Peter Chapman Poetry

Solstice Poem

the sun sneaks into my dim room early
things are quiet, the quiet is quiet

it waits so long before it goes down
then slowly, like a lover sinking

tuning the old radio, whose patina
guarantees its place, in this quiet cottage

the lake so still

soon perhaps a moon on the water,
idiotically beautiful the way tableaux line up

the radio not finding the channels so good,
it won't behave,

my hand a poor slave to the taste in the throat
women bring

a day of such hours

could make a difference in my habit
of getting close, the silky boney frictions

the calendar's mute distance,
a disturbance of bands,
so many romances, their so many hands