By David Wheatley
Writing in Poetry evaluate Roddy Lumsden came upon reason to compliment David Wheatley’s ‘wilfully remarkable shape and rampaging vocabulary’, whereas within the TLS Peter examining counseled his technical assets as ‘an unobtrusive excitement to read’. A Nest at the Waves, taking its identify from the people trust that petrels lay their eggs at sea, ruminates on subject matters of commute, leave-taking and displacement. From his local County Wicklow in terms of East Yorkshire the place he lives, the poems hint an arc of tours, real or imagined, to Australia, Africa and Antarctica. Migrant employees, migrating birds and nomadic tribes enact anything of the drama of the place domestic will be. From shamanism to the lives of saints, responses to the Donegal gaeltacht and homages to musical heroes (Brad Mehldau, Ali Farka Touré), David Wheatley’s curious, wide-ranging and now usually open-ended verse offers grounds for Maria Johnston’s commentary within the Dublin evaluate of Books that ‘the feel of chance in Wheatley’s paintings turns out limitless’.
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Additional resources for A Nest on the Waves
In that wrong time when still a shape of earth Severed us far and stood our sight between, Those loves were effigies of love whose worth Was all our wandering nothing to have seen: So toward those steep projections on our sky We toiled though partners to their falsity Who faintly in that falseness could descry What now stands forth too marvelous to see: Who one time loved in them the truth concealed: And now must leave them in the truth revealed. XX. Now stands our love on that still verge of day Where darkness loiters leaf to leaf releasing Lone tree to silvering tree: then slopes away Before the morning’s deep-drawn strength increasing Till the sweet land lies burnished in the dawn: But sleeping still: nor stirs a thread of grass: Large on the low hill and the spangled lawn The pureleaved air dwells passionless as glass: So stands our love new found and unaroused, Appareled in all peace and innocence, In all lost shadows of love past still drowsed Against foreknowledge of such immanence As now, with earth outshone and earth’s wide air, Shows each to other as this morning fair.
Let this new time no natural wheel derange: Be ever changeless, thus: season of change. VII. What dynasties of destinies undreamed And truth to halt the heart does man descry There, that so rarely has his heart beteemed His eye to frankly watch into an eye? The earliest marvelings only of the heart Estranged of blindness of its living care And from beholding Being held athwart By narrowest shade, so deeply make him dare. What truth we glimpse that each see other so That stills our blood with horror of delight Which once alone with other each may know: Who swiftly changed recoil from that dread sight: And how, if that were told, would change this day: All human kind has seen, and none can say.
Forebear, forbear to look at me with joy. I would not do you hurt who will no harm, But that sure smile I surely shall destroy – Its covert meaning and its patent charm. Awakened to our love’s surprising hell, Your dream struck sleep befits it hardly well. X. Wring me no more nor force from me that vow Which lovers love to hear for reassurance; Rest faithful in firm silence, which is now Frail but sole bulwark for our love’s endurance. However mad, it is my heart’s belief That he who lies of love trumpets instruction For anger and terror, scorn and doubt and grief Swiftly to marshal toward our sure destruction.
A Nest on the Waves by David Wheatley