very poignantOriginally Posted by Alf
very poignant
Poignant as well freckle. Another difficult poem to read and the triplet at the end doesn't seem to fit at first.....but then it does!
Nope and my cat is now feeling insulted
Creek Walk
Wading in the river current
pulling me in like
sliding under covers—
I become part of the riverbed, sediment
blending with my skin. I am woven
with wild grasses on banks,
molded to the surface of earth
in perfect curves, body fluid, rooted.
I could be washed away with a little rain.
What trickles harmless around me now
exposes roots of ancient trees
that lean toward light,
grow sideways to keep from sliding.
They will join the rapid flow,
deteriorate with me and we will deposit
in a delta with every other swallowed figure
from upriver. I dip my fingers in,
feel the stream make room for me.
I will share in this shifting
of earth—dirt loosened
until the roots give way.
Sarah M. Wells
Its Autumn outside and inside
The Autumn
Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them --
The summer flowers depart --
Sit still -- as all transform'd to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!
The dearest hands that clasp our hands, --
Their presence may be o'er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh'd our mind,
Shall come -- as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.
Hear not the wind -- view not the woods;
Look out o'er vale and hill-
In spring, the sky encircled them --
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn's scathe -- come winter's cold --
Come change -- and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne'er be desolate.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
All quiet on the Poetry front ? I was running in Linacre Woods just outside Chesterfield yesterday lunchtime on a cool Autumnal day kicking dead leaves and scattering grey squirrels as I followed an old route I hadn't been on for a good while. In fact it was probably Autumn 2011 the last time I was round that way.
Fall, leaves, fall
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
EMILY JANE BRONTË
In the Season of Green Gowns
Summer will take from you everything I desire
It will pluck at your sleeve, quietly undo
A handful of buttons, seeking no disclosure
That wasn't first fully consented to,
As you walked and turned in your mirror's candid gaze
And wouldn't be rushed. Summer, shyly approving,
Will lead you from chaste decision to easy living.
Summer will tell me what I could never enquire:
The pale length of your arm, sleeved in its years,
The freckled blush at the wrist. Summer confirms
The less-than-perfect as our most tender haunting.
It pours my desire into the depth of the mould
Like a conception. But, like a man or a child,
I simply can't tell if you are willing or wanting.
Carol Rumens
Am Yisrael Chai
Hi Alf
Stalwart of the poem thread these days. What delight these posts of your's have been - keep em coming. Was in the Hows today on my favourite run. Swatches of sunshine racing over the muted greens, grey and yellows of the hills. Had the place to myself as is usual, but abit like you, was just kicking around as I plodding up over and down...brilliant.
Am Yisrael Chai
Cheers Mossy :thumbup:
I was running round the hills above Mytholmroyd today flushing out Pheasant and Grouse and trotting round a few bogs. I didn't see any swans though
The Wild Swans at Coole
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
William Butler Yeats
I didn't see a Ringed Plover today either
Ringed Plover By A Water's Edge
They sprint eight feet and -
stop. Like that. They
sprintayard (like that) and
stop.
They have no acceleration
and no brakes.
Top speed's their only one.
They're alive - put life
through a burning-glass, they're
its focus - but they share
the world of delicate clockwork.
In spasmodic
Indian file
they parallel the parallel ripples.
When they stop
they, suddenly, are
gravel.
Norman MacCaig
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