Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Death of Man.

Steel mills torn,
Down desolate east,
End broken town of,
Filth and noise to,
Be replaced by a,
Shopping mall somewhere,
To spend your,
Benefits instead of,
Booze just morally,
Bankrupt consumerism,
Turns the working,
Man into a red eyed,
Ghost ground down,
Pride forgot he finds,
His lifes meaning,
In daytime chat,
Shows laughing at,
The blue mouthed puppets,
As he waits around,
For impending death.

By Herakles

Spot on Herkie, but I wish it was otherwise too. Maybe it's time for another 'Hope' poem?

[freckle]

Agree wholeheartedly with that Mossdog and Herakles.

W.B. Yeats once movingly said he had no house but friendship.

Back to Patrick Kavanagh:

Innocence

They laughed at one I loved-
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love's doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.
Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?

I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women,
Nothing of cities,
I cannot die
Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

This is really lovely, thanks all for your concern, i was touched, I am fine now was just "emoting".....I love this poem Alf, I love the idea of "not knowing what age I am"

[Mossdog]

I'm sure this has had at least one other posting before, but what the heck, it is very special.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

John Keats

[Nathaniel Lee]

But Keats doesn't answer the question of how much does a grecian urn ?.

[Alf]

I'm sure this has had at least one other posting before, but what the heck, it is very special.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearièd,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

John Keats

Brilliant Mossdog, everything comes to he/she who waits
Now if someone would just post 'La Belle Dame sans Merci'

[Derby Tup]

large flock of Curlew
migrating inland en masse
winter fades to spring

[Mossdog]

large flock of Curlew
migrating inland en masse
winter fades to spring

Nice imagery DT, but I think they're in for a rude awakening if they try to grab little territories just yet - we've March to contend with, and I'm 'smelling' more snow.

[Mossdog]

But Keats doesn't answer the question of how much does a grecian urn ?.

You posted that nearly 2 hours ago and no ones taken the bait yet - amazing

[Mossdog]

You posted that nearly 2 hours ago and no ones taken the bait yet - amazing

Well if no one is then I will....."I don't know but I'm guessing it's a vase salary"

[Derby Tup]

Nice imagery DT, but I think they're in for a rude awakening if they try to grab little territories just yet - we've March to contend with, and I'm 'smelling' more snow.

You know Mossy, we've only really had two days of heavy snowfall over here but suspect you could be right

I texted a friend to tell him I'd seen the Curlews and he said they're spot on as they're usually back for his cousin's birthday, which is next Saturday