Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Respair” by Craig van Rooyen



'Every six minutes another word is dropped from the lexicon.'

Who says there’s no use anymore for woolfell,
the skin of a sheep still attached to the fleece?

And when did we stop calling tomatoes love apples?
I need somewhere in the world for there still to be

a fishwife who understands the economy of flesh
grown taut under shimmer-skin laid out in open air.

Call me a sentimental fool, or better yet a mooncalf,
but I already miss the ten words that went extinct

in the last hour—before I learned their names
or tried to say something smart to make you love me.

Piepowder, drysalter, slugabed, forgotten
like the names of the enlisted in the army of Alexander the Great.

And where have they gone? Gathered on shrinking ice
with other victims of our inattention, floating out into a rising sea?

Like the last day my grandfather remembered my mother’s name.
So don’t mind me in the bathtub on my hands and knees

trying to keep my grandpa’s mind, a polar bear,
and the word poltroon from spinning down the drain.

It’s been left to me to save everything by remembering.
Before the cock crowed, Peter thrice denied Christ, and

twenty words marched off into the dark, never to be uttered again.
Fortunately, that night, we retained dumbass and forgiven,

two words it would be hard to live without these days.
And if I could, I’d turn myself inside out to resurrect

respair, that forgotten Emmaus Road word for
the return of hope after a long period of desolation.

[Llani Boy]

Thanks Mossdog.

Every day a school day

[Alf]

The Rainbow

I saw the lovely arch
Of Rainbow span the sky,
The gold sun burning
As the rain swept by.

In bright-ringed solitude
The showery foliage shone
One lovely moment,
And the Bow was gone.


Walter de la Mare

[Mossdog]

Banks of Cree


Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid.

'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear;
So calls the woodlark in the grove
His little, faithful Mate to chear,
At once 'tis music - and 'tis love.

And art thou come! and art thou true!
O welcome dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew
Along the flowery banks of Cree.

Robert Burns.

(In mind of Old Whippet and Freckle)

[freckle]

Thank you Mossdog, how lovely - it’s been a long time since I visited this thread - I hope you are keeping well

[freckle]

For Old Whippet

The Good-Morrow
BY JOHN DONNE

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

[Mossdog]

In condolence to Posie Parker's brave attempt to stand up for all women.

THE CURSE OF CROMWELL

WB YEATS


You ask what - I have found, and far and wide I go:
Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew,
The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen, where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride - -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified.
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,
But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is on.
He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount,
And we and all the Muses are things of no account.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their schooling by,
What can they know that we know that know the time to die?
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys,
As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's
Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;
That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep company,
Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,
That I am still their setvant though all are underground.
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
And all my friends were there and made me welcome too;
But I woke in an old ruin that the winds howled through;
And when I pay attention I must out and walk
Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.
O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

https://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/re...ae9cd3b5f9ab93

[Mossdog]

As relevant today as then, and the issue of freedom of speech, perhaps?

[B]The Curse Of Cromwell[/B
]
by William Butler Yeats

You ask what -- I have found, and far and wide I go:
Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's mur-
derous crew,
The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen,
where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride -- -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was
crucified.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)

All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,
But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is
on.
He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount,
And we and all the Muses are things of no account.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their
schooling by,
What can they know that we know that know the
time to die?
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)

But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys,
As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's
Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;
That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep com-
pany,
Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,
That I am still their setvant though all are under-
ground.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
And all my friends were there and made me welcome
too;
But I woke in an old ruin that the winds. howled
through;
And when I pay attention I must out and walk
Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)

[Mossdog]

The Curse Of Cromwell
by William Butler Yeats

You ask what -- I have found, and far and wide I go:
Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's mur-
derous crew,
The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen,
where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride -- -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was
crucified.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)

All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,
But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is
on.
He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount,
And we and all the Muses are things of no account.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their
schooling by,
What can they know that we know that know the
time to die?
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)

But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys,
As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's
Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;
That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep com-
pany,
Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,
That I am still their setvant though all are under-
ground.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)
I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
And all my friends were there and made me welcome
too;
But I woke in an old ruin that the winds. howled
through;
And when I pay attention I must out and walk
Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.
i(O what of that, O what of that,)
i(What is there left to say?)

Oddly, this post, or a simialr one, referring to how this poem could be related to 'free speech' today was cancelled with a briefly, too fast to read, message stating "Thank you for posting. Your post will not be visible until a moderatorhas approved it for posting. You will now be allowed back to the forum. If you opted to post a poll, you will now be allowed to do so. You will now be directedback to the forum"

Poetry is perhaps deemed subversive in New Britain... (or maybe just Yeats!)

[Llani Boy]

Doesn't do anything for me, even third time round