Today's poet

poem above by Michael Field

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

The Love That Breeds

The love that breeds
In my heart for thee!
As the iris is full, brimful of seeds,
And all that it flowered for among the reeds
Is packed in a thousand vermilion-beads
That push, and riot, and squeeze, and clip,
Till they burst the sides of the silver scrip,
And at last we see
What the bloom, with its tremulous, bowery fold
Of zephyr-petal at heart did hold:
So my breast is rent
With the burthen and strain of its great content;
For the summer of fragrance and sighs is dead,
The harvest-secret is burning red,
And I would give thee, after my kind,
The final issues of heart and mind.

---

I like this , is it just me or is there a bit of a melancholy feel to it in that when flowers come into full bloom they are beautiful but they are also on the cusp of an irretrievable deterioration?....Mmmm probably just me!!!!!!!!....nice one mossy

Good evening all...

If like me you are having a quiet saturday night you might not mind reading such a very long poem...its well worth hanging in there I think even though its long, i think it reads like a little story


The Buried Life

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be—
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity—
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us—to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but 't#is not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only—but this is rare—
When a belov{'e}d hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd—
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.

Joy.

Life is short,
But it should be long enough,
Love is what counts,
Not the boring stuff.

Fill up your soul,
Until it's chock full of glee,
Laugh with others,
Let your heart run free.

By Leonidas.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

The Buried Life

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal'd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be—
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity—
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us—to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but 't#is not true!
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only—but this is rare—
When a belov{'e}d hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd—
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.

---

It does indeed read like a little story Freckle, and a rather sad one I think; not only for the claimed ubiquity of deeply repressed emotions, but also for the assumption that such emotions, once revealed, are typically melancholic too. Yet this poem is well worth the read, and such an excellent choice. You are very perceptive/empathic to the prevailing mood, but then I'd expect no less from such an adroit poet.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Leonidas

Joy.

Life is short,
But it should be long enough,
Love is what counts,
Not the boring stuff.

Fill up your soul,
Until it's chock full of glee,
Laugh with others,
Let your heart run free.

By Leonidas.

---

a jolly little poem leonidas and a nice one to wake to!

Mossy...glad you enjoyed the buried life poem and thank you for the compliment you are sweet :o

Casting and gathering
Seamus Heaney*

Years and years ago, these sounds took sides:

On the left bank, a green silk tapered cast
Went whispering through the air, saying hush
And lush, entirely free, no matter whether
It swished above the hayfield or the river.

On the right bank, like a speeded-up corncrake,
A sharp ratcheting went on and on
Cutting across the stillness as another
Fisherman gathered line-lengths off his reel.

I am still standing there, awake and dreamy,
I have grown older and can see them both
Moving their arms and rods, working away,
Each one absorbed, proofed by the sounds he's making.

One sound is saying. "You are not worth tuppence,
but neither is anybody. Watch it! Be severe."
The other says, "Go with it! Give and swerve.
You are everything you feel beside the river."

I love hushed air. I trust contrariness.
Years and years go past and I do not move
For I see that when one man casts, the others gathers
And then vice versa, without changing sides.




*apparently this poem was written for ted hughes.

Sunday service

Rythmic non think
holds thoughts and fears
For now at least
I am a welcome
NOTHING
but
breath,
pulsation
sweat
and movement
a beguiling amalgam
of FORWARD

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Casting and gathering
Seamus Heaney*

Years and years ago, these sounds took sides:

On the left bank, a green silk tapered cast
Went whispering through the air, saying hush
And lush, entirely free, no matter whether
It swished above the hayfield or the river.

On the right bank, like a speeded-up corncrake,
A sharp ratcheting went on and on
Cutting across the stillness as another
Fisherman gathered line-lengths off his reel.

I am still standing there, awake and dreamy,
I have grown older and can see them both
Moving their arms and rods, working away,
Each one absorbed, proofed by the sounds he's making.

One sound is saying. "You are not worth tuppence,
but neither is anybody. Watch it! Be severe."
The other says, "Go with it! Give and swerve.
You are everything you feel beside the river."

I love hushed air. I trust contrariness.
Years and years go past and I do not move
For I see that when one man casts, the others gathers
And then vice versa, without changing sides.


*apparently this poem was written for ted hughes.

---

I do like Heaney's poems freckle so thanks for posting that.:cool:

I have just read 'Buried life' as well and there's certainly food for thought there. One thing is certain we all have a buried life but some of us may have buried it more deeper than others.
It reminds me of that passage in Middlemarch where Dorothea wonders what it would be like to be sensitive to other people's personal feelings.

"If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."

- George Eliot, Middlemarch

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Sunday service

Rythmic non think
holds thoughts and fears
For now at least
I am a welcome
NOTHING
but
breath,
pulsation
sweat
and movement
a beguiling amalgam
of FORWARD

---

I like that freckle it is very rhythmic which I think is what you wanted to achieve :cool:
I don't know what activity you are doing though ?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

I like that freckle it is very rhythmic which I think is what you wanted to achieve :cool:
I don't know what activity you are doing though ?

---

oh i say alf!

i was running....

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

I do like Heaney's poems freckle so thanks for posting that.:cool:

I have just read 'Buried life' as well and there's certainly food for thought there. One thing is certain we all have a buried life but some of us may have buried it more deeper than others.
It reminds me of that passage in Middlemarch where Dorothea wonders what it would be like to be sensitive to other people's personal feelings.

"If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."

- George Eliot, Middlemarch

---

thats such a great excerpt thank you for posting...

Freckle, Thanks for Casting & Gathering, like Alf, I really like Heaney and other contemporary Irish poets.

Been working in London recently & have so enjoyed reading the poems here on my little iphone, feels like I'm back home in the Lakes rather than some anonymous city hotel.

So I thought I'd offer something a little different. A poem, the first verse of which my Dad would always quote when going on a long car journey. Its by J Milton Hayes rather than Kipling, but has that exotic & atmospheric Raj feel to it. Hope you enjoy it.

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.

He was know as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonels daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangement gad begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed the squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed on their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through,
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew",
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone,
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a walltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.


Not exactly a cheery little number! But it has echoes of my childhood, so it feels quite strong & evocative to me. I guess we cant always choose what stays with us from those early days, but it does symbolise some of my Dads strength & a sense of his history, which feels important.
Hope it doesnt take the thread away too far from the deeper stuff.
Cheers
Duncan

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by duncs

Freckle, Thanks for Casting & Gathering, like Alf, I really like Heaney and other contemporary Irish poets.

Been working in London recently & have so enjoyed reading the poems here on my little iphone, feels like I'm back home in the Lakes rather than some anonymous city hotel.

So I thought I'd offer something a little different. A poem, the first verse of which my Dad would always quote when going on a long car journey. Its by J Milton Hayes rather than Kipling, but has that exotic & atmospheric Raj feel to it. Hope you enjoy it.

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.

He was know as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonels daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangement gad begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed the squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed on their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through,
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew",
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone,
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a walltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.


Not exactly a cheery little number! But it has echoes of my childhood, so it feels quite strong & evocative to me. I guess we cant always choose what stays with us from those early days, but it does symbolise some of my Dads strength & a sense of his history, which feels important.
Hope it doesnt take the thread away too far from the deeper stuff.
Cheers
Duncan

---

Tis a broad church on this thread Duncs and we welcome all shared poems, so many thanks. Actually, I think that there is a depth to this poem as it's narrative contains an allusion to what love drives some of us to do, often at immense cost, including self-sacrifice. Hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in the Big Smoke and at least you have the satisfying knowledge that unlike many around you presently, you have a place in God's own country - up'north.:)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Sunday service

Rythmic non think
holds thoughts and fears
For now at least
I am a welcome
NOTHING
but
breath,
pulsation
sweat
and movement
a beguiling amalgam
of FORWARD

---

You said it! (and very well too if I might add), So 'Go Girl Power Go':):):)

That is a great story. Thanks for posting it Duncs.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by duncs

Freckle, Thanks for Casting & Gathering, like Alf, I really like Heaney and other contemporary Irish poets.

Been working in London recently & have so enjoyed reading the poems here on my little iphone, feels like I'm back home in the Lakes rather than some anonymous city hotel.

So I thought I'd offer something a little different. A poem, the first verse of which my Dad would always quote when going on a long car journey. Its by J Milton Hayes rather than Kipling, but has that exotic & atmospheric Raj feel to it. Hope you enjoy it.

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.

He was know as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonels daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangement gad begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed the squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed on their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through,
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew",
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone,
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a walltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.


Not exactly a cheery little number! But it has echoes of my childhood, so it feels quite strong & evocative to me. I guess we cant always choose what stays with us from those early days, but it does symbolise some of my Dads strength & a sense of his history, which feels important.
Hope it doesnt take the thread away too far from the deeper stuff.
Cheers
Duncan

---

Just to confirm duncs' impression of our 'deeper' and 'weightier' ponderings on this thread, here's my offering tonight...

On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness


The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
And I don't feel so well myself.
-- Arthur Guiterman

Sorry, can't resist posting this one either :)

Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Dorothy Parker

Keeping on the theme of Irish poets. This one wasn't bad either :cool:

Primrose

Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, I said, to find
One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear--
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but the shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.

Patrick Kavanagh

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Just to confirm duncs' impression of our 'deeper' and 'weightier' ponderings on this thread, here's my offering tonight...

On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness


The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
And I don't feel so well myself.
-- Arthur Guiterman

---

I enjoyed that Mossy, was he an influence on Spike Milligan ? :D

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Sorry, can't resist posting this one either :)

Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Dorothy Parker

---

This is so funny...some good stuff posted on here tonight, Duncs I really loved that poem and the story behind it, it was also lovely to think of you sitting in London reading the poems on your phone and getting pleasure from that. Some great choices from Mossy and Alf as usual...gosh it's late and i have to get up tomorrow...trying to unwind after watching a very bizarre 1970's french film involving Catherine Deneuve, a donkey that poos gold droppings, fairies and the most surreal lyrics I have heard in quite some time! I know it sounds as if I am making it up but honestly I am not!

http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi295895321/

That is great Mossy.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mossdog

Sorry, can't resist posting this one either :)

Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Dorothy Parker

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Ha ha ha! Yep, I've known that feeling. Great post Mossdog.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Sorry, can't resist posting this one either :)

Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Dorothy Parker

---

Found whilst researching curlew for my artist's residency.

He Reproves the Curlew

O Curlew, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind.

William Butler Yeats

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Found whilst researching curlew for my artist's residency.

He Reproves the Curlew

O Curlew, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind.

William Butler Yeats

---

Beautiful Hes
Give me anything with curlews - I've told my wife that I'll only move house if our local curlews come too!
This paints a different picture than happy. loving summers though....

Lovely. I was sat listening to the Curlews and Oystercatchers in the hills today.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Found whilst researching curlew for my artist's residency.

He Reproves the Curlew

O Curlew, cry no more in the air,
Or only to the water in the West;
Because your crying brings to my mind
passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair
That was shaken out over my breast:
There is enough evil in the crying of wind.

William Butler Yeats

---

I love waders too, especially curlew. Nice choice Hes

Hope all fell poets are good! I've been busy in the land of Wordsworth and Coleridge ;)

Lovely poem about curlews Hes...good to have you back DT! missed your haikus!

i just found this....

Entirely

If we could get the hang of it entirely
It would take too long;
All we know is the splash of words in passing
and falling twigs of song,
And when we try to eavesdrop on the great
Presences it is rarely
That by a stroke of luck we can appropriate
Even a phrase entirely.
If we could find our happiness entirely
In somebody else's arms
We should not fear the spears of the spring nor the city's
Yammering fire alarms
But, as it is, the spears each year go through
Our flesh and almost hourly
Bell or siren banishes the blue
Eyes of Love entirely.
And if the world were black or white entirely
And all the charts were plain
Instead of a mad weir of tigerish waters,
A prism of delight and pain,
We might be surer where we wished to go
Or again we might be merely
Bored but in the brute reality there is no
Road that is right entirely.

Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

The Lily


The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

William Blake

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

The Lily


The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

William Blake

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The simplicity of this is really beautiful, thank you

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

The simplicity of this is really beautiful, thank you

---

Here's another nice one for you...

To See

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

William Blake

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

Here's another nice one for you...

To See

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

William Blake

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This is gorgeous MG, really like the small and sweet nature of the last two you have posted, thank you.

i really like this....

another irish poet (been a lot on here lately)

We Are Living

What is this room
But the moments we have lived in it?
When all due has been paid
To gods of wood and stone
And recognition has been made
Of those who’ll breathe here when we are gone
Does it not takes its worth from us
Who made it because we were here?
Your words are the only furniture I can remember
Your body the book that told me most.
If this room has a ghost
It will be your laughter in the frank dark
Revealing the world as a room
Loved only for those moment when
We touched the purely human.
I could give water now to thirsty plants,
Dig up the floorboards, the foundation,
Study the worm’s confidence,
Challenge his omnipotence
Because my blind eyes have seen through walls
That make safe prisons of the days.
We are living
In ceiling, floor and windows,
We are given to where we have been.
This white door will always open
On what our hands have touched,
Our eyes have seen.

– by Brendan Kennelly


quite apt as i still haven't sold my hoose!

you can listen to the authors reading of this poem here...

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetrya....do?poemId=206

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Derby Tup

I love waders too, especially curlew. Nice choice Hes

Hope all fell poets are good! I've been busy in the land of Wordsworth and Coleridge ;)

---

Hi there DT. Hope you are well. It has been a great week up here in the Lakes. Hope you got some good miles in.

A classic MG. A great post.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

Here's another nice one for you...

To See

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

William Blake

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

i really like this....

another irish poet (been a lot on here lately)

We Are Living

What is this room
But the moments we have lived in it?
When all due has been paid
To gods of wood and stone
And recognition has been made
Of those who’ll breathe here when we are gone
Does it not takes its worth from us
Who made it because we were here?
Your words are the only furniture I can remember
Your body the book that told me most.
If this room has a ghost
It will be your laughter in the frank dark
Revealing the world as a room
Loved only for those moment when
We touched the purely human.
I could give water now to thirsty plants,
Dig up the floorboards, the foundation,
Study the worm’s confidence,
Challenge his omnipotence
Because my blind eyes have seen through walls
That make safe prisons of the days.
We are living
In ceiling, floor and windows,
We are given to where we have been.
This white door will always open
On what our hands have touched,
Our eyes have seen.

– by Brendan Kennelly


quite apt as i still haven't sold my hoose!

you can listen to the authors reading of this poem here...

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetrya....do?poemId=206

---

I like that alot Freckle.
My house sold before the For Sale sign went up! 2 days! We are moving up North. Saying goodbye to the hills :-( but hello to the seaside :-)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

I like that alot Freckle.
My house sold before the For Sale sign went up! 2 days! We are moving up North. Saying goodbye to the hills :-( but hello to the seaside :-)

---

Ooooooo the excitement! Anywhere near me missus? If so we could go for a trot together, let me know!

This one's for Freckle xxx

Moving Forward

The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

I like that alot Freckle.
My house sold before the For Sale sign went up! 2 days! We are moving up North. Saying goodbye to the hills :-( but hello to the seaside :-)

---

Great news MG, anywhere near us???

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

Moving Forward

The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

Rainer Maria Rilke

---

Hugs to you MG. I'm sorry to say I missed your post on the controversial health thread and didn't want to add to the mayhem by posting there myself.

I've found the poets thread very helpful in the past. I hope you're ok.

I love this poem; thank you for sharing it.

Stef
xx