Today's poet

[freckle]

I like that freckle it is very rhythmic which I think is what you wanted to achieve
I don't know what activity you are doing though ?

oh i say alf!

i was running....

[freckle]

I do like Heaney's poems freckle so thanks for posting that.

I have just read 'Buried life' as well and there's certainly food for thought there. One thing is certain we all have a buried life but some of us may have buried it more deeper than others.
It reminds me of that passage in Middlemarch where Dorothea wonders what it would be like to be sensitive to other people's personal feelings.

"If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."

- George Eliot, Middlemarch

thats such a great excerpt thank you for posting...

[Duncan R]

Freckle, Thanks for Casting & Gathering, like Alf, I really like Heaney and other contemporary Irish poets.

Been working in London recently & have so enjoyed reading the poems here on my little iphone, feels like I'm back home in the Lakes rather than some anonymous city hotel.

So I thought I'd offer something a little different. A poem, the first verse of which my Dad would always quote when going on a long car journey. Its by J Milton Hayes rather than Kipling, but has that exotic & atmospheric Raj feel to it. Hope you enjoy it.

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.

He was know as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonels daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangement gad begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed the squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed on their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through,
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew",
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone,
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a walltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.


Not exactly a cheery little number! But it has echoes of my childhood, so it feels quite strong & evocative to me. I guess we cant always choose what stays with us from those early days, but it does symbolise some of my Dads strength & a sense of his history, which feels important.
Hope it doesnt take the thread away too far from the deeper stuff.
Cheers
Duncan

[Mossdog]

Freckle, Thanks for Casting & Gathering, like Alf, I really like Heaney and other contemporary Irish poets.

Been working in London recently & have so enjoyed reading the poems here on my little iphone, feels like I'm back home in the Lakes rather than some anonymous city hotel.

So I thought I'd offer something a little different. A poem, the first verse of which my Dad would always quote when going on a long car journey. Its by J Milton Hayes rather than Kipling, but has that exotic & atmospheric Raj feel to it. Hope you enjoy it.

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.

He was know as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonels daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangement gad begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed the squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed on their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through,
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew",
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone,
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a walltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.


Not exactly a cheery little number! But it has echoes of my childhood, so it feels quite strong & evocative to me. I guess we cant always choose what stays with us from those early days, but it does symbolise some of my Dads strength & a sense of his history, which feels important.
Hope it doesnt take the thread away too far from the deeper stuff.
Cheers
Duncan

Tis a broad church on this thread Duncs and we welcome all shared poems, so many thanks. Actually, I think that there is a depth to this poem as it's narrative contains an allusion to what love drives some of us to do, often at immense cost, including self-sacrifice. Hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in the Big Smoke and at least you have the satisfying knowledge that unlike many around you presently, you have a place in God's own country - up'north.

[Mossdog]

Sunday service

Rythmic non think
holds thoughts and fears
For now at least
I am a welcome
NOTHING
but
breath,
pulsation
sweat
and movement
a beguiling amalgam
of FORWARD

You said it! (and very well too if I might add), So 'Go Girl Power Go'

[Harry H Howgill]

That is a great story. Thanks for posting it Duncs.

Freckle, Thanks for Casting & Gathering, like Alf, I really like Heaney and other contemporary Irish poets.

Been working in London recently & have so enjoyed reading the poems here on my little iphone, feels like I'm back home in the Lakes rather than some anonymous city hotel.

So I thought I'd offer something a little different. A poem, the first verse of which my Dad would always quote when going on a long car journey. Its by J Milton Hayes rather than Kipling, but has that exotic & atmospheric Raj feel to it. Hope you enjoy it.

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.

He was know as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Katmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonels daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangement gad begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed the squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed on their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through,
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew",
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone,
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a walltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

Theres a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Katmandu
Theres a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of mad carew,
And the yellow God forever gazes down.


Not exactly a cheery little number! But it has echoes of my childhood, so it feels quite strong & evocative to me. I guess we cant always choose what stays with us from those early days, but it does symbolise some of my Dads strength & a sense of his history, which feels important.
Hope it doesnt take the thread away too far from the deeper stuff.
Cheers
Duncan

[Mossdog]

Just to confirm duncs' impression of our 'deeper' and 'weightier' ponderings on this thread, here's my offering tonight...

On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness


The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
And I don't feel so well myself.
-- Arthur Guiterman

[Mossdog]

Sorry, can't resist posting this one either

Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Dorothy Parker

[Alf]

Keeping on the theme of Irish poets. This one wasn't bad either

Primrose

Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, I said, to find
One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear--
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but the shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.

Patrick Kavanagh

[Alf]

Just to confirm duncs' impression of our 'deeper' and 'weightier' ponderings on this thread, here's my offering tonight...

On the Vanity of Earthly Greatness


The tusks which clashed in mighty brawls
Of mastodons, are billiard balls.

The sword of Charlemagne the Just
Is Ferric Oxide, known as rust.

The grizzly bear, whose potent hug,
Was feared by all, is now a rug.

Great Caesar's bust is on the shelf,
And I don't feel so well myself.
-- Arthur Guiterman

I enjoyed that Mossy, was he an influence on Spike Milligan ?