Today's poet

[freckle]

"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:

[Einar]

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

[freckle]

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!

[freckle]

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.

[Einar]

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.

[freckle]

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:

[freckle]

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.

[Derby Tup]

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

[Derby Tup]

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

[Alf]

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