Today's poet

[Dynamo Dan]

Another poem about a bird, The Darkling Thrush, by Thomas Hardy.

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited ;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

[Mossdog]

You didn't spoil it at all Mossy. I read it quickly the other day and it summed up something that I was feeling at the time but having read it a few times since, it makes me feel uncomfortable. Its almost as if the narrator is trying to strike a bargain with the person they love that they each focus solely on each other at the expense of all else. Having had a negative experience in the not too distant past of something along those lines...I would definitely say that love should never be about possession and all about encouraging dreams. I like this thread for the fact that you can get a different perspective on poems days later and hear other people's opinions.

I don't know about you, but my poetry writing skills (if that's what you could call them) have really diminished lately. Its a shame because I would really like to express myself better.:closed:

Ah but i also know that when you do, you do so, so very eloquently Hes - they're worth waiting for. Be patient with yourself, practice-doodle with words just for the sheer pleasure of doodling with no other aim and simply for yourself and when it's right they will flow again for sure and hopefully you'll share them with us too.

[Mossdog]

Another poem about a bird, The Darkling Thrush, by Thomas Hardy.

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited ;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Don't want to over interpret that poem DD, but I think it magnificently conveys the sense of hope even amongst the seemingly pervasively dismal - it's really quite uplifting. What's that saying....in the deepest of dark, even the smallest of lights will still shine out. Thanks for posting.

[Mossdog]

I've posted this at least twice before but I love it so I'm posting it again for the benefit of the new people on the thread...just you try and stop me!:thumbup:

FLOWERS
Anne Michaels

There's another skin inside my skin
that gathers to your touch, a lake to the light;
that looses its memory, its lost language
into your tongue,
erasing me into newness.

Just when the body thinks it knows
the ways of knowing itself,
this second skin continues to answer.

In the street - café chairs abandoned
on terraces; market stalls emptied
of their solid light,
though pavement still breathes
summer grapes and peaches.
Like the light of anything that grows
from this newly-turned earth,
every tip of me gathers under your touch,
wind wrapping my dress around our legs,
your shirt twisting to flowers in my fists.

YEAH - Right on Sister!

[Dynamo Dan]

Don't want to over interpret that poem DD, but I think it magnificently conveys the sense of hope even amongst the seemingly pervasively dismal - it's really quite uplifting. What's that saying....in the deepest of dark, even the smallest of lights will still shine out. Thanks for posting.

I thought it apt now the nights are drawing in!

Here's something short and sweet by Ezra Pound:

In a Station of the Metro

THE apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

[Mossdog]

And now something from our Sylvia P..

Pheasant

You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical : it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The tail-track, on the snow in our court-

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill - green and red,
Crossing and recrossing : a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

[Hes]

Thanks Mossy, you are very kind! I might give your doodling idea a go.

Ah but i also know that when you do, you do so, so very eloquently Hes - they're worth waiting for. Be patient with yourself, practice-doodle with words just for the sheer pleasure of doodling with no other aim and simply for yourself and when it's right they will flow again for sure and hopefully you'll share them with us too.

[Hes]

I was trawling through 'The Poetry of Birds' to post a bird themed poem after Dynamo Dan's and Mossdog's offerings but I found this at the end of the book and really liked it so I'll post this for now.

Hope

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 chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

[freckle]

I was trawling through 'The Poetry of Birds' to post a bird themed poem after Dynamo Dan's and Mossdog's offerings but I found this at the end of the book and really liked it so I'll post this for now.

Hope

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 chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

Such a lovely poem and one to remember in times of uncertainty and stress...I haven't felt like writing much either lately but an emotional week changed that a bit, forgive me, I am a bit rusty....

The slip

You lieing in a hospital bed
Trying to give the unfathomable deep
The slip (in my head)
For the second time
I am struck...

A moment in time, highlights
The impermanence of a gift
Writ in your washed out face
Which keeps smiling and there look
Lithe limbs and oh so perfectly
Formed feet

I berate my memory at forgetting these facts
Or your nature which does not protest
at a mere canula
Nor the observations in the wee hours
They look at your fingers, write down numbers
With your love of calculation,
you would appreciate that.

Meanwhile, me with my secular praying
Wills your fine flaxen hair
the palest of blue eyes
Back and via elevated blood cell counts
To rollerblades and moshi monsters
causing havoc with your little sister
a razor sharp memory
and an overall reluctance to sleep

Willing you back
To your mothers arms.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LnHoqHscTKE&ob=av3n

[Hes]

That's such a moving & poetic account of your recent trials Freckle, fantastic stuff! Made me want to cry. I do hope Sophe makes a speedy recovery.xxxx

Such a lovely poem and one to remember in times of uncertainty and stress...I haven't felt like writing much either lately but an emotional week changed that a bit, forgive me, I am a bit rusty....

The slip

You lieing in a hospital bed
Trying to give the unfathomable deep
The slip (in my head)
For the second time
I am struck...

A moment in time, highlights
The impermanence of a gift
Writ in your washed out face
Which keeps smiling and there look
Lithe limbs and oh so perfectly
Formed feet

I berate my memory at forgetting these facts
Or your nature which does not protest
at a mere canula
Nor the observations in the wee hours
They look at your fingers, write down numbers
With your love of calculation,
you would appreciate that.

Meanwhile, me with my secular praying
Wills your fine flaxen hair
the palest of blue eyes
Back and via elevated blood cell counts
To rollerblades and moshi monsters
causing havoc with your little sister
a razor sharp memory
and an overall reluctance to sleep

Willing you back
To your mothers arms.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LnHoqHscTKE&ob=av3n