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Thread: Today's poet

  1. #9251

    Re: Today's poet

    "Hand-maiden, humble courtiers, ? No surely not :wink:"

    I hear what you are saying and don't think it hadn't crossed my mind Alf! .....nice sea poem there :wink:

  2. #9252
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    Re: Today's poet

    Time

    ‘Established’ is a good word, much used in garden books,
    ‘The plant, when established’ . . .
    Oh, become established quickly, quickly, garden
    For I am fugitive, I am very fugitive – – –

    Those that come after me will gather these roses,
    And watch, as I do now, the white wisteria
    Burst, in the sunshine, from its pale green sheath.

    Planned. Planted. Established. Then neglected,
    Till at last the loiterer by the gate will wonder
    At the old, old cottage, the old wooden cottage,
    And say ‘One might build here, the view is glorious;
    This must have been a pretty garden once.’

    Ursula Bethell

  3. #9253

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by Einar View Post
    Time

    ‘Established’ is a good word, much used in garden books,
    ‘The plant, when established’ . . .
    Oh, become established quickly, quickly, garden
    For I am fugitive, I am very fugitive – – –

    Those that come after me will gather these roses,
    And watch, as I do now, the white wisteria
    Burst, in the sunshine, from its pale green sheath.

    Planned. Planted. Established. Then neglected,
    Till at last the loiterer by the gate will wonder
    At the old, old cottage, the old wooden cottage,
    And say ‘One might build here, the view is glorious;
    This must have been a pretty garden once.’

    Ursula Bethell
    Welcome to the thread Einar...this is a beautiful choice I found it quite poignant....so many poems on here seem to touch on the issue of time and mortality....good stuff!

  4. #9254

    Re: Today's poet

    having left my mobile phone at home in my haste to leave the house this morning i must confess i feel a tad lost!

    another sea poem...

    LOST AT SEA

    by: Danske Dandridge (1854-1914)

    H, many a time I have wept by night,
    I have moaned with the moaning sea,
    When the dear lost eyes of my dead delight
    Looked out of her depths on me.
    And many a time when the sea was calm,
    And the moon was lying there,
    I have caught the gleam of a snowy arm,
    And the glimmer of flowing hair.
    But I would I had died when the ship went down
    That was bringing my love to me,
    When my hope, and my heart, and my all went down
    To the heart of the heaving sea.
    How she moans all night for the cruel deed;
    She moans, for she cannot rest;
    And she cradles my bride with the brown sea-weed
    In the swell of her troubled breast.
    How she sucks my life with her sobbing breath,
    How she draws me with her spell,
    Till I know that at last I shall sink in death
    Where the coiled sea-serpents dwell.
    Then my spirit will haste to her resting-place,
    As she lies on the wreck-strewn floor;
    I will shelter my love in a close embrace
    Till the sea shall be no more.
    Last edited by freckle; 31-08-2010 at 12:27 PM.

  5. #9255
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    Re: Today's poet

    Thank you Freckle. I may not be a frequent visitor, but there are some really great and moving poems on this site so if I come across any I really like I'll post them.

  6. #9256

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by Einar View Post
    Thank you Freckle. I may not be a frequent visitor, but there are some really great and moving poems on this site so if I come across any I really like I'll post them.
    Sounds like an excellent plan Einar i look forward to more as and when :wink:

  7. #9257

    Re: Today's poet

    A Dreaming Week
    Carol Ann Duffy

    Not tonight, I'm dreaming
    in the heart of the honeyed dark
    in a boat of a bed in the attic room
    in the house on the edge of the park
    where the wind in the big old trees
    creaks like an ark.

    Not tomorrow, I'm dreaming
    till dusk turns into dawn-dust,must,
    most, moot, moon, mown, down-
    with my hand on an open unread book,
    a bird that's never flown...distantly
    the birdsong of the telephone.

    Not the following evening, I'm dreaming
    in the monocle of the moon,
    a sleeping S on the page of a bed
    in the tome of a dim room, the rain
    on the roof, rhyming there,
    like the typed words of a poem.

    Not the night after that, I'm dreaming
    till the stars are blue in the face
    printing the news of their old light
    with the ink of space,
    yards and yards of black silk night
    to cover my sleeping face.

    Not the next evening, I'm dreaming
    in the crook of midnight's arm
    like a lover held by another
    safe from harm, like a child
    stilled by a mother, soft and warm,
    twelve golden faraway bells for a charm.

    Not that night either, I'm dreaming
    till the tides have come and gone
    sighing over the frowning sand,
    the whale's lonely song
    scored on wave after wave of water
    all the wet night long.

    Not the last evening, I'm dreaming
    under the stuttering clock,
    under the covers, under closed eyes,
    all colours fading to black,
    the last of daylight hurrying
    for a date with the glamorous dark.

  8. #9258
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    Re: Today's poet

    Speak of the North! A Lonely Moor

    Speak of the North! A lonely moor
    Silent and dark and tractless swells,
    The waves of some wild streamlet pour
    Hurriedly through its ferny dells.

    Profoundly still the twilight air,
    Lifeless the landscape; so we deem
    Till like a phantom gliding near
    A stag bends down to drink the stream.

    And far away a mountain zone,
    A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies,
    And one star, large and soft and lone,
    Silently lights the unclouded skies

    Charlotte Bronte

    Woke up this morning feeling home-sick
    Poacher turned game-keeper

  9. #9259
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    Re: Today's poet

    High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending

    High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending,
    Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars,
    Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending,
    Earth rising to heaven and heaven descending,
    Man's spirit away from its drear dungeon sending,
    Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.

    All down the mountain sides wild forests lending
    One mighty voice to the life-giving wind,
    Rivers their banks in their jubilee rending,
    Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending,
    Wider and deeper their waters extending,
    Leaving a desolate desert behind.

    Shining and lowering and swelling and dying,
    Changing forever from midnight to noon;
    Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing,
    Shadows on shadows advancing and flying,
    Lighning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying,
    Coming as swiftly and fading as soon

    Emily Bronte
    Poacher turned game-keeper

  10. #9260
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    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by freckle View Post
    A Dreaming Week
    Carol Ann Duffy

    Not tonight, I'm dreaming
    in the heart of the honeyed dark
    in a boat of a bed in the attic room
    in the house on the edge of the park
    where the wind in the big old trees
    creaks like an ark.

    Not tomorrow, I'm dreaming
    till dusk turns into dawn-dust,must,
    most, moot, moon, mown, down-
    with my hand on an open unread book,
    a bird that's never flown...distantly
    the birdsong of the telephone.

    Not the following evening, I'm dreaming
    in the monocle of the moon,
    a sleeping S on the page of a bed
    in the tome of a dim room, the rain
    on the roof, rhyming there,
    like the typed words of a poem.

    Not the night after that, I'm dreaming
    till the stars are blue in the face
    printing the news of their old light
    with the ink of space,
    yards and yards of black silk night
    to cover my sleeping face.

    Not the next evening, I'm dreaming
    in the crook of midnight's arm
    like a lover held by another
    safe from harm, like a child
    stilled by a mother, soft and warm,
    twelve golden faraway bells for a charm.

    Not that night either, I'm dreaming
    till the tides have come and gone
    sighing over the frowning sand,
    the whale's lonely song
    scored on wave after wave of water
    all the wet night long.

    Not the last evening, I'm dreaming
    under the stuttering clock,
    under the covers, under closed eyes,
    all colours fading to black,
    the last of daylight hurrying
    for a date with the glamorous dark.
    Thanks for posting that freckle. I will post a Duffy poem myself, a favourite poem of mine which was written fairly recently. It is a war poem in reverse, if only!

    Last Post

    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
    If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
    that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud . . .
    but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
    run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
    see lines and lines of British boys rewind
    back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home —
    mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
    not entering the story now
    to die and die and die.
    Dulce — No — Decorum — No — Pro patria mori.
    You walk away.
    You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
    like all your mates do too —
    Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert —
    and light a cigarette.
    There’s coffee in the square,
    warm French bread
    and all those thousands dead
    are shaking dried mud from their hair
    and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
    a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
    from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
    You lean against a wall,
    your several million lives still possible
    and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
    You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
    If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
    then it would

    Carol Ann Duffy

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