Three Poems by Ian Hamilton
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By Carlos Noyola Economist and Frederic Bastiat Fellow at George Mason University. Regularly writes for newspapers: El Sol de Puebla and El Universal.
an Hamilton was born in East England in 1938 and died in 2001. The majority of his life’s work is composed of critical essays and biographical writings. He wrote very few poems, and wrote them very slowly. For example, in 1988, he wrote: I have written fifty poems in twenty-five years: not much to brag about for being half a lifetime.” As an editor, he was known as tough and difficult to impress. Nevertheless, his poems speak of a different Ian, sensitive to alarm clocks and green walls. In 2009, Faber printed his complete poetic works (Collected poems).
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JOURNAL OF CULTURE AND EDUCATION
Poem Ah, listen now,
Each breath more temperate, more kind, More close to death. Sleep on And listen to these words Faintly, and with a tentative alarm, Refuse to waken you.
The Vow O world leave this alone
At least This shocked and slightly aromatic fall of leaves She gathers now and presses to her mouth And swears on. Swears that love, What’s left of it, Will sleep now, unappeased, impossible.
The Visit They’ve let me walk with you
As far as this high wall. The placid smiles Of our new friends, the old incurables, Pursue us lovingly. Their boyish, suntanned heads, Their ancient arms Outstretched, belong to you. Although you head still burns Your hands remember me.
