Today's poet

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Stef F

Thanks Steve. It's good to miss special folks now and then I think, even if it does feel a little sad.

---

Wow! some great poems posted tonight :cool: Well done Stef, I loved your poem about your Gran.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Wow! some great poems posted tonight :cool: Well done Stef, I loved your poem about your Gran.

---

Aww thanks Alf. I too am enjoying the latest batch of poems :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

I read this poem on here the other night Alf and I loved it but was too tired to log in and say so, so I'm saying it now!:) I especially like the verse that you highlighted. We are in the midst of Masham Arts Festival here and on thursday it is poems and a pint night. I am going to take some of my favourite poems to read but am wondering if I have enough courage to read out one of my own (maybe I can say it was by a 'friend'). :)

---

"poems and a pint night" sounds very civilized to me Hes :thumbup: Definitely read your own!

I enjoyed the Carol Ann Duffy poem that freckle posted so here is another.



Demeter

Where I lived—winter and hard earth.
I sat in my cold stone room
choosing tough words, granite, flint,

to break the ice. My broken heart—
I tried that, but it skimmed,
flat, over the frozen lake.

She came from a long, long way,
but I saw her at last, walking,
my daughter, my girl, across the fields,

in bare feet, bringing all spring’s flowers
to her mother’s house. I swear
the air softened and warmed as she moved,

the blue sky smiling, none too soon,
with the small shy mouth of a new moon.


Carol Ann Duffy

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

"poems and a pint night" sounds very civilized to me Hes :thumbup: Definitely read your own!

---

Hear hear....go Hes go :thumbup:

Cheers NB, Alf and Freckle. The problem is, I have reread all my poems and, ironically, they seem too personal to read out loud (despite the fact that I've posted many here) and they also seem to be not very well put together:o, but, I will try and give it a go. thanks for the encouragement.:)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Nee Bother

Hear hear....go Hes go :thumbup:

---

Wow! I love this! I don't think I've read it before and I have a real fondness for the Persephone myth.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

I enjoyed the Carol Ann Duffy poem that freckle posted so here is another.



Demeter

Where I lived—winter and hard earth.
I sat in my cold stone room
choosing tough words, granite, flint,

to break the ice. My broken heart—
I tried that, but it skimmed,
flat, over the frozen lake.

She came from a long, long way,
but I saw her at last, walking,
my daughter, my girl, across the fields,

in bare feet, bringing all spring’s flowers
to her mother’s house. I swear
the air softened and warmed as she moved,

the blue sky smiling, none too soon,
with the small shy mouth of a new moon.


Carol Ann Duffy

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Stef F

I've enjoyed these latest poems; thanks Steve, Freckle and Alf.

Something in them reminded me of my late grandmother, so with nothing much better to do I've written a poem about her:

Granny

My grandmother ran her own nursing home
Raised three daughters to standards these days unknown
She was as strict as she was kind
Bright and stubborn; she knew her own mind

My grandfather, a soldier, fond of the dawn
Taken by cancer, before I was born
He could not be saved, so there it ended,
A loss so deep that could never be mended

She’d come to visit, travelling by train
And when we were in Cyprus she’d take the plane
That’s how I remember her, when I was small
Chatting away about everything or nothing at all!

She’d paint landscapes in watercolour and oil,
Rocks and water and skies on the boil
One of these I treasure with pride
Aphrodite’s rocks, lapped by the tide

She lived alone for many years
With a small spaniel named Suzie who had big floppy ears;
Silky black and white, Suzie loved to be touched
She was spoilt just a little, but never too much

When the fairies took Granny, we didn’t notice the deceit
A nibble of chocolate, a sip of ribena, neat;
She had a sweet tooth, and was sometimes merry
We’d tease her and ask if she’d been on the sherry

She said she’d been to the moon, didn’t you know?
It really is a marvellous place you should go!
She’s travelled the world; to the most far flung places
Met the Pope too; lots of famous names and faces

Fascinating broadcasts by the BBC
Volcanoes, icebergs; the documentary
Holiday programmes, those long haul flights
Master Chef, such culinary delights

A mind full of golden memories unreal
That really wasn’t part of the deal
Does it matter? Did she realise?
What she thought was real; she’d seen through others eyes?

It left her confused, not knowing her daughters
Reduced to a child and lacking in orders
She asked for Thomas; her love that had died
And in the end,they were reconciled

---

I really enjoyed reading your poem Stef, and i think what particularly flowed from each verse, for me, was the warming thought of you too bringing your memories alive by the very act of composing it. Thank you.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

where is this kind of love to be found?.....within or outwith? or in-between?...........


Atlas
U.A.Fanthorpe

There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it.

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes; which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living, which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.

---

WOW! What an interesting poem Freckle. Really got me thinking.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Cheers NB, Alf and Freckle. The problem is, I have reread all my poems and, ironically, they seem too personal to read out loud (despite the fact that I've posted many here) and they also seem to be not very well put together:o, but, I will try and give it a go. thanks for the encouragement.:)

---

Go for it Hes, your your own worst critic, everyone on here likes them, Good Luck:thumbup:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

I read this poem on here the other night Alf and I loved it but was too tired to log in and say so, so I'm saying it now!:) I especially like the verse that you highlighted. We are in the midst of Masham Arts Festival here and on thursday it is poems and a pint night. I am going to take some of my favourite poems to read but am wondering if I have enough courage to read out one of my own (maybe I can say it was by a 'friend'). :)

---

Yes! Go for it Hes - you really do have some really excellently written verse, bursting with talent.

Its been really lively on the thread lately...lovin it!

Love
Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills.
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.
Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

I enjoyed the Carol Ann Duffy poem that freckle posted so here is another.



Demeter

Where I lived—winter and hard earth.
I sat in my cold stone room
choosing tough words, granite, flint,

to break the ice. My broken heart—
I tried that, but it skimmed,
flat, over the frozen lake.

She came from a long, long way,
but I saw her at last, walking,
my daughter, my girl, across the fields,

in bare feet, bringing all spring’s flowers
to her mother’s house. I swear
the air softened and warmed as she moved,

the blue sky smiling, none too soon,
with the small shy mouth of a new moon.


Carol Ann Duffy

---

Beautiful choice Alf brought a tear to my eye!

but the other

but the other
day i was passing a certain
gate rain
fell as it will


in spring
ropes
of silver gliding from sunny
thunder into freshness


as if god's flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold i looked
up


and
thought to myself death
and will You with
elaborate fingers possibly touch


the pink hollyhock existence whose
pansy eyes look from morning till
night into the street
unchangingly the always


old lady sitting in her
gentle window like
a reminiscence
partaken


softly at whose gate smile
always the chosen
flowers of reminding

ee cummings

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Its been really lively on the thread lately...lovin it!

Love
Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills.
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.
Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

---

Excellent choice freckle. A new poet for me!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

but the other

but the other
day i was passing a certain
gate rain
fell as it will


in spring
ropes
of silver gliding from sunny
thunder into freshness


as if god's flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold i looked
up


and
thought to myself death
and will You with
elaborate fingers possibly touch


the pink hollyhock existence whose
pansy eyes look from morning till
night into the street
unchangingly the always


old lady sitting in her
gentle window like
a reminiscence
partaken


softly at whose gate smile
always the chosen
flowers of reminding

ee cummings

---

"ropes of silver" :cool: nice selection Mossy!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Beautiful choice Alf brought a tear to my eye!

---

The title sort of gives it away but you can read it other ways as well which is, after all, what makes a good poem :D

White-Eyes


In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—

which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.


Mary Oliver

I can't focus on tonight's poetry. I'll try again tomorrow. :o

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

White-Eyes


In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—

which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.


Mary Oliver

---

That's such a very beautiful poem. What lovely imagery. Cheers Alf.

i really enjoyed the mary oliver poem alf...quite ethereal images...lovely well i am very sleepy after entertaining a band of little (halloween) monsters today...longing for my bed! i like the story like feel to this verse... Nocturne
Wayne Miller
Tonight all the leaves are paper spoons in a broth of wind. Last weekthey made a darker sky below the sky. The houses have swallowed their colors, and each car moves in the blind sack of its sound like the slipping of water. Flowing means falling very slowly the river passing under the tracks, the tracks then buried beneath the road. When a knocking came in the night, I rose violently toward my reflection hovering beneath this world. And then the fluorescent kitchen in the window like a page I was reading a face coming into focus behind it: my neighbor locked out of his own party,looking for a phone. I gave him a beer and the lit pad of numbers through which he disappeared; I found I was alone with the voices that bloomed as he opened the door. It's timeto slip my body beneath the covers, let it fall down the increments of shale, let the wind consume every spoon. My voice unhinging itself from light,my voice landing in its cradle How terrifying a payphone ishanging at the end of its cord. Which is not to be confused with sleep sleep gives the body back its mouth.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

i really enjoyed the mary oliver poem alf...quite ethereal images...lovely well i am very sleepy after entertaining a band of little (halloween) monsters today...longing for my bed! i like the story like feel to this verse... Nocturne
Wayne Miller
Tonight all the leaves are paper spoons in a broth of wind. Last weekthey made a darker sky below the sky. The houses have swallowed their colors, and each car moves in the blind sack of its sound like the slipping of water. Flowing means falling very slowly the river passing under the tracks, the tracks then buried beneath the road. When a knocking came in the night, I rose violently toward my reflection hovering beneath this world. And then the fluorescent kitchen in the window like a page I was reading a face coming into focus behind it: my neighbor locked out of his own party,looking for a phone. I gave him a beer and the lit pad of numbers through which he disappeared; I found I was alone with the voices that bloomed as he opened the door. It's timeto slip my body beneath the covers, let it fall down the increments of shale, let the wind consume every spoon. My voice unhinging itself from light,my voice landing in its cradle How terrifying a payphone ishanging at the end of its cord. Which is not to be confused with sleep sleep gives the body back its mouth.

---

I enjoyed that freckle and I hope you are fully recovered from the "monsters" :D

Congratulations to Michael D Higgins on his presidency. A poet as president :cool: :thumbup:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ko2DXuP_2EM

I have enjoyed catching up with some of the poems posted on here recently.

I fear this poem will come among you as a troll amidst the beauty and truth of recent posts, but here goes. Tim Turnbull cares about beauty and truth even so.

Ode on a Grayson Perry Urn by Tim Turnbull

Hello! What's all this here? A kitschy vase
some Shirley Temple manqué has knocked out
delineating tales of kids in cars
on crap estates, the Burberry clad louts
who flail their motors through the smoky night
from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough,
creating bedlam on the Queen's highway.
Your gaudy evoction can, somehow,
conjure the scene without inducing fright,
as would a Daily Express exposé,

can bring to mind the throaty turbo roar
of hatchbacks tuned almost to breaking point,
the joyful throb of UK garage or
of house imported from the continent
and yet educe a sense of peace, of calm -
the screech of tyres and the nervous squeals
of girls, too young to quite appreciate
the peril they are in, are heard, but these wheels
will not lose traction, skid and flip, no harm
befall these children. They will stay out late

forever, pumped on youth and ecstasy,
on alloy, bass and arrogance, and speed
the back lanes, the urban gyratory,
the wide motorways, never having need
to race back home, for work next day, to bed.
Each girl is buff, each geezer toned and strong,
charged with pulsing juice which, even yet,
fills every pair of Calvins and each thong,
never to be deflated, given head
in crude games of chlamydia roulette.

Now see who comes to line the sparse grass verge,
to test them in Buckfast and Diamond White:
rat-boys and corn-rowed cheerleaders who urge
them on to pull more burn-outs or to write
their donut Os, as signature, upon
the bleached tarmac of dead suburban streets.
There dogs set up a row and curtains twitch
as pensioners and parents telephone
the cops to plead for quiet, sue for peace -
tranquility, though, is for the rich.

And so, millenia hence, you garish crock,
when all context is lost, galleries razed
to level dust and we're long in the box,
will future poets look on you amazed,
speculate how children might have lived when
you were fired, lives so free and bountiful
and there, beneath a sun a little colder,
declare How happy were those creatures then,
who knew the truth was all negotiable
and beauty in the gift of the beholder.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Stevie

I have enjoyed catching up with some of the poems posted on here recently.

I fear this poem will come among you as a troll amidst the beauty and truth of recent posts, but here goes. Tim Turnbull cares about beauty and truth even so.

Ode on a Grayson Perry Urn by Tim Turnbull

Hello! What's all this here? A kitschy vase
some Shirley Temple manqué has knocked out
delineating tales of kids in cars
on crap estates, the Burberry clad louts
who flail their motors through the smoky night
from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough,
creating bedlam on the Queen's highway.
Your gaudy evoction can, somehow,
conjure the scene without inducing fright,
as would a Daily Express exposé,

can bring to mind the throaty turbo roar
of hatchbacks tuned almost to breaking point,
the joyful throb of UK garage or
of house imported from the continent
and yet educe a sense of peace, of calm -
the screech of tyres and the nervous squeals
of girls, too young to quite appreciate
the peril they are in, are heard, but these wheels
will not lose traction, skid and flip, no harm
befall these children. They will stay out late

forever, pumped on youth and ecstasy,
on alloy, bass and arrogance, and speed
the back lanes, the urban gyratory,
the wide motorways, never having need
to race back home, for work next day, to bed.
Each girl is buff, each geezer toned and strong,
charged with pulsing juice which, even yet,
fills every pair of Calvins and each thong,
never to be deflated, given head
in crude games of chlamydia roulette.

Now see who comes to line the sparse grass verge,
to test them in Buckfast and Diamond White:
rat-boys and corn-rowed cheerleaders who urge
them on to pull more burn-outs or to write
their donut Os, as signature, upon
the bleached tarmac of dead suburban streets.
There dogs set up a row and curtains twitch
as pensioners and parents telephone
the cops to plead for quiet, sue for peace -
tranquility, though, is for the rich.

And so, millenia hence, you garish crock,
when all context is lost, galleries razed
to level dust and we're long in the box,
will future poets look on you amazed,
speculate how children might have lived when
you were fired, lives so free and bountiful
and there, beneath a sun a little colder,
declare How happy were those creatures then,
who knew the truth was all negotiable
and beauty in the gift of the beholder.

---

Very good that Stevie :cool: and 5 verses and 50 lines in all just the same as the original :D

Selecting a Reader

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.


Ted Kooser

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Selecting a Reader

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.


Ted Kooser

---

thats funny alf made me chuckle! :wink:

The Freedom of the Moon
Robert Frost

I’ve tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I’ve tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first water-star almost as shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later
I’ve pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

BEING
Don Paterson

Silent comrade of the distances,
Know that space dilates with your own breath;
ring out, as a bell into the Earth
from the dark rafters of its own high place-
then watch what feeds on you grow strong again.
learn the transformations through and through:
what in your life has most tormented you?
If the water's sour, turn it into wine.
Our senses cannot fathom this night, so
Be the meaning of their strange encounter;
at their crossing, be the radiant centre.
And should the world itself forget your name
Say this to the still earth: I flow.
Say this to the quick stream: I am.

Alf and Freckle...great choices!!! Will read and savour again as soon as I have a bit more time. :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

but the other

but the other
day i was passing a certain
gate rain
fell as it will


in spring
ropes
of silver gliding from sunny
thunder into freshness


as if god's flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold i looked
up


and
thought to myself death
and will You with
elaborate fingers possibly touch


the pink hollyhock existence whose
pansy eyes look from morning till
night into the street
unchangingly the always


old lady sitting in her
gentle window like
a reminiscence
partaken


softly at whose gate smile
always the chosen
flowers of reminding

ee cummings

---

I loved this poem but didn't understand how death came to be in it. It seemed to me to be so very much about life. So after some head scratching and several readings, I resorted to google. I found this:

'For those deterred by verbosity, the meaning of Cummings' poems is generally the same as the meaning of sunsets and rainbows. They don't mean, they just are'

So, note to self - not all things have to be understood to be accepted and enjoyed!

I love the last part of your post Stef and it is very similar to something I wrote in response to a storyteller who asked the audience to write down what they thought women wanted. An interesting and provocative question. She read out some of the answers and I really liked 'an orchard':) I put 'to be accepted and loved - warts and all'.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Stef F

I loved this poem but didn't understand how death came to be in it. It seemed to me to be so very much about life. So after some head scratching and several readings, I resorted to google. I found this:

'For those deterred by verbosity, the meaning of Cummings' poems is generally the same as the meaning of sunsets and rainbows. They don't mean, they just are'

So, note to self - not all things have to be understood to be accepted and enjoyed!

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Stef F

I loved this poem but didn't understand how death came to be in it. It seemed to me to be so very much about life. So after some head scratching and several readings, I resorted to google. I found this:

'For those deterred by verbosity, the meaning of Cummings' poems is generally the same as the meaning of sunsets and rainbows. They don't mean, they just are'

So, note to self - not all things have to be understood to be accepted and enjoyed!

---

Really pleased you enjoyed this poem too Stef, and if you can just imbibe his words, try reading some of his adult nursery rhymes - some wonderful word play (oh and they're not 'adult' as in ...er...'adult!!! :wink:)

birthday

and so it goes
he made the moon and the stars
and the brightest of them all
was a pale sliver of ore
by the name
of you

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

birthday

and so it goes
he made the moon and the stars
and the brightest of them all
was a pale sliver of ore
by the name
of you

---

Lovely that freckle. Which of the kids has a birthday ?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Lovely that freckle. Which of the kids has a birthday ?

---

Agree Alf..............Hopefully they all have a birthday;)

Sorry, couldn't resist, in a playfull mood tonight.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

The Freedom of the Moon
Robert Frost

I’ve tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I’ve tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first water-star almost as shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later
I’ve pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

---

Thats lush! You can't beat a bit of Robert Frost :cool:

(I bought one of those Robert Frost Sat Navs the other day it always chooses the road less travelled by .....groooaaaaannn!)

Introduction to Poetry


I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Billy Collins

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Lovely that freckle. Which of the kids has a birthday ?

---

The lovely veggie (and slightly anaemic)......older one!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Thats lush! You can't beat a bit of Robert Frost :cool:

(I bought one of those Robert Frost Sat Navs the other day it always chooses the road less travelled by .....groooaaaaannn!)

---

He he he !