Today's poet

[freckle]

I had a misty drive back from running the three peaks today and as the night fell I listened to the new series of Poetry Please on Radio 4. I loved this poem because it is full of optimism and I have high hopes for 2012.

SOMETIMES
by Sheenagh Pugh

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

I was listening too on my way back home from a long run (but not as long as yours!)...i really enjoyed this one and the two longfellow ones, this made me long for some snow...

Snow-Flakes
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

ps its great to see this thread so lively at the minute !

[Hes]

Oooh great choice, I loved that one too. Hope you enjoyed your run Freckle.xx

I was listening too on my way back home from a long run (but not as long as yours!)...i really enjoyed this one and the two longfellow ones, this made me long for some snow...

Snow-Flakes
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

ps its great to see this thread so lively at the minute !

[Alf]

Just been catching up on Poetry Please on Iplayer :thumbup:

As well as the two poems posted by Hes and freckle I liked this one as well by Auden.


On This Island

Look, stranger, on this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.

Here at a small field's ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the suck-
-ing surf, and a gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.

Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands,
And this full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.


W. H. Auden


Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly

Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly
Of all the things that are the outward you,
And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through
To webs of my own weaving, or I see
Abstractedly your hands about your knee
And wonder why I love you as I do,
Then I recall, "Yet Sorrow thus he drew;"
Then I consider, "Pride thus painted he."
Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note
In me a beauty that was never mine,
How first you knew me in a book I wrote,
How first you loved me for a written line:
So are we bound till broken is the throat
Of Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

[Harry H Howgill]

It looks like Simon Armitage's book on his Pennine Way and encounter with the fell poets will be out in June. It is called "Walking Home".

[freckle]

It looks like Simon Armitage's book on his Pennine Way and encounter with the fell poets will be out in June. It is called "Walking Home".

OMG!...for some reason i feel nervous! hope he bigs up the dufton gig!

Alf-loved the millay, she is soo dramatic......

"So are we bound till broken is the throat"...Eek!

a women after my own heart!

[Harry H Howgill]

OMG!...for some reason i feel nervous! hope he bigs up the dufton gig!

Ha ha. I feel the same. I'm sure we left a lasting impression! Misty meeting, aeroplanes in the wind, and cadged mars bars.

[Mossdog]

I had a misty drive back from running the three peaks today and as the night fell I listened to the new series of Poetry Please on Radio 4. I loved this poem because it is full of optimism and I have high hopes for 2012.

SOMETIMES
by Sheenagh Pugh

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

That's lovely Hes and really uplifting - I'm thanking God again (whoever s/he/it might be) for this poetry thread, having just glanced at the Formumites' manifestos thread .

Hey! Must have just missed you last weekend Hes. Ran up from Dent onto Whernisde with a mate, got to the trig at about 11:00 ish - and then headed back down. Well done on your run.

[Mossdog]

Just been catching up on Poetry Please on Iplayer :thumbup:



Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly

Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly
Of all the things that are the outward you,
And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through
To webs of my own weaving, or I see
Abstractedly your hands about your knee
And wonder why I love you as I do,
Then I recall, "Yet Sorrow thus he drew;"
Then I consider, "Pride thus painted he."
Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note
In me a beauty that was never mine,
How first you knew me in a book I wrote,
How first you loved me for a written line:
So are we bound till broken is the throat
Of Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

At the risk of showing my huge ignorance - does anyone know where these quoted lines originated from? A quick Google has only led back to the poem. They sound biblical but I'm guessing that if that was the case they'd would have registered quite a few hits if true

[stevefoster]

That's lovely Hes and really uplifting - I'm thanking God again (whoever s/he/it might be) for this poetry thread, having just glanced at the Formumites' manifestos thread

Forumites manifesto, i'd rather eat pesto,
Thank god for poetry Mossy,
It's much less bossy,
Lets all be uplifted,
By something more gifted!

[stevefoster]

Has to said an all, with gusto..................i feckin hate pesto:wink: