Printable View
Well there was I thinking the references to poets, mountains, Eastern men (Derby Tup!) couldn't be anything else but your words. :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
Just goes to show what you can read into a few simple words now doesn't it! ;)
Good evening! Thanks for the comments re Anne Michaels. I have posted a couple of her poems on this here thread already...the good news is that I can now repeat them all again and as she is my favourite...that will be very enjoyable.
She wrote the novel Fugitive Pieces and her latest book is called The Winter Vault. I thoroughly recommend her collections of poems 'The Weight of Oranges', 'Skin Divers' and 'Miners Pond'. I'll just find the text for Ice House. It is brilliant. It is a poem written from the viewpoint of Kathleen Scott, Robert Falcon Scott's widow. I defy you not to cry.
Ice House
"I regret nothing but his suffering."
--Kathleen Scott
Wherever we cry,
it's far from home.
At Sandwich, our son pointed
persistently to sea.
I followed his infant gaze,
expecting a bird or a boat
but there was nothing.
How unnerving,
as if he could see you
on the horizon,
knew where you were
exactly:
at the edge of the world.
You unloaded the ship at Lyttelton
and repacked her:
"thirty-five dogs
five tons of dog food
fifteen ponies
thirty-two tons of pony fodder
three motor-sledges
four hundred and sixty tons of coal
collapsible huts
an acetylene plant
thirty-five thousand cigars
one guinea pig
one fantail pigeon
three rabbits
one cat with its own hammock, blanket and pillow
one hundred and sixty-two carcasses of mutton and
an ice house."
Men returned from war
without faces, with noses lost
discretely as antique statues.
accurately as if eaten by frostbite.
In clay I shaped their
flesh, sometimes
retrieving a likeness
from photographs.
Then the surgeons copied
nose, ears, jaw
with molten wax and metal plates
and horsehair stiches;
with borrowed cartilage,
from the soldiers' own ribs,
leftovers stored under the skin
of the abdomen. I held the men down
until the morphia
slid into them.
I was only sick
afterwards.
Working the clay, I remembered
mornings in Rodin's studio,
his drawfuls of tiny hands and feet,
like a mechanic's tool box.
I imagined my mother in her blindness
before she died, touching my face,
as if she still could
build me with her body,.
At night, in the studio
I took your face in my hands and your fine
arms and long legs, your small waist,
and loved you into stone.
The men returned from France
to Ellerman's Hospital.
Their courage was beautiful.
I understood the work at once:
To use scar tissue to advantage.
To construct through art,
one's face to the world.
Sculpt what's missing.
You reached furthest south,
then you went futher.
In neither of those forsaken places
did you forsake us.
At Lyttelton the hills unrolled,
a Japanese scroll painting;
we opened the landscape with our bare feet.
So much leaned by observation.
We took in brainfuls of New Zealand air
on the blue climb over the falls.
Our last night together we slept
not in the big house but
in the Kinsey's garden.
Belonging only to each other.
Guests of the earth.
Mid sea, a month our of range
of the wireless;
on my way to you. Floating
between landfalls,
between one hemisphere and another.
Between the words
"wife" and "widow."
Newspapers, politicians
scavenged your journals.
But your words
never lost their way.
We mourn in a place no one knows;
it's right that our grief be unseen.
I love you as if you'll return
after years of absence.
As if we'd invented
moonlight.
Still I dream of your arrival.
That is beautiful Hes, thanks for sharing that. Imagine writing and publishing that. Now that IS being open.Quote:
I love you as if you'll return
after years of absence.
As if we'd invented
moonlight.
Cardinal Newman's great Poem of Compassion:
Softly and gently, dearly-ransomed soul,
In my most loving arms I now enfold thee,
And o'er the penal waters, as they roll,
I poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee.
And carefully I dip thee in the lake,
And thou, without a sob or a resistance,
Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take,
Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance.
Angels to whom the willing task is given,
Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as liest;
And Masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven,
Shall aid thee at the Throne of the Most Highest.
Farewell, but not for ever! brother dear,
Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow;
Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here,
And I will come and wake thee on the morrow.
Farewell! Farewell!
Click on this link for the oratio
I mentioned yesterday that I bought a book from a local author from 1923. He wrote some lovely stuff about the Lakes, well it turns out that he didn't just wander round the meadows looking at the daffodils...
I’ve seen the fields at Flanders,
The Somme’s grey chalk ravines,
The glow of burning Ypres,
The mines of red Messines:
I’ve heard the cannon thunder
And the sniper’s bullet wail:
But now it’s all a dream to me -
I’m home at Silverdale.
It’s fine to live in Peace time,
And most of all in Spring,
When thrushes whistle love songs
And plover’s on the wing:
But still I hear the Voices
Of friends in brave ‘Fourteen’
“Remember us: we still live on –
The Spirits of ‘Fourteen.’”
G. Basil Sleigh
It was especially moving as Silverdale is just down the way from me here and is such a beautiful and tranquil place. How different from his other experiences. Fine poetry, and certainly powerful.
Thanks for that XRunner. I've just been reading up on Cardinal Newman after this post and have learnt a lot.Quote:
Originally Posted by XRunner
Good stuff. I can't imagine what it must be like for anyone returning from war and it must be very strange to be in a soothing place of beauty after witnessing so much horror.Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
It was quite a contrast to the start of his book. As far as I have found out it is the only one he published. I must have only looked at the first half of the book in the shop as it is filled with Lakeland scenes,which was the reason for buying it. It was quite a contrast to find such a bleak second half, but none the less rewarding to read. I've had such an easy life.Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Hes, loved the Scott verse. Very moving as you said, especially the blind mother and:
...........Floating
between landfalls,
between one hemisphere and another.
Between the words
"wife" and "widow."
That's the bit that was my undoing...the first time I read it I was snivelling for ages afterwards. Got one for you DT. I finally got Openworld from Amazon. Colleted poems of the Scottish poet Kenneth White.Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Sesshu
After years in China
emptiness achieved
he painted
with the fewest of strokes
the hardness of rocks
the twistedness of roots.
Me too....travel and an open mind make you realise just how lucky you are!Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Wow.....brilliant :cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Watching the news and children in need makes me realise how lucky i am;)Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Round North Again
Going Back Home
1
A blue-grey stillness
where the dark waters flow -
night of the heron.
2
That branch among the fern
was a red stag
sheltering from the rain
3
Why did he return
to that empty island?
bog-cotton in the wind,
4
Storm brewing
the world about to fall apart -
the cormorant's black cackle.
5
A grey shore
and a battered herring-box
Scott of Stornoway.
Kenneth White
Yes, apparently Sesshu was a Japanese painter in the 15th century who was to painting what Basho was to poetry 'effortless skill and an unmixed freshness'Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Gosh Hes...the Scott poem. Jaw dropping. Loads of lines lept out. This in particular.
Men returned from war
without faces, with noses lost
discretely as antique statues.
Are you going to pour another Talisker and treat us to another? Hope so.
Picture a small waif of a child, in an African village, sobbing. It has been a long summer and if the rains don't come soon her poor father will have to sell his only possesions, his goats. The family's only income too. Her sister comes over to her as asks: "I know things are bad sister, but have hope and we shall survive this drout." Her sister looks up at her, eyes red, and replies tearfully: "It's not us I'm worried about, I hear they only get their bins collected once a fortnight in Milton Keynes."Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Superb OW. Hope you find the fells not too soaked!:)Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
Pretty much the same thing MerryLegs - it was just live and interactive.:)Quote:
Originally Posted by merrylegs
You are awful!;)Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Ha ha...just a wee dram left, maybe it is the right time for it! (nevermind the teaching tomorrow...). By the way, really loved your poem from earlier today and also the educational bit about witch's knickers! Excellent.Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
I bet you didn't see that coming! :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Hes
I can't remember where I first heard that, but I thought it made a good point as well as being funny.
One more...she writes really long narrative poems that are incredible but take ages to type so I picked a short one about rain!
Rain makes its own night
Rain makes its own night, long mornings with the lamps left on.
Lean beach grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer's pollen rises from damp metal screens.
This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.
The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
The human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest's gren assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.
From earlier today
The Road to Thirsk
soft focus morning
the damp ghostworld's muted hues
gently waken me
That's really interesting, I wouldn't dare use the line "clothes clinging to chairs" for the fear of alliteration overload, but maybe that's the image she wants to portray; clinging words, clinging clothes.Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
That's an interesting observation...you could be right. There is a lot of 'cl's going on.Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
I bumped into Chris Bonnington in town yesterday. We just said a quick hello, but I'd finally met one of my boyhood heroes.
Kendal Mountain Film
Festival. Puffer jackets
invade the high street.
1st I was going to say something appreciative about the rain poem, because as I read it, the rain has re-started noisily here, giving another dimension.Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
But the Haiku....
surely the finest that has graced this thread? Bloody good whisky softening your focus and muting your hues!
You are far too kind OW but thank you anyway! The whisky is going down well but the measure was a bit too small for my liking.Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
Nice one HHH and how brilliant to meet a hero. I would get all tongue-tied and pink.Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
ohhh noooo, it's 00.45 and I need to get up early again tomorrow. I hope that you both have a good day and if you are running, you have a good one. Goodnight, xx
night nightQuote:
Originally Posted by Hes
x
Good morning all!
My time on the computer is restricted a bit at the minute for various reasons not least becuase weekends are a busy time chez freckle and we have another childrens party to attend to (this time at a lighthouse!!!!!)...so I have had no time to peruse all the lovely offerings being posted...but will later...here's one I like.....
The wrong poem
Brian Patten
In the morning I get up and there is nothing to do
I tell myself it is only temporary
In the afternoons I am bored I dislike what I am
I tell myself it is only temporary
In the evening I meet a woman I no longer care for
I tell myself it is only temporary
At night alone confused I listen to my heart beating
I tell myself it is only temporary
The cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Yeats
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams is a nice line.Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
We ended up with a bit of an orangey theme yesterday, so why not continue?
Oranges
Drowning in the sea
Spilled from the bite,
Such enticing nectar.
The flavor peaks
And I am being consumed
By the tangy waters
So serene,
So soothing,
The flavor hangs pleasantly in my mouth.
If only ever moment was as fresh,
As tangy,
As fruitful
As the first bite.
Evan Skora
vast golden Buddha
glowing in the Eastern sun
grins contentedly
:cool:
Autumn sport
I came,
I saw,
I conkered.
It broke.
Yours became
a twenty-sixer.
Back from the lighthouse to this absolutely wonderful poem, nice one HHH!!!! ....i also really like the last line of the Yeat's poem...and i will be extremely poor soon if I can't curb my poetry book purchases!!!...was feeling sorry for myself this morning and visited my fave shop whereapon a copy of "staying alive" stared me in the face and begged me to buy her...will post a nice poem from this anthology soon....Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
ps HHH I loved your short poem today, a twenty sixer?