Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Norfolk

How did the devil come? When first attack?
These Norfolk lanes recall lost innocence,
The years fall off and find me walking back
Dragging a stick along the wooden fence
Down this same path, where, forty years ago,
My father strolled behind me, calm and slow.

I used to fill my hand with sorrel seeds
And shower him with them from the tops of stiles,
I used to butt my head into his tweeds
To make him hurry down those languorous miles
Of ash and alder-shaded lanes, till here
Our moorings and the masthead would appear.

Then there was supper lit by lantern light
And in the cabin I could lie secure
And hear against the polished sides at night
The lap lap lapping of the weedy Bure,
Dear whispering and watery Norfolk sound
Which told of all the moonlit reeds around.

How did the devil come? When first attack?
The church is just the same, though now I know
Fowler of Louth restored it. Time, bring back
The rapturous ignorance of long ago,
The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts
Of unkept promises and broken hearts.

JOHN BETJEMAN

That's a magnificent poem Alf, thanks. A new one for me which I'm also going to pass onto a friend.

[Mossdog]

My Crow

A crow flew into the tree outside my window.
It was not Ted Hughes's crow, or Galway's crow,
Or Frost's, Pasternak's, or Lorca's crow.
Or one of Homer's crows, stuffed with gore,
after the battle. This was just a crow.
That never fit in anywhere in its life,
or did anything worth mentioning.
It sat there on a branch for a few minutes.
Then picked up and flew beautifully
out of my life.

Raymond Carver

Now I'm confused. There's something obviously allegorical about this poem, and I've re-read it several times, but I'm just not getting it. What meaning does it have for you Hes? Is he perhaps suggesting that 'fame' , notoriety, or whatever is no better than obscurity, what's important is being yourself? Or is it about being relaxed about something that's missing or was lost? Never amounted to anything? Or maybe something else entirely?

[freckle]

Norfolk

How did the devil come? When first attack?
These Norfolk lanes recall lost innocence,
The years fall off and find me walking back
Dragging a stick along the wooden fence
Down this same path, where, forty years ago,
My father strolled behind me, calm and slow.

I used to fill my hand with sorrel seeds
And shower him with them from the tops of stiles,
I used to butt my head into his tweeds
To make him hurry down those languorous miles
Of ash and alder-shaded lanes, till here
Our moorings and the masthead would appear.

Then there was supper lit by lantern light
And in the cabin I could lie secure
And hear against the polished sides at night
The lap lap lapping of the weedy Bure,
Dear whispering and watery Norfolk sound
Which told of all the moonlit reeds around.

How did the devil come? When first attack?
The church is just the same, though now I know
Fowler of Louth restored it. Time, bring back
The rapturous ignorance of long ago,
The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts
Of unkept promises and broken hearts.

JOHN BETJEMAN

brilliant choice alf....i love the way he plays with time within this poem, the harking back to a simpler era and linking this with life's inevitable disappointments in the here and now...very elegant!

ps i once had a very relaxing soothing break in norfolk i really like the place, there is something about it which is very calming

[Hes]

That's a really good question Mossy. It is like a lot of my choices, it struck a chord and I reacted to it instinctually but wasn't sure why. However, I've read it quite a few times and for me its about the nameless and inconsequential things that enter our lives briefly and cause ripples that we perhaps don't see/feel at the time because we are looking at the bigger, showier things but I suspect that's just me bending it to suit my own thoughts. I wonder if its to do with Raymond Carver's thoughts about his writing and perhaps his 'muse'? Its called My Crow and do you think he is saying that his muse is elusive?

Now I'm confused. There's something obviously allegorical about this poem, and I've re-read it several times, but I'm just not getting it. What meaning does it have for you Hes? Is he perhaps suggesting that 'fame' , notoriety, or whatever is no better than obscurity, what's important is being yourself? Or is it about being relaxed about something that's missing or was lost? Never amounted to anything? Or maybe something else entirely?

[Hes]

I really liked Machgirl's and Alf's choices too and if I wasn't so tired, I'd pick another myself.

[wormstone]

Now I'm confused. There's something obviously allegorical about this poem, and I've re-read it several times, but I'm just not getting it. What meaning does it have for you Hes? Is he perhaps suggesting that 'fame' , notoriety, or whatever is no better than obscurity, what's important is being yourself? Or is it about being relaxed about something that's missing or was lost? Never amounted to anything? Or maybe something else entirely?

I think he's saying that sometimes a crow is a crow - it is sufficient and beautiful enough in its self without having to be representative of something "more" meaninful. Like all corvids, they are intelligent, social and co-operative so those things are perhaps less usual subjects of poetry, but not less important.

Or not! Which is the other beauty of a good poem.

[Hes]

I think that's a really good explanation Wormstone. I love the whole corvid family. My mum is currently taking part in 'chough watch' down in Penzance (which causes no end of hilarity with my not so mature friends) and really enjoying watching their behaviour. Funnily enough, I think Robert Frost's poem about the crow shaking snow from the tree says the same thing.

I think he's saying that sometimes a crow is a crow - it is sufficient and beautiful enough in its self without having to be representative of something "more" meaninful. Like all corvids, they are intelligent, social and co-operative so those things are perhaps less usual subjects of poetry, but not less important.

Or not! Which is the other beauty of a good poem.

[Mossdog]

That's a really good question Mossy. It is like a lot of my choices, it struck a chord and I reacted to it instinctually but wasn't sure why. However, I've read it quite a few times and for me its about the nameless and inconsequential things that enter our lives briefly and cause ripples that we perhaps don't see/feel at the time because we are looking at the bigger, showier things but I suspect that's just me bending it to suit my own thoughts. I wonder if its to do with Raymond Carver's thoughts about his writing and perhaps his 'muse'? Its called My Crow and do you think he is saying that his muse is elusive?

Yes, I like that interpretation Hes. Even on my first reading I vividly pictured him staring out of his window, perhaps seeking inspirations, or just plain daydreaming, chin resting on his hand, when the crow came into sight. And of course it did, despite it's quite ordinariness (i.e. not being the key subject of 'heroic' poetry), inspire a stream of thoughts/creativity, as evident by the very poem itself! I think I was initially puzzled by the word 'beautifully', which seemed out of place somehow, but perhaps infact that's the key word which illustrates how the ordinary/extraordinary are simply two faces of the same conceptual coin; a coin which can flip in an instant, from one aspect to the other. Anyway, thanks again for introducing me to a really great poem, which at first simply appears, well, almost ordinary, but not quite!

[Derby Tup]

Strid Wood evening
nascent, ripe, fecundity
warblers and bluebells

[Alf]

In view of today's experiences this poem is appropriate, though I don't share the poet's wishes in the 5th line. It came quite close enough thank you very much

Buzzard Birds

Manifesting in the high noon sky
He swirls, and turning
Wheels and dives, while I
In awestruck silence wait,
And, breathless, wish him nearer so my eye
Could note his colour and his powerful frame.

Wildness in perfection on the wing.
Buzzard-bird your freedom
Sets my soul a-sing
In praise of noble will
Which dominates yet fetters everything
In woven bands as strong as tempered steel.

Mewing calls resound and split the air
As, gliding into view, another there
Impedes your upward thrust
With pirouettes in ballet-solitaire,
And talons gently touch your fearsome breast.

Monumental speed and wills a-clash
Send earthward sparkling birds
In lovelorn dash,
While I with bated breath
Catch the wonderous moment
When, in victory flash
She SCREAMS, then leads him, conquered, nestward bound.

Fay Slimm