Today's poet

[OneOffPoet]

Felt the need to repost this today, with thoughts to the subjects of this poem.

Boxes

There’s a woman who keeps things in boxes
Keepsakes, mostly of her kids
There are photos of gap-toothed boys and girls
There are paintings and drawings they did

There are trophies, and ribbons
An old newspaper clip of a young bride
There are piles of old valentines cards
‘I Love You’ is written inside

There’s a hat, something borrowed
There’s a veil, something new
There’s a bible, something old
There’s a letter, something blue

There’s a letter, something blue
Came on a day that turned black
A grateful nation informs you
Your first lieutenant is not coming back

There are valentines cards, and valentines cards…..
Some flowers carefully dried
There are valentines cards, and valentines cards…..
‘I Love You’ is written inside

[Alf]

Here is a poem by David Gascoyne, expressing his optimism and hopes for the future as the world recovers from the second world war.

September Sun: 1947

Magnificent strong sun! In these last days
So prodigally generous of pristine light
That’s wasted only man’s sight who will not see
And by self-darkened spirits from whose night
Can rise no longer prison or praise:

Let us consume in fire unfed like yours
And may the quickened gold within me come
To mintage in due season, and not be
Transmuted to no better end than dumb
And self-sufficient usury. These days and years

May bring the sudden call to harvesting,
When in the fields man’s labours only yield
Glitter and husks, then with an angrier sun may He
Who first with His gold seed the sightless field
Of Chaos planted, all our trash to cinders bring.

Good choice Stevie, we always need hope

[Alf]

Felt the need to repost this today, with thoughts to the subjects of this poem.

Boxes

There’s a woman who keeps things in boxes
Keepsakes, mostly of her kids
There are photos of gap-toothed boys and girls
There are paintings and drawings they did

There are trophies, and ribbons
An old newspaper clip of a young bride
There are piles of old valentines cards
‘I Love You’ is written inside

There’s a hat, something borrowed
There’s a veil, something new
There’s a bible, something old
There’s a letter, something blue

There’s a letter, something blue
Came on a day that turned black
A grateful nation informs you
Your first lieutenant is not coming back

There are valentines cards, and valentines cards…..
Some flowers carefully dried
There are valentines cards, and valentines cards…..
‘I Love You’ is written inside

Absolutely right and very apt OOP

[Alf]

This was written by Siegried Sassoon when he was recovering from "mental illness" at Craiglockhart in 1917 where he met Wilfred Owen for the first time.
He had actually been criticizing the war so they thought he must be mentally ill

Banishment

I am banished from the patient men who fight
They smote my heart to pity, built my pride.
Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side,
They trudged away from life’s broad wealds of light.
Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight
They went arrayed in honour. But they died,—
Not one by one: and mutinous I cried
To those who sent them out into the night.

The darkness tells how vainly I have striven
To free them from the pit where they must dwell
In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven
By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel.
Love drives me back to grope with them through hell;
And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.

Siegfried Sassoon

[Alf]

Another one from Craiglockhart:


Survivors

No doubt they’ll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they’re ‘longing to go out again,’—
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.
They’ll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,—
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they’ll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter’d all their pride…
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.


Siegfried Sassoon

[freckle]

Soft and Silent


Everything I love is soft and silent
My cat, the morning, the end of the day,
Even the moon in its way.

Everything I love is soft and silent,
The water, the forest, the snow at play,
Even the mountain in its way.

Everything I love is soft and silent,
The sun on the sand, a rainy day,
Even the wind in it's way.

Everything I love is soft and silent,
The grass, the brook, the leaves at play,
Even you in your way.


James Kavanaugh

This is just lovely and there have been so many great poems on here over the past couple of days posted by one and all...i have particularly enjoyed the poems referring to armistice day...even though i am not remotely patriotic i think there is something fundamentally important about the two minute silence...something humbling and deeply human that reminds us that life is all too short and precious..

[freckle]

what you are i cannot say;
only i know full well-
when i touched your face today
drifts of blossom flushed and fell.

whence you came i cannot tell;
only-with joy you start
chime on chime from bell on bell
in the cloisters of my heart.

siegfried sassoon

[freckle]

Felt the need to repost this today, with thoughts to the subjects of this poem.

Boxes

There’s a woman who keeps things in boxes
Keepsakes, mostly of her kids
There are photos of gap-toothed boys and girls
There are paintings and drawings they did

There are trophies, and ribbons
An old newspaper clip of a young bride
There are piles of old valentines cards
‘I Love You’ is written inside

There’s a hat, something borrowed
There’s a veil, something new
There’s a bible, something old
There’s a letter, something blue

There’s a letter, something blue
Came on a day that turned black
A grateful nation informs you
Your first lieutenant is not coming back

There are valentines cards, and valentines cards…..
Some flowers carefully dried
There are valentines cards, and valentines cards…..
‘I Love You’ is written inside

is this yours? v good one off!

[freckle]

In Flanders Fields
John McCrae, May 1915


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

[Hes]

The war poetry posted has been beautiful.

I went looking for something apt for this weekend but couldn't find what I was looking for. Instead I found this...I really like it:


Inland Song

In some kind houses the doors
never quite shut. Every table
hosts a bowl of eggs—wooden ones
or striped stone, cool to touch.

What could grow in an egg like that?
A day becomes a story becomes a bird,
a lost seagull who shrinks each time
I describe him. Watch him fold

his filigree wings, crawl into
the shell. His song wasn't much,
but he tries to swallow it,
as if he can retreat

to an ornamental state
of potential. This is not possible,
even in an inland village named
Barnacle. Just brush your fingers

over the eggs as you leave,
memorize the feel of the grain.
The paths are thick with nettles,
but if they sting, rub the blisters

with a fistful of dock. Pain
and consolation grow next
to each other, in some kind
countries. House and wing.

Lesley Wheeler