Mark Scrivener

Poetry Poems Original Verse

Thursday, July 23, 2015

AUTUMN DAY after Rainer Maria Rilke

after the German of Rainer Maria Rilke

Lord, it is time. The summer was so vast.
Lay now your shadows on the hours of sundials.
The winds let loose and on the fields be cast.

Command last fruits now to grow full and fine;
give them but two, south-heated days' last trace;
push them to final ripeness; hunt and chase
last sweetness down into the heavy vine.

Those now who have no home will build no more.
Those now alone will long stay so; will wake,
will read at length, will write long letters, take
to restless wandering, go to and fro,
in alleys when the leaves are driven so.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015



Winter evening’s
early darkness was

I lay upon my bed.
the steady-shining
bulb above my head
flickered and went dead,
leaving night

I rose in dimness,
reached out and took
a stout, old candle from
a wardrobe top.

I struck a match
and lit the wick,
seeing fleeting fire catch
and burn in darkness. Light,
small but glowing, gave
clear sight.

Small, single flame,
one drop of fire,
one solitary shining,
yet rays the cheer of light;
still casts a warm
lucidity upon each form,
dissolving the invading
darkness of the night.

Though it is but
a single point
of light’s creation,
all in its sphere receives

Saturday, July 11, 2015



Wild is the wind as it rides with the night,
Wild is the wind as it sets the sky sighing.

Bright's the thin moon as westward it's lying.
Bright is the white-shining chalice of light,
Bearing the circle of earth-light's far shine.

Silent's the sightless, swift passing of time.
Silent is time as it's endlessly flying.

Bright is the moonship on time's ebbing tide;
Bright as it glides beneath dark of earth side;
Smiling good-bye on horizon's black bar-
Leaving the night to wild dark, wind and stars.

Tuesday, July 07, 2015



Descending now, the western sun returns
The world to night. The day's last fire burns
With shining flame wings of time's flight,
The sun-winged phoenix of the light.

The brilliant bird of day is dead;
Its far-spread wings of cloud flame red
Upon a fading, funeral pyre:
The sunset's final, dying fire.

The wings of light dissolve in dark,
To leave but scatterings of spark:
Sky-patterning, white stars that light
The passing of the pause of night.

Yet with soft dawn's light-growing gleams,
The rising flame of day's unfurled.
New-born are sun-rayed, blazing beams:
The phoenix of new day ascending
Upon the freshly shining world.

So from the sleeping night's swift ending,
The bird of time is winged anew,
To fly on sky's wide-spreading blue.
From resting, strength-renewing night,
With brilliant wings, now dark has gone,
Life's phoenix rises with the light,
Reborn- and time flies ever on.

Thursday, July 02, 2015



High in the wide sky
rides the white moon,
gliding over
a world of night silences...

shining pale, white light,
defining the sight in another guise:
not the bright
reality of day sun,
the other side of life.

The other side of life
where shadow hides
a sightless light
and senses' might
seems insubstantial...

where midnight cloud's a wild romance,
and waters sparkle silver
and leaves are colourless and pale
and hills are spectred forms
and ground and tree
seem growing flow's transparency
within the sunless shade-

where sheens a lightless shine and silence seems a sound:
an almost remembered
and distant tune...

white moon,
white moon,

white moon.