Today's poet

[Alf]

Alf that wilde poem was ....well...wild! an interesting choice!

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

T.S. Eliot

[Alf]

A Farewell to Arms

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,
But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.'
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

Sir Henry Lee

[Harry H Howgill]

Two stones in my head.
Constantly bashing. Crashing.
Duty and desire.

B. Ballard

[freckle]

Two stones in my head.
Constantly bashing. Crashing.
Duty and desire.

B. Ballard

Oooooo very nice choice Harry! like it

[freckle]

A Farewell to Arms

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,
But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
'Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.'
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

Sir Henry Lee

a sad but beautiful choice alf

[Mossdog]

On the question of lard, said the bard...

freckle was doing so well with her weight loss plan
only soup for tea, in addition she swam
but then her cooker broke
at least she thought it did
but wait...aha...
she fixed it
and was very pleased
so much so
she partook of wine and cheese
"Never mind", she pondered
"about tonights deviation,
there's always tomorrows
recompense..."
and whats the point
in getting all tense?
so tomorrow I'll look forward
with the utmost glee
to cous cous and roasted veg
and a cup of tea!

[Mossdog]

A poem about loss, about losing different things in life ,from keys , to items with sentimental value but most painful of all facing upto losing the one you love and how through time, you can master the art of losing . I really like the last line , about although it may seem like a disaster , write it ....!


One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Nice one Machgirl - thanks for posting.

[MachGirl]

Hi everyone ! Hope everyone well , have so many things to things to comment on as a result of my me being preoccupied all week .

First of all ' On the question of Lard said the bard " , I really like the poem Freckle , it made me laugh ! Your kind comments acknowledging my dilemma with smoke alarm the other night and the above mentioned poem , made me feel less alone somehow !

" A farewell To Arms " , really like that Alf , so very sad though ...... haunting almost !
I seem to be magnetically pulled towards poems where ' time ' is the main theme ..... the value of time !

Hes & Mossdog, just to acknowledge your comments re : ' the art ' , thanks !

Harry , just wanted to thankyou for your comments regarding ' Haiku ' ! Although I've always loved poetry , I'm completely out of the loop on anything but the actual poems themselves , so at the risk of sounding mentally challenged I have to admit , had never even heard of ' Haiku ' until you mentioned ! Am now reading up on this though as we speak !


I was actually going to post some of my favourite Oscar Wilde poems , in view of Alf's post ......but decided to save them for another time .

I have a backlog of poems , spanning last 15 years I would like to share .... :0) having never really shared my thoughts on any of them with anyone , so forgive me for any that ones that have been posted before .

This is the first poem , I ever remember trying to learn as a child !


I carry your heart with me by E. E. Cummings


i carry your heart with me , i carry it in my heart
i am never without it ,
anywhere i go, you go , my dear;
and whatever is done
by only me is your doing ,my darling

i fear no fate, for you are my fate, my sweet
i want no world , for beautiful you are my world , my true
and it's you who are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever , a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

[MachGirl]

Trying to limit myself to posting no more than 4 poems a week , ( for self-preservation reasons - maybe too late for that ) so as I have my little poetry book out , chose this one from ' nature & growth ' section , which I think is very lovely ......


St. Francis And The Sow


The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St. Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of
the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking
and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

Galway Kinnell

[Alf]

Trying to limit myself to posting no more than 4 poems a week , ( for self-preservation reasons - maybe too late for that ) so as I have my little poetry book out , chose this one from ' nature & growth ' section , which I think is very lovely ......


St. Francis And The Sow


The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St. Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of
the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking
and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

Galway Kinnell

It is a lovely poem MachGirl