Poems of the Week: Brecht (on his deathbed in hospital) and Bridge in the Rain

When in the white room of the white ward
I wake up in the early morning,
and hear the blackbird, I’m in accord
with the tidings each day his songs bring.
It tells me why I’m thoroughly bored
with timor mortis. Once you are nothing
there’s nothing to fear. I can afford
to lie back, and enjoy the bird song,
knowing it’s the repetition forward
of all the blackbirds I won’t be hearing.

Augustus Young is a poet, playwright and prose writer. His most recent publication is The Making of a Pure Poet (Ashgrove Publishing, London). augustusyoung.com.

Bridge in the Rain

The short bridge, its pale parapet
barely visible in the rain – seen
through a veil of lime green leaves.
And a parade of willow trees
leaning into the Dodder below.
It resonates with Van Gogh, his
Bridge in the Rain, after Hiroshige,
calligraphic, minimal, Japanese.

Louise C Callaghan’s poem is from her recent collection, New Ways of Being a Stranger.