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Thread: Today's poet

  1. #11761
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    Re: Today's poet

    Here's my 2pennethworth. Probably completely wrong!


    BLACK VILLAGE OF GRAVE STONES – the graveyard is a big part of Heptonstall, which has obvious significance for Ted Hughes as I believe he was born there, and he lived there with Sylvia who is also buried in the churchyard.

    SKULL OF AN IDIOT – suspect this will be a local who you will probably know about. Maybe John Hartley the Coiner maybe not. I have seen Hartley’s grave in the old churchyard but not sure why Hughes would call him an idiot. Any other contenders? Perhaps Hughes is referring to himself as the idiot. He comes from here after all.

    WHOSE DREAMS DIE BACK
    WHERE THEY WERE BORN – the idiot was born here and now he dies here, without fulfilling his dreams. Hughes predicting his own demise and burial?


    SKULL OF A SHEEP
    WHOSE MEAT MELTS
    UNDER IT'S OWN RAFTERS – reference to life and death in and around Heptonstall. Hughes likens the bare ribs of a dead and decaying sheep to the rafters of a roof.

    ONLY THE FLIES LEAVE IT - if it is left by flies it must be pretty rank but obviously not left by scavengers etc? Not particularly getting this line.

    SKULL OF A BIRD – while we’re on death and skulls how about birds, whose skulls will no doubt be seen occasionally on the moors.

    THE GREAT GEOGRAPHIE – not getting a connection here between skull of a bird and the great geographie. What I take from the great geographie is the moorland landscape cut by deep valleys as it is.

    DRAINED TO SUTURES – sutures = bridges? Can’t think of anything else. The water drains off the moors and into the deeply cut valleys. Cuts are closed by sutures and valley sides are joined by bridges across rivers, also joining the communities on either side.

    OF CRACKED WINDOWSILLS - likening the deeply cut landscape to windowsills rotted by rain and now splitting into cuts down which water runs. So the cracked window sills are a similie for the moorland landscape.

    LIFE TRIES. – We try to live in this vast, damp, space that is full of death, on the moor as in the churchyard.

    DEATH TRIES. – Death tries to take us, despite us trying to live.

    THE STONE TRIES. – Hmm interesting, the stone houses, the stone walls, the rocks in the landscape – these all seem to resist the effects of decay.

    ONLY THE RAIN NEVER TRIES – it just is; an ever present feature of life. It blackens the grave stones, melts the dead sheep, drains off the moor and into the rivers, rots and cracks the windowsills and makes them look like the landscape. In some ways it defines the landscape and the village – the stone houses built to resist the rain and preserve life, the bridges built to join the people either side of the fast flowing rivers.


    Maybe our village idiot has something to do with all this. Maybe Hughes is referring to himself as the village idiot. Perhaps there is a reference to the death of Sylvia, I don’t know whether this poem pre-dates or post dates her suicide. Possibly his dreams of life with Sylvia are now reduced to her grave in this village that is shaped by the rain. Timing is critical. If the timing is not right this bit is rubbish.


    BTW I like the look of your new race - down to Horse Bridge, up past the memorial to Pecket Well Mill and on to High Brown Knoll, then back. Definitely tempted.

  2. #11762

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by Stolly View Post
    The claw marks on my leg

    It was probably a bear attack?
    A tiger, a werewolf or a knife fight?
    Or a great white bit my leg and spat it back?
    Someone even suggested a chihuahua given the height!

    But no, it was none of that
    It was just heather, a sticky out bit
    On Ogden Moor, me running out flat
    I slipped and fell... like a complete tit!

    he he ! ahem...i mean, poor you stollster! nice ditty tho!

  3. #11763

    Re: Today's poet

    stevie looks like you have working hard on that ted hughes/ heptonstall interpretation i have nothing to add! :thumbup:


    i am really enjoying rumi's work at the minute...i like this poem about change and time....i thinking he is using death as a metaphor? or am i just thick?

    Quietness
    Rumi

    Inside this new love, die.
    Your way begins on the other side.
    Become the sky.
    Take an axe to the prison wall.
    Escape.
    Walk out like somebody suddenly born into color.
    Do it now.
    You’re covered with thick cloud.
    Slide out the side.
    Die,
    and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
    that you’ve died.
    Your old life was a frantic running
    from silence.

    The speechless full moon
    comes out now.
    Last edited by freckle; 17-06-2011 at 10:26 PM.

  4. #11764

    Re: Today's poet

    Hope is the thing with feathers
    Emily Dickinson

    Hope is the thing with feathers
    That perches in the soul,
    And sings the tune without the words,
    And never stops at all,

    And sweetest in the gale is heard;
    And sore must be the storm
    That could abash the little bird
    That kept so many warm.

    I've heard it in the chilliest land
    And on the strangest sea;
    Yet, never, in extremity,
    It asked a crumb of me

  5. #11765
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    Re: Today's poet

    Thanks for this Freckle...a much needed poem on a day when I've been hopeless! Just one day out of lots of really good ones though. I liked the Rumi. We seem to be in tune somewhat as yesterday I was blown away by a beautiful Rumi poem in the meditation part of my yoga session.xx

    Quote Originally Posted by freckle View Post
    Hope is the thing with feathers
    Emily Dickinson

    Hope is the thing with feathers
    That perches in the soul,
    And sings the tune without the words,
    And never stops at all,

    And sweetest in the gale is heard;
    And sore must be the storm
    That could abash the little bird
    That kept so many warm.

    I've heard it in the chilliest land
    And on the strangest sea;
    Yet, never, in extremity,
    It asked a crumb of me

  6. #11766

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by Hes View Post
    Thanks for this Freckle...a much needed poem on a day when I've been hopeless! Just one day out of lots of really good ones though. I liked the Rumi. We seem to be in tune somewhat as yesterday I was blown away by a beautiful Rumi poem in the meditation part of my yoga session.xx
    i really like the sound of that yoga class, sometimes i wish you lived just down the road so you could drag me to such groovy things....anyhoo, hope you are having a better day hes and that your allotment has had a restorative effect x

    heres another poem from "being human"....

    A Quiet Joy
    Yehuda Amichai

    I am standing in a place I once loved.
    The rain is falling. The rain is my home.

    I think words of longing: a landscape
    out to the very edge of what's possible.

    I remember you waving your hand
    as if wiping mist from the windowpane,

    and your face, as if enlarged
    from an old blurred photo.

    Once I committed a terrible wrong
    to myself and others.

    But the world is beautifully made for doing good
    and for resting, like a park bench.

    And late in life I discovered
    a quiet joy
    like a serious disease that's discovered too late:

    just a little time left now for quiet joy.

  7. #11767
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    Re: Today's poet

    Enjoyed your 'joy' poem Freckle. Not much compares to a little quiet joy! Here's another I think you may like..I do love a bit of Rilke now and again!


    Blank Joy

    She who did not come, wasn't she determined
    nonetheless to organize and decorate my heart?
    If we had to exist to become the one we love,
    what would the heart have to create?

    Lovely joy left blank, perhaps you are
    the center of all my labors and my loves.
    If I've wept for you so much, it's because
    I preferred you among so many outlined joys.


    Rainer Maria Rilke

  8. #11768
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    Re: Today's poet

    Two lovely choices Freckle and MG. I've been doing Open Studios and, whilst discussing the origins of my hare prints (a poem), a lady told me about a brilliant poem that she learnt as a child and she has just emailed it to me. So here it is, for all you dog lovers or people that can relate to not being part of the pack!

    Lone Dog

    I'M a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
    I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
    I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, tossing silly sheep;
    I love to sit and bay the moon, and keep fat souls from sleep.

    I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
    A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
    Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
    But shut door and sharp stone and cuff and kick and hate.

    Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
    Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
    O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
    West wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!


    Irene Rutherford Mcleod. 1891–

  9. #11769
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    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by Hes View Post

    Lone Dog

    I'M a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
    I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
    I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, tossing silly sheep;
    I love to sit and bay the moon, and keep fat souls from sleep.

    I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
    A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
    Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
    But shut door and sharp stone and cuff and kick and hate.

    Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
    Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
    O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
    West wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!


    Irene Rutherford Mcleod. 1891–
    Brilliant Hester. Harry loves that poem


  10. #11770
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    Re: Today's poet

    Hes choice made me think of this one.

    The Untamed

    My garden is the wild
    Sea of the grass. Her garden
    Shelters between walls.
    The tide could break in;
    I should be sorry for this.

    There is peace there of a kind,
    Though not the deep peace
    Of wild places. Her care
    For green life has enabled
    The weak things to grow.

    Despite my first love,
    I take sometimes her hand,
    Following strait paths
    Between flowers, the nostril
    Clogged with their thick scent.

    The old softness of lawns
    Persuading the slow foot
    Leads to defection: the silence
    Holds with its gloved hand
    The wild hawk of the mind.

    But not for long, windows,
    Opening in the trees
    Call the mind back
    To its true eyrie: I stoop
    Here only in play.

    R.S. Thomas

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