Today's poet

[Sunbeam Alpine]

Well the post seemed to work . Thanks for the kind comments.
I like Don Paterson - he always seems optimistic at the end of it all. Good musician to. I never really enjoyed the Louis MacNeice stuff ( altho I found his name a bit quirky and thought that could be the most interesting bit of him as it can be with eople with unusual names !) but have enjoyed Claire's recent stuff. But I always liked his Woods . He's a bit melancholic.

Anyway this is James Baxter from NZ - and much to my surprise was on R4 Poetry Please. Good story.

Wild Bees

Often in summer, on a tarred bridge plank standing,
Or downstream between willows, a safe Ophelia drifting
In a rented boat — I had seen them comes and go,
Those wild bees, swift as tigers, their gauze wings a-glitter
In passionless industry, clustering black at the crevice
Of a rotten cabbage tree, where their hive was hidden low

But never strolled too near. Till one half-cloudy evening
Of ripe January, my friends and I
Came, gloved and masked to the eyes like plundering desperadoes,
To smoke them out. Quiet beside the stagnant river
We trod wet grasses down, hearing the crickets chitter
And waiting for light to drain from the wounded sky.

Before we reached the hive their sentries saw us
And sprang invisible through the darkening air.
Stabbed, and died in stinging. The hive woke. Poisonous fuming
Of sulphur filled the hollow trunk, and crawling
Blue flames sputtered — yet still their suicidal
Live raiders dived and clung to our hands and hair.

O it was Carthage under the Roman torches,
Or loud with flames and falling timber, Troy!
A job well botched. Half of the honey melted
And half the rest young grubs. Through earth-black smouldering ashes
And maimed bee groaning, we drew our plunder.
Little enough their gold, and slight our joy.

Fallen then the city of instinctive wisdom.
Tragedy is written distinct and small:
A hive burned on a cool night in summer.
But loss is a precious stone to me, a nectar
Distilled in time, preaching the truth of winter
To the fallen heart that does not cease to fall.

[stevefoster]

Good evening all, hope you are well....

I have enjoyed the three latest poems, the two Don Paterson poems ( I really like his work so thanks Mossy) and also Alf's choice, hard going but a good thought provoking read.

Thought I 'd try a little writing tonight on the subject area of loss...


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Meditation on loss

I am- getting the best Christmas present ever only to have it broken by 9:30am that very day.
I am- a two bed ground floor flat as opposed to a three bed terrace with high ceilings.
I am- the quiet after the children have stopped "acting the goat" and are sleeping.
I am- the realisation that my tits and ass are not what they were before children.
I am- a pain in my stomach that won’t let me eat.
I am- a daughter telling her mother she would rather live with her father.
I am- staying up to the wee hours on some social networking sight when everyone else is in bed, making love or dreaming.
I am- a single mum at a christening listening to the others discuss their summer holidays abroad.
I am- the 30 odd year old woman who is showing a 20 something IBM worker around my “not for long” home.
I am- the engagement ring, well not the first one, the second one, remember?
I am- the beginning and the ending,
I am -the ending and the beginning
in a very necessary way.

Loss, everyone gains, then loses, then gains and possibly loses again, it's cyclic. Like the poem freckle.
Here's a song by Springsteen about loss, one of my favourites, but very sad.

"Downbound Train"

I had a job, I had a girl
I had something going mister in this world
I got laid off down at the lumber yard
Our love went bad, times got hard
Now I work down at the carwash
Where all it ever does is rain
Don't you feel like you're a rider on a downbound train

She just said "Joe I gotta go
We had it once we ain't got it any more"
She packed her bags left me behind
She bought a ticket on the Central Line
Nights as I sleep, I hear that whistle whining
I feel her kiss in the misty rain
And I feel like I'm a rider on a downbound train

Last night I heard your voice
You were crying, crying, you were so alone
You said your love had never died
You were waiting for me at home
Put on my jacket, I ran through the woods
I ran till I thought my chest would explode
There in the clearing, beyond the highway
In the moonlight, our wedding house shone
I rushed through the yard, I burst through the front door
My head pounding hard, up the stairs I climbed
The room was dark, our bed was empty
Then I heard that long whistle whine
And I dropped to my knees, hung my head and cried

Now I swing a sledge hammer on a railroad gang
Knocking down them cross ties, working in the rain
Now don't it feel like you're a rider on a downbound train

[freckle]

Well the post seemed to work . Thanks for the kind comments.
I like Don Paterson - he always seems optimistic at the end of it all. Good musician to. I never really enjoyed the Louis MacNeice stuff ( altho I found his name a bit quirky and thought that could be the most interesting bit of him as it can be with eople with unusual names !) but have enjoyed Claire's recent stuff. But I always liked his Woods . He's a bit melancholic.

Anyway this is James Baxter from NZ - and much to my surprise was on R4 Poetry Please. Good story.

Wild Bees

Often in summer, on a tarred bridge plank standing,
Or downstream between willows, a safe Ophelia drifting
In a rented boat — I had seen them comes and go,
Those wild bees, swift as tigers, their gauze wings a-glitter
In passionless industry, clustering black at the crevice
Of a rotten cabbage tree, where their hive was hidden low

But never strolled too near. Till one half-cloudy evening
Of ripe January, my friends and I
Came, gloved and masked to the eyes like plundering desperadoes,
To smoke them out. Quiet beside the stagnant river
We trod wet grasses down, hearing the crickets chitter
And waiting for light to drain from the wounded sky.

Before we reached the hive their sentries saw us
And sprang invisible through the darkening air.
Stabbed, and died in stinging. The hive woke. Poisonous fuming
Of sulphur filled the hollow trunk, and crawling
Blue flames sputtered — yet still their suicidal
Live raiders dived and clung to our hands and hair.

O it was Carthage under the Roman torches,
Or loud with flames and falling timber, Troy!
A job well botched. Half of the honey melted
And half the rest young grubs. Through earth-black smouldering ashes
And maimed bee groaning, we drew our plunder.
Little enough their gold, and slight our joy.

Fallen then the city of instinctive wisdom.
Tragedy is written distinct and small:
A hive burned on a cool night in summer.
But loss is a precious stone to me, a nectar
Distilled in time, preaching the truth of winter
To the fallen heart that does not cease to fall.

Hello Sunbeam! Good to see you back! This is an awesome poem, I particularly like the last verse and the last three lines....brilliant!...i think I may go and listen to poetry please on i player soon so thanks for the reminder! as an aside are you going to do the new simonside tribute run in September? i think i may try but its the week after the Moray marathon :-)

[freckle]

Loss, everyone gains, then loses, then gains and possibly loses again, it's cyclic. Like the poem freckle.
Here's a song by Springsteen about loss, one of my favourites, but very sad.

"Downbound Train"

I had a job, I had a girl
I had something going mister in this world
I got laid off down at the lumber yard
Our love went bad, times got hard
Now I work down at the carwash
Where all it ever does is rain
Don't you feel like you're a rider on a downbound train

She just said "Joe I gotta go
We had it once we ain't got it any more"
She packed her bags left me behind
She bought a ticket on the Central Line
Nights as I sleep, I hear that whistle whining
I feel her kiss in the misty rain
And I feel like I'm a rider on a downbound train

Last night I heard your voice
You were crying, crying, you were so alone
You said your love had never died
You were waiting for me at home
Put on my jacket, I ran through the woods
I ran till I thought my chest would explode
There in the clearing, beyond the highway
In the moonlight, our wedding house shone
I rushed through the yard, I burst through the front door
My head pounding hard, up the stairs I climbed
The room was dark, our bed was empty
Then I heard that long whistle whine
And I dropped to my knees, hung my head and cried

Now I swing a sledge hammer on a railroad gang
Knocking down them cross ties, working in the rain
Now don't it feel like you're a rider on a downbound train

Hi Steve....I love this song it takes me right back and has personal salience for me in more ways than one! thanks for posting :-)

ps i like your observation about cycles and loss...very astute and hopeful x

[stevefoster]

Hi Steve....I love this song it takes me right back and has personal salience for me in more ways than one! thanks for posting :-)

ps i like your observation about cycles and loss...very astute and hopeful x

Everyone should live in hope............................or at least have a holiday there once a year

[freckle]

Well said steve!

Just started listening to poetry please on i player...liked this one...


Fingers in the door
Careless for an instant I closed my child’s fingers in the jamb. She
Held her breath, contorted the whole of her being,
foetus-wise, against the pain. And for a moment
I wished myself dispersed in a hundred thousand pieces
Among the dead bright stars. The child’s cry broke,
She clung to me, and it crowded in to me how she and I were
Light-years from any mutual help or comfort. For her I cast seed
Into her mother’s womb; cells grew and launched itself as a being:
Nothing restores her to my being, or ours, even to the mother who within her
Carried and quickened, bore, and sobbed at her separation, despite all my envy,
Nothing can restore. She, I, mother, sister, dwell dispersed among dead bright stars:
We are there in our hundred thousand pieces!
—David Holbrook

[Alf]

Well the post seemed to work . Thanks for the kind comments.
I like Don Paterson - he always seems optimistic at the end of it all. Good musician to. I never really enjoyed the Louis MacNeice stuff ( altho I found his name a bit quirky and thought that could be the most interesting bit of him as it can be with eople with unusual names !) but have enjoyed Claire's recent stuff. But I always liked his Woods . He's a bit melancholic.

Anyway this is James Baxter from NZ - and much to my surprise was on R4 Poetry Please. Good story.

Wild Bees

Often in summer, on a tarred bridge plank standing,
Or downstream between willows, a safe Ophelia drifting
In a rented boat — I had seen them comes and go,
Those wild bees, swift as tigers, their gauze wings a-glitter
In passionless industry, clustering black at the crevice
Of a rotten cabbage tree, where their hive was hidden low

But never strolled too near. Till one half-cloudy evening
Of ripe January, my friends and I
Came, gloved and masked to the eyes like plundering desperadoes,
To smoke them out. Quiet beside the stagnant river
We trod wet grasses down, hearing the crickets chitter
And waiting for light to drain from the wounded sky.

Before we reached the hive their sentries saw us
And sprang invisible through the darkening air.
Stabbed, and died in stinging. The hive woke. Poisonous fuming
Of sulphur filled the hollow trunk, and crawling
Blue flames sputtered — yet still their suicidal
Live raiders dived and clung to our hands and hair.

O it was Carthage under the Roman torches,
Or loud with flames and falling timber, Troy!
A job well botched. Half of the honey melted
And half the rest young grubs. Through earth-black smouldering ashes
And maimed bee groaning, we drew our plunder.
Little enough their gold, and slight our joy.

Fallen then the city of instinctive wisdom.
Tragedy is written distinct and small:
A hive burned on a cool night in summer.
But loss is a precious stone to me, a nectar
Distilled in time, preaching the truth of winter
To the fallen heart that does not cease to fall.

I enjoyed that SA, particularly the "safe Ophelia drifting" and the "city of instinctive wisdom"

[Alf]

Good evening all, hope you are well....

I have enjoyed the three latest poems, the two Don Paterson poems ( I really like his work so thanks Mossy) and also Alf's choice, hard going but a good thought provoking read.

Thought I 'd try a little writing tonight on the subject area of loss...


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Meditation on loss

I am- getting the best Christmas present ever only to have it broken by 9:30am that very day.
I am- a two bed ground floor flat as opposed to a three bed terrace with high ceilings.
I am- the quiet after the children have stopped "acting the goat" and are sleeping.
I am- the realisation that my tits and ass are not what they were before children.
I am- a pain in my stomach that won’t let me eat.
I am- a daughter telling her mother she would rather live with her father.
I am- staying up to the wee hours on some social networking sight when everyone else is in bed, making love or dreaming.
I am- a single mum at a christening listening to the others discuss their summer holidays abroad.
I am- the 30 odd year old woman who is showing a 20 something IBM worker around my “not for long” home.
I am- the engagement ring, well not the first one, the second one, remember?
I am- the beginning and the ending,
I am -the ending and the beginning
in a very necessary way.

Thats a very strong, honest poem freckle, thanks for sharing it with us.

[freckle]

Thats a very strong, honest poem freckle, thanks for sharing it with us.

why thank you alf....i hope to write a meditation on something more cheery soon! :-)

[Alf]

Cake

I wanted one life
you wanted another
we couldn't have our cake
so we ate each other.

Roger McGough