Mark Abraham reading "Humanosphere"


We are one, we are one,
we're many, but one.
We stretch round the Earth
like a mould in the sun.
There's plenty to do
but we've barely begun,
and we're only just learning
that we're one, that we're one.

We are one, we are one,
and with muscle and gun
there's much we've created,
much more we've undone.
Whether today, or with Roman or Hun,
war is exciting, but war is no fun,
and we still haven't noticed
that we're one, that we're one.

With the Earth where we live
we are all, we are one.
But as fast as we grow
it's still coming undone.
The good and the bad we make by the ton,
it detracts and increases the power of the sun.
And we still haven't realised
that we're all, that we're one.

There's millions of humans
but as family, we're one,
and there's many more species
and we're still only one.
We spread like a mould
that grows in the sun,
and the balance of creatures
on Earth is undone.

We are one, we are one,
we are still only one.
Yet we live speeded up
like a top, over-spun.
Compared to all others
we seem on the run,
yet what do we know
of what we've become?

We are one, we are one,
on the level as one.
But we try to build columns
as high as the sun.
With the strong at the top
and the weak underneath
it's hardly surprising
we're so short of breath.

We are one, we are one,
first and last we are one.
We're as fresh as the sunlight,
as old as the sun.
There's safety in numbers,
there's danger in one,
and we need to discover
what it is that we've won. 18/11/10

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Mark Abraham reading "Snow"


Though never at Christmas itself, the snow
was the icing on our Christmas cake,
was the world turned from all colours
into the one colour of innocence,
from all angles into the shape of smooth and round,
the trees bent double with their extra winter leaves,
the hedges lost beneath the raising of the fields,
the telephone wires stretched and whispering to the ground.

For us it was the best time of all the four seasons,
the time when sledges came out of hibernation,
were rudely shaken, dragged out of sheds and old chicken-houses,
or fresh born in one morning from planks and pieces of firewood,
their runners filched from the metal straps of beds,
their bridles anything from a chain to electric cable,
ready to fire us from the tops of the icy hills
down into the arms of the valleys themselves.

First day, first hour that the snow was ready,
there we'd gather on the pathway to the church,
each of us dragging a platform behind us,
scarves and balaclavas, gum-boots chafing legs,
all sizes, all ages, gender no favour,
usually to a certain place five minutes from the village,
though once we were there we'd pick and choose
just where to make our run.

And soon there was a wide road marked out upon the hill,
a road cut deep across the drifts, smudged darker
than the bright light of the world all about,
a road composed of a pattern of footsteps
always pointing up at either side,
while in between was broken snow
and double lines crossing and re-crossing
down to the heart of pure delight itself.

Green Hill was the name of this highway
though never called green when it was,
and though it was tipped as steep as we could make it,
it was the leveller of all levels, the bringer of infinite space,
where rivalries were forgotten, where bullies faded into the crowd,
where all at once even the most solitary
had too many friends even for them to count.

And after the long haul up,
with our carriages strung behind us,
then we'd reach the very top as high as we could go,
run, pushing the sledge so that it gained momentum,
leapt forward at the right instant, tummy flat to the wood,
our faces inches from the rush, jumping bump by bump,
as close as we could to stare at the ice
till we reached the opposite slope.

Early piece, published in By The Field With The Round Corner

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1 comment:

  1. I liked the lines they are really very amazing and heart touching. a number of instance they provoked me to get involved in them emotional as well as spiritually i liked it very much