24 cans of Strongbow, £10 in Tesco, poetry to my ears and wallet:D
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24 cans of Strongbow, £10 in Tesco, poetry to my ears and wallet:D
Look! This is supposed to be a poetry thread. :mad:
I'm detecting a distinct lack of moroseness. Too ruddy cheerful by half. So let me throw in our Sylvia again - there's always a sting factor somewhere in her verse - even the ones that you think are going to be happy.:confused:
So try this:
Love Letter
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheek of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I saw was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in a dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
Ahhhhhh. Lovely really.
Ha ha!....mossdog if you wanna feel bleak listen to the following from the lady herself!.....discussing her father, the object of her misery and muse for her art.....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6hHjctqSBwM
Han- good to hear the haikus
Merry-good evening! great minds think a like, i posted the same poem as you! hope you are well!
off to contnue wrapping the passy the parcel one (everyone is a winner here so with each layer adding various sweeties....i digress, again!!!)
:) :D :)
ps mossdog i really liked the poem is it from ariel? i don't have my copy handy....
Thanks Freckle, what a great link, especially the final lines..."daddy, daddy, you bastard I'm through".
Eeeeh I feel reet melancholic now. A pail of ice-water over my naturally sunny disposition. ;)
Back now to hear some more.
Forgot to say - Love Letter is from her Collected Poems 1960.
You want dark? You want serious? You want depressing? You want harsh reality? Something one should never ever joke about?
Suicide in the Trenches...
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Obviously, by the great war poet Siegfried Sassoon
thanks han...great poem i love SS he spoke for a great swathe of powerless and forgotten young men, no joke at all.....
Good heavens! is this what you get up to when I've been away. Well it's just started raiining, so feast on this misery!
Gerard Manley Hopkins
Carrion Comfort
NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God
Not a happy fellow your Hopkins. Should have taken up fell running.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, stil bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved,
and now we lie In Flanders fields.
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
in Flanders fields
John McCrae
As we start a new month i'm sure its not all going to be as grim as this:
November By Thomas Hood
No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!
Life is just a bowl of All-bran
You wake up every mornng and it's there.
So live as only you can
It's all about enjoy it
Cos ever since you saw it
There ain't no-one can take it away.
I Am A Runner
(base on the Ewan MacColl song)
I'm a runner, I'm a runner from Manchester way
I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way
I may be a wage slave on Monday
But I am a free man on Sunday
So I run where I will over mountain and hill
and I run where the bracken is deep
I belong to the mountains, the clear-running fountains
Where the grey rocks rise rugged and steep
I've seen the white hare in the gulley
And the curlew fly high over head
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead
Thanks Xrunner for helping to shift the tone. By eck i didn't expect to start such a barrage of gloom last night. Perhaps we need to have the ubiquitous helpline number associated with this thread :D.
Anyway to make amends I found this lovely, lifting poem. Have a great Sunday Formites (and birthday parties for little ones too).
The Tuft of Flowers by Robert Frost
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the leveled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been -- alone,
'As all must be,' I said within my heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.
I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.
The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.
'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
Maybe if Sylvia had done a few more hill reps the endorphines would have cheered her up a bit.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
I quite agree. It's great seeing what new delights have been posted each day. I've read more new poetry this week than all year. Thanks to all for the great postings.Quote:
Originally Posted by Hanneke
I've only discovered Wendy Cope recently, but she is great. I'm happy being boring too!
Here's a bit of John Clare that feels right for today.
The roaring of the woods is like the sea
All thunder and commotion to the shore
The old oaks toss their branches to be free
And urge the fury of the storm the more
Louder then thunder is the sobbing roar
Of leafy billows to their shore, the sky,
Round which the bloodshot clouds like fields of gore
In angry silence did at anchor lie
As if the battle's roar was not yet bye
Too true. And if she'd tucked into a stash of jelly babies for that sugar high.:)Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Oh what she might have been for a pair of inov-8s and sup of lucozade sport.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Not always nice to contemplate, but should never be forgotten.Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
The soldiers at Lauro
Young are our dead
Like babies they lie
The wombs they blest once
Not healed dry
And yet - too soon
Into each space
A cold earth falls
On colder face.
Quite still they lie
These fresh-cut reeds
Clutched in earth
Like winter seeds
But they will not bloom
When called by spring
To burst with leaf
And blossoming
They sleep on
In silent dust
As crosses rot
And helmets rust.
Spike Milligan
Couple of haiku inspired by this morning's stormy run:
Calderdale leg four
Hard work in November rain
"Fish and chips please!"
Heptonstall churchyard
Passed on Sunday recce run
Didn't see Plath grave
Stoodley Pike in wind and rain
Blown sideways and struggling to get up
At least there's a Guinness waiting for me in t'pub
Japanese wi a Yorkshire accent;)
hi all, some great poems posted in past 24hours...i am exhausted today hence the low profile...bit of a shabby effort today in gibside fruit bowl this morn but i did meet a forumite who was even more lovely in person than on this here thread which made it worth all the effort!!!!....one children's party later including musical statues and the anihilation of a panita by 8 sugar high six year olds and I am just about a gonner!....but not to done in to post a poem that i really like...it is dark but brilliant....(hope to post some haiku tomorrow when i have had some rest!)
O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
william blake
like :cool: a lot:cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by merrylegs
Evening DT. I think I'll complete my training diary in haiku from now on too.Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Scout Scar loop ten mile
Seventy five minutes flat
Gale blowing hard
Off the pike with a single bound,
Think like Kenny descend fast,
You will be the one.
:cool: I like the sound of that!Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Love it! :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
It was your choice of poem, with Freckle's comment of "Sweeeeeet" that set me off!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
It was so apt for me cos I loves my jelly babies! ;)Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Jelly Babies, hope you never grow old,
Cos then you'll be Jellyatrics,
Then again there's always Haribo:cool:
A haiku by Gyotai perfect for today's inclement weather.
Fallen leaves
fall on each other -
rain beats on rain
todays race
Sidelong leaf and rain
Soft wet ground with steep incline
mudclaw1 Nike nil
Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
That's great OW, hope you had a good one. My mudclaws have been sat on a shelf today due to work, Sunday didn't feel right at all.
Cow and Calf sunrise
Golden orb on horizon
Low in bruised sky
:)
The Race
by D. H. Groberg
"Quit, give up, you're beaten" they shout at you and plead,
"There's just too much against you, this time you can't succeed".
Whenever I start to hang my head in front of failure’s face,
my downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
A children’s race, young boys, young men; how I remember well,
excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn’t hard to tell.
They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race
or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son,
and each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.
The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire,
to win, to be the hero there, was each young boy’s desire.
One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,
was running in the lead and thought “My dad will be so proud.”
But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip,
the little boy who thought he’d win, lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace,
and midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn’t win it now.
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.
But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,
which to the boy so clearly said, “Get up and win that race!”
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all,
and ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
his mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
“I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.”
But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face
with a steady look that said again, “Get up and win that race!”
So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last.
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought, “I’ve got to run real fast!”
Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten...
but trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye.
“There’s no sense running anymore! Three strikes I’m out! Why try?
I’ve lost, so what’s the use?” he thought. “I’ll live with my disgrace.”
But then he thought about his dad, who soon he’d have to face.
“Get up,” an echo sounded low, “you haven’t lost at all,
for all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
Get up!” the echo urged him on, “Get up and take your place!
You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!”
So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit,
and he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.
Three times he’d fallen stumbling, three times he rose again.
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.
They cheered another boy who crossed the line and won first place,
head high and proud and happy -- no falling, no disgrace.
But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line, in last place,
the crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.
And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud,
you would have thought he’d won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, “I didn’t do so well.”
“To me, you won,” his father said. “You rose each time you fell.”
And now when things seem dark and bleak and difficult to face,
the memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
And when depression and despair shout loudly in my face,
another voice within me says, “Get up and win that race!”
(click on the title for the full version)
Blimey! There's more. That one's definitely an AL.Quote:
Originally Posted by XRunner
My favourite of the three. :)Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
The Bob Graham Round
A classic Lakeland round of 42 questions, to be completed in less than 24 hours.
Am I really ready for this?Where are my pacers?Did I start my stopwatch?How can we be lost when we’re still on the streets of Keswick?What do you mean you don’t recognise this summit?Does it matter that there’s a bubble in my compass?Shouldn’t it feel harder than this?Isn’t that just the finest sunrise you’ve ever seen?Why don’t you just sod off with your incessant offerings of jelly babies?Is going the other way round any easier?What the **** do you mean we’ve gone wrong?Would my feet feel better if I ran in socks?Couldn’t they design bananas that are easier to open?Why don’t I remember this path?Could I walk the rest of the way and still get round in time?What led me to believe that this would ever be a good idea?Do you think I care you’ve spotted a flipping Kestrel?Why couldn’t it be cooler?Why couldn’t it be warmer?Is that sheep laughing at me?Why didn’t I do more training miles?How on earth did Billy do this in 14 hours?Why do I feel stronger again?Why couldn’t that feeling have lasted for more than 5 minutes?Are you sure you’re taking me on the right route?Can you do my shoelace up please as I can’t reach it?Where am I against the schedule?Why didn’t I reccy this section just once more when I had the chance?How come the sun set so quickly?Why didn’t I choose the longest day?Why have my pacers all got better head torches than me?When will the wind ever be on my back?Why can’t I pick my bloody feet up?Would it really matter if I just lay down here for a bit?Why are my pacers running too fast?Can I just die here quietly please?Will walking backwards help?Who would know if you just pushed me up this little bit?How much time have I got?Are they the lights of Keswick?Why have they moved Moot Hall further up the hill?Did I ever doubt I would do it?
Evening all....
X Runner...thank you for posting that poem, I think you may have read my mind, i am going to read it several times before I attempt a fell run this sunday :eek:....
HHH- Wow the bob graham poem was great! i particularly liked the line "Why can't I pick up my bloody feet".....
I acquired 2 beautiful books today, 2 little hardback books in the everyman library pocket poets series one on "the four seasons" and the other Yeats....HHH you were asking about non sickly sweet poems about babies, I hope you like this one...I did
A Cradle Song
The angels are stooping
Above your bed;
They weary of trooping
With the whimpering dead.
God's laughing in Heaven
To see you so good;
The Sailing Seven
Are gay with his mood.
I sigh that kiss you,
For I must own
That I shall miss you
When you have grown.
more from me laters :)
November Night
Listen.
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
Adelaide Crapsey
Lovely stuff. I was wondering who the Sailing Seven were and found this...Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
In this delightful poem, which expresses the affection of God and the Cosmos for a small infant, Yeats is refering to the Pleiades, also known as M45, the Seven Sisters, SED, or Subaru. It's an open cluster in the constellation Taurus that actually has nine named stars in it. The Pleiades were nymphs, the seven daughters of the Titan Atlas and the sea nymph Pleione -- their group name is derived from their mother's name. The cluster is visible in the Mediterranean at night during the summer from mid-May to early November, which was the sailing season in antiquity -- thus they are known as "The Sailing Seven".
I will never look at a Subaru on the M45 again in quite the same way! :)
Sorry for spoiling the mood ;)