Four Poems

Noel Peattie

Sonatina

O sea-wind, joy of you,
blind-blower, blanket-bed-
causer, window-fan-
rouser, sleep-easer, in-fall-
rain-bringer, Ocean’s child
messenger, speaking:
		
		   (in solo flute:

				   as, when
				   ever we bring
				   cool hands to a fore
				   head, drink to a
				   morning
				   cat) –

		        for your

stray-blowing, un-
expected in-walking,
relief against summer siege-
stifling,

		joy of you,
		joy of you!

I Am in Bed!

I am in bed! annuitant,
on a Wednesday
morning! Beyond the window
the trees wave slowly
and (short-sighted) form
(as I am) circles of pin-hole
images of their rising God:
Sun.

My feet point north. I
rest and read poetry.
I am a meridian line
on a whirling globe. Find me
quick west of Reno,
east of San Francisco, –

but far below my back,
away down there rolls
unsounded, fundamental,
white hot, under
enormous pressure,
Earth’s molten iron
core.

Limits

Nosing about,
as free, as programmed,
the red-gold-banner-tailed fish
touched the frontier
of the kingdom of pure air.

Below your horizon,
only seen by pilgrimage,
what a pouring wealth
of stars!

Tone Poem

The sound of horn 
is Horn.

King Horn came back from exile
for his sweetheart: in disguise,
stole her from her bridegroom.
He was Horn, of Horn.

Horn in a mountain pass:
a cry for help;

a terrible cape;

a conch, summoning all feasters;

or a gilded country toy,
spilling fruit and flowers; from all,
take what gives you pleasure.

Drink, dreamer, from my
resounding horn.