Maybe the 'stars' are the sparkles that the ice makes as opposed to celestial stars? That would explain why they are blue too. I'm not sure.
Originally Posted by Alf
Maybe the 'stars' are the sparkles that the ice makes as opposed to celestial stars? That would explain why they are blue too. I'm not sure.
'The birds are the keepers of our secrets'
Yep that works as well :thumbup:
No country for old men.
This Living Hand
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed - see here it is -
I hold it towards you.
John Keats
No country for old men.
Winter Conversation
I listen to you explain the difference
between a right brain thought and a left.
I am distracted by the smell
of cold on your face.
I lick it away like a child
with an ice cream cone
sticky fingers and sweet tongue.
Aware that I have been here before
I pause in your words.
I have slept in this flesh,
dreamed these winter bones.
Waking in the darkness between us
I hear frost sweeping the porch,
edging toward the morning.
I reach for your hand.
What, you whisper, voice hoarse with dream.
My lips, swollen with you, cold,
are silent.
Joyce Wakefield
No country for old men.
Have to say that my first reaction to this was "Yuk. Gross. What a weirdo!" Almost a curse. However, having reflected on my repulsion I decided to do some research and came up with this interpretation.
"The relationship of the writer and reader to endings is a major theme in Keats' "This living hand, now warm and capable." Ends are often viewed as final, like death, but a poetic work is a beginning for a reader; and only that final death for the poet. In John Keats' poem "This living hand, now warm and capable" Keats is contemplating on the integral part of literature, the relation of the writer and reader to a piece of literature and to each other. For a writer, the finishing of a piece is likened to death, death of the piece and the writer writing that particular piece. For the reader, the end of a piece of literature is the beginning, the beginning of their interpretation and thought. And the relationship between the writer and reader is the basis of literatures appeal: the grasping for expression and understanding. After all, what is a piece of literature without the reader, writer, and the dynamic they create? In discussing these connections I try to show how Keats works to defy death, defy the reader, and yet still attempts to make the connection between reader and writer, but fails, and what's more knows it."
Quite brilliant if seen through that perceptive. I expect he'll go far that Keats fellah
Wonder if the rather sombre choices recently of the thread reflects the approaching end of this year. If so, hurry up Spring :wink:
Am Yisrael Chai
Wondeful Alf. And like the way you manage to squeeze in another hand reference too!
Am Yisrael Chai
It reminds me of his sonnet "When I have fears" when he also contemplated his own death. The TB must have concentrated his mind a lot I suppose.Have to say that my first reaction to this was "Yuk. Gross. What a weirdo!" Almost a curse. However, having reflected on my repulsion I decided to do some research and came up with this interpretation.
"The relationship of the writer and reader to endings is a major theme in Keats' "This living hand, now warm and capable." Ends are often viewed as final, like death, but a poetic work is a beginning for a reader; and only that final death for the poet. In John Keats' poem "This living hand, now warm and capable" Keats is contemplating on the integral part of literature, the relation of the writer and reader to a piece of literature and to each other. For a writer, the finishing of a piece is likened to death, death of the piece and the writer writing that particular piece. For the reader, the end of a piece of literature is the beginning, the beginning of their interpretation and thought. And the relationship between the writer and reader is the basis of literatures appeal: the grasping for expression and understanding. After all, what is a piece of literature without the reader, writer, and the dynamic they create? In discussing these connections I try to show how Keats works to defy death, defy the reader, and yet still attempts to make the connection between reader and writer, but fails, and what's more knows it."
Quite brilliant if seen through that perceptive. I expect he'll go far that Keats fellah
Wonder if the rather sombre choices recently of the thread reflects the approaching end of this year. If so, hurry up Spring :wink:
When I Have Fears
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
John Keats
No country for old men.
this is a really interesting, enigmatic choice i really enjoyed reading it and keep returning to it to ponder, which for me is a sign of a very good poem!
Mossy I love your thoughtful responses to contributions and was interested in your comment about the sombre tone of recent posts. I wonder if the latter is the poetry thread's juxtaxposition to the enforced jolliness that is around at xmas which infact can be a time of great mixed feelings...that said i am beginning to look forward to the break now as it draws nearer! ...my brains is feeling somewhat numbed by a night of doing travel expenses ;-) looking forward to browsing some poetry and posting soon ...perhaps something more springlike who knows? :-)
Last edited by freckle; 20-12-2012 at 12:46 AM.
and we run because we like it through the broad bright land
26 browsers of this thread as I type and only 1 member...cool....
well its the start of my hols (get-in! as we say up north) and whilst I am not quite in the party spirit yet (think eons of xmas shopping still to do and a distinct lack of sherry in the house) I am gearing up...wonder if I could do this as my party piece? think it might get difficult after a few jars.. ah well..bottoms up!
My party piece:
Simon Armitage
I strike, then from the moment when the matchstick
conjures up its light, to when the brightness moves
beyond its means, and dies, I say the story
of my life -
dates and places, torches I carried,
a cast of names and faces, those
who showed me love, or came close,
the changes I made, the lessons I learnt -
then somehow still find time to stall and blush
before I'm bitten by the flame, and burnt.
A warning, though, to anyone nursing
an ounce of sadness, anyone alone:
don't try this on your own; it's dangerous,
madness.
and we run because we like it through the broad bright land
another one from Armitage's book of Matches, posted before but so spine-tinglingly romantic I thought I'd offer it again...think it was written for and about his wife....love the last stanza..has a gentleness to it that you can almost touch
where's the mistletoe?
---------------------
“Let me put it this way:
if you came to lay
your sleeping head
against my arm or sleeve,
and if my arm went dead,
or if I had to take my leave
at midnight, I should rather
cleave it from the joint or seam
than make a scene
or bring you round.
There,
how does that sound?”
and we run because we like it through the broad bright land
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