Today's poet

[Mountain Goatess]

Perfect!
Happy Anniversary! What a success this thread is! Happy rhyming x

A year on...and there could only really be one poem....:thumbup:

The poets hang on

The poets hang on.
Iťs hard to get rid of them,
though lord knows iťs been tried.
We pass them on the road
standing there with their begging bowls,
an ancient custom.
Nothing in those now
but dried flies and bad pennies.
They stare straight ahead.
Are they dead, or what?
Yet they have the irritating look
of those who know more than we do.

More of what?
What is it they claim to know?
Spit it out, we hiss at them.
Say it plain!
If you try for a simple answer,
thaťs when they pretend to be crazy,
or else drunk, or else poor.
They put those costumes on
some time ago,
those black sweaters, those tatters;
now they can't get them off.
And they're having trouble with their teeth.
Thaťs one of their burdens.
They could use some dental work.

They're having trouble with their wings, as well.
We're not getting much from them
in the flight department these days.
No more soaring, no radiance,
no skylarking.
What the hell are they paid for?
(Suppose they are paid.)
They can't get off the ground,
them and their muddy feathers.
If they fly, iťs downwards,
into the damp grey earth.

Go away, we say —
and take your boring sadness.
You're not wanted here.
You´ve forgotten how to tell us
how sublime we are.
How love is the answer:
we always liked that one.
You´ve forgotten how to kiss up.
You're not wise any more.
You´ve lost your splendour.


But the poets hang on.
They're nothing if not tenacious.
They can't sing, they can't fly.
They only hop and croak
and bash themselves against the air
as if in cages,
and tell the odd tired joke.
When asked about it, they say
they speak what they must.
Cripes, they're pretentious.

They know something, though.
They do know something.
Something they're whispering,
something we can't quite hear.
Is it about sex?
Is it about dust?
Is it about fear?

[Hes]

Great choice Freckle!! A whole year, I can't believe it and a big thank you to you for starting it in the first place. It has been quite something. I love the way that everyone has used the thread to express their emotions...we've seen loves gained, loves lost, babies born, loved ones die, friendships forged, depression, happiness, loneliness, aging, celebrations of nature and the fells, running epics, religious debates, erotica....I wonder what's next?!

A year on...and there could only really be one poem....:thumbup:

The poets hang on

The poets hang on.
Iťs hard to get rid of them,
though lord knows iťs been tried.
We pass them on the road
standing there with their begging bowls,
an ancient custom.
Nothing in those now
but dried flies and bad pennies.
They stare straight ahead.
Are they dead, or what?
Yet they have the irritating look
of those who know more than we do.

More of what?
What is it they claim to know?
Spit it out, we hiss at them.
Say it plain!
If you try for a simple answer,
thaťs when they pretend to be crazy,
or else drunk, or else poor.
They put those costumes on
some time ago,
those black sweaters, those tatters;
now they can't get them off.
And they're having trouble with their teeth.
Thaťs one of their burdens.
They could use some dental work.

They're having trouble with their wings, as well.
We're not getting much from them
in the flight department these days.
No more soaring, no radiance,
no skylarking.
What the hell are they paid for?
(Suppose they are paid.)
They can't get off the ground,
them and their muddy feathers.
If they fly, iťs downwards,
into the damp grey earth.

Go away, we say —
and take your boring sadness.
You're not wanted here.
You´ve forgotten how to tell us
how sublime we are.
How love is the answer:
we always liked that one.
You´ve forgotten how to kiss up.
You're not wise any more.
You´ve lost your splendour.


But the poets hang on.
They're nothing if not tenacious.
They can't sing, they can't fly.
They only hop and croak
and bash themselves against the air
as if in cages,
and tell the odd tired joke.
When asked about it, they say
they speak what they must.
Cripes, they're pretentious.

They know something, though.
They do know something.
Something they're whispering,
something we can't quite hear.
Is it about sex?
Is it about dust?
Is it about fear?

[Derby Tup]

Nice verse freckle

One of my favourite Pablo Neruda poems:

Poetry

And it was at that age… Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind

[Derby Tup]

...we've seen loves gained, loves lost, babies born, loved ones die, friendships forged, depression, happiness, loneliness, aging, celebrations of nature and the fells, running epics, religious debates, erotica....I wonder what's next?!

Good summary of a great year Hes

[Hes]

I agree with you DT. I watched it as a student first and thought it was quite funny and we all tried to make a Camberwell Carrot...then I've watched it a couple more times over the last two decades and my appreciation changes. I find it far more poignant now. The character of Withnail makes me sad.

The first time I watched Withnail and I I just didn't get it at all; even the title of the film was confusing. However, I love it now and think the main protagonists Withnail, Marwood (the Paul McGann character) and dear old Uncle Monty are fantastic. I'm not fussed with Danny the drug dealer mind

[Alf]

A year on...and there could only really be one poem....:thumbup:

The poets hang on

The poets hang on.
Iťs hard to get rid of them,
though lord knows iťs been tried.
We pass them on the road
standing there with their begging bowls,
an ancient custom.
Nothing in those now
but dried flies and bad pennies.
They stare straight ahead.
Are they dead, or what?
Yet they have the irritating look
of those who know more than we do.

More of what?
What is it they claim to know?
Spit it out, we hiss at them.
Say it plain!
If you try for a simple answer,
thaťs when they pretend to be crazy,
or else drunk, or else poor.
They put those costumes on
some time ago,
those black sweaters, those tatters;
now they can't get them off.
And they're having trouble with their teeth.
Thaťs one of their burdens.
They could use some dental work.

They're having trouble with their wings, as well.
We're not getting much from them
in the flight department these days.
No more soaring, no radiance,
no skylarking.
What the hell are they paid for?
(Suppose they are paid.)
They can't get off the ground,
them and their muddy feathers.
If they fly, iťs downwards,
into the damp grey earth.

Go away, we say —
and take your boring sadness.
You're not wanted here.
You´ve forgotten how to tell us
how sublime we are.
How love is the answer:
we always liked that one.
You´ve forgotten how to kiss up.
You're not wise any more.
You´ve lost your splendour.


But the poets hang on.
They're nothing if not tenacious.
They can't sing, they can't fly.
They only hop and croak
and bash themselves against the air
as if in cages,
and tell the odd tired joke.
When asked about it, they say
they speak what they must.
Cripes, they're pretentious.

They know something, though.
They do know something.
Something they're whispering,
something we can't quite hear.
Is it about sex?
Is it about dust?
Is it about fear?

Or a little more optimistically:

Is it about love?
Is it about escape?
Is it about wonder?
Is it about hope?

Great choice freckle and the other Atwood poem you posted

[Hes]

Brilliant choice DT! You just can't beat a bit of Neruda.

Nice verse freckle

One of my favourite Pablo Neruda poems:

Poetry

And it was at that age… Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind

[Mountain Goatess]

Poet To Poet

To you who read and review

“Iron sharpens iron
so one sharpens another”
Reading poems brings inspiration
unlike most any other.
Feeling…………. through seeing,
expressions of
love, hate, agony,
can kindle fresh and new,
many a memory.
Tapping into the vast reserve
of spirit and of soul,
To get thoughts on paper
flowing free,
is the poet’s goal.
More than fun, more than great,
is the satisfaction,
It’s the writing of the poetry,
and a reviewer’s good reaction.
Guarded remarks are best to be made
Lest the one baring be crushed at heart,
Better to encourage the soul’s promenade
instead of tearing them apart.
A poet’s sensitivity is really their glory
but, oh the pain it can be,
it is the gift to tell the story,
and write verses that others can “see”.
‘SENSITIVE’ is a sticking point
if a critique becomes too plain,
harsh words do more than disappoint,
but cause the poet to think, it’s in vain.
Otherwise, you’ll realize,
a review has touched a nerve,
when bitter anger spews forth on you
far more than you deserve.
So, Poet to Poet
I dedicate
all of this poem to you,
It is my thought to predicate
the wonderful works that you do.

Ginny Alloway Baker

[Derby Tup]

I discovered this in one of the many poetry books I seem to have acquired overe the last twelve months. I've posted it before but it sort of symbolises to me the pleasure I've gained from the poetry thread:

THE LINEN INDUSTRY

Pulling up flax after the blue flowers have fallen
And laying our handfuls in the peaty water
To rot those grasses to the bone, or building stooks
That recall the skirts of an invisible dancer,

We become a part of the linen industry
And follow its processes to the grubby town
Where fields are compacted into window-boxes
And there is little room among the big machines.

But even in our attic under the skylight
We make love on a bleach green, the whole meadow
Draped with material turning white in the sun
As though snow reluctant to melt were our attire.

What's passion but a battering of stubborn stalks,
Then a gentle combing out of fibres like hair
And a weaving of these into christening robes,
Into garments for a marriage or funeral?

Since it's like a bereavement once the labour's done
To find ourselves last workers in a dying trade,
Let flax be our matchmaker, our undertaker,
The provider of sheets for whatever the bed --

And be shy of your breasts in the presence of death,
Say that you look more beautiful in linen
Wearing white petticoats, the bow on your bodice
A butterfly attending the embroidered flowers

Michael Longley

[Hes]

Poet's Obligation
by Pablo Neruda

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell;
to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a great fragment of thunder sets in motion
the rumble of the planet and the foam,
the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,
the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,
and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my awareness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will glance upward
saying "How can I reach the sea?"
And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing,
the grey cry of the sea-birds on the coast.


So, thorugh me, freedom and the sea
will make their answer to the shuttered heart.