Today's poet

[Mossdog]

I read this poem on here the other night Alf and I loved it but was too tired to log in and say so, so I'm saying it now! I especially like the verse that you highlighted. We are in the midst of Masham Arts Festival here and on thursday it is poems and a pint night. I am going to take some of my favourite poems to read but am wondering if I have enough courage to read out one of my own (maybe I can say it was by a 'friend').

Yes! Go for it Hes - you really do have some really excellently written verse, bursting with talent.

[freckle]

Its been really lively on the thread lately...lovin it!

Love
Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills.
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.
Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

[freckle]

I enjoyed the Carol Ann Duffy poem that freckle posted so here is another.



Demeter

Where I lived—winter and hard earth.
I sat in my cold stone room
choosing tough words, granite, flint,

to break the ice. My broken heart—
I tried that, but it skimmed,
flat, over the frozen lake.

She came from a long, long way,
but I saw her at last, walking,
my daughter, my girl, across the fields,

in bare feet, bringing all spring’s flowers
to her mother’s house. I swear
the air softened and warmed as she moved,

the blue sky smiling, none too soon,
with the small shy mouth of a new moon.


Carol Ann Duffy

Beautiful choice Alf brought a tear to my eye!

[Mossdog]

but the other

but the other
day i was passing a certain
gate rain
fell as it will


in spring
ropes
of silver gliding from sunny
thunder into freshness


as if god's flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold i looked
up


and
thought to myself death
and will You with
elaborate fingers possibly touch


the pink hollyhock existence whose
pansy eyes look from morning till
night into the street
unchangingly the always


old lady sitting in her
gentle window like
a reminiscence
partaken


softly at whose gate smile
always the chosen
flowers of reminding

ee cummings

[Alf]

Its been really lively on the thread lately...lovin it!

Love
Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills.
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.
Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

Excellent choice freckle. A new poet for me!

[Alf]

but the other

but the other
day i was passing a certain
gate rain
fell as it will


in spring
ropes
of silver gliding from sunny
thunder into freshness


as if god's flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold i looked
up


and
thought to myself death
and will You with
elaborate fingers possibly touch


the pink hollyhock existence whose
pansy eyes look from morning till
night into the street
unchangingly the always


old lady sitting in her
gentle window like
a reminiscence
partaken


softly at whose gate smile
always the chosen
flowers of reminding

ee cummings

"ropes of silver" nice selection Mossy!

[Alf]

Beautiful choice Alf brought a tear to my eye!

The title sort of gives it away but you can read it other ways as well which is, after all, what makes a good poem

[Alf]

White-Eyes


In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—

which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.


Mary Oliver

[Stef F]

I can't focus on tonight's poetry. I'll try again tomorrow.

[Mossdog]

White-Eyes


In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—

which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.


Mary Oliver

That's such a very beautiful poem. What lovely imagery. Cheers Alf.