence the Bishop stands a whitened
                                        Rock repainted every year,
                                        Though silent in his pulpit
                                        His message stands out clear:

                                        ‘However high and mighty
                                        You must shun the sin of pride.’
                                        (While the Clerk still ranks beneath him
                                        Lower down the mountainside.)

Xe M. Sánchez
For a Long Time (English)

I do not meet the fog
for a long time.

***

It is a muse, who comes to us
sometimes,
from the Atlantic,
with the news
of nomads,
as The Flying Dutchman.

***

It is old poetry
that you can feel
in your skin.
 
 
Xe M. Sánchez
Fai Tiempu (Asturian)

Fai tiempu que nun aconceyo
cola borrina.

***

Ye una musa qu’aporta
de xemes en cuandu
dende l’Atlánticu
coles anuncies
de los nómades,
comu l’holandés errante.

***

Ye poesía vieya
que puedes sintir
na to pelleya.