Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Together

All my life
I was face to face
with her, at meal-times,
by the fire, even
in the ultimate intimacies
of the bed. You could have asked,
then, for information
about her? There was a room
apart she kept herself in,
teasing me by leading me
to its glass door, only
to confront me with
my reflection. I learned from her
even so. Walking her shore
I found things cast up
from her depths that spoke
to me of another order,
worshipper as I was
of untamed nature. She fetched
her treasures from art’s
storehouse: pieces of old
lace, delicate as frost;
china from a forgotten
period; a purse more valuable
than anything it could contain.
Coming in from the fields
with my offering of flowers
I found her garden
had forestalled me in providing
civilities for my desk.
‘Tell me about life,’
I would say, ‘you who were
its messenger in the delivery
of our child.’ Her eyes had a
fine shame, remembering her privacy
being invaded from further off than
she expected. ‘Do you think
death is the end?’ frivolously
I would ask her. I recall
now the swiftness of its arrival
wrenching her lip down, and how
the upper remained firm,
reticent as the bud that is
the precursor of the flower.

R. S. THOMAS

[Mossdog]

The Moor

It was like a church to me.
I entered it on soft foot,
Breath held like a cap in the hand.
It was quiet.
What God was there made himself felt,
Not listened to, in clean colours
That brought a moistening of the eye,
In movement of the wind over grass.

There were no prayers said. But stillness
Of the heart's passions -- that was praise
Enough; and the mind's cession
Of its kingdom. I walked on,
Simple and poor, while the air crumbled
And broke on me generously as bread.

R S Thomas

[Mossdog]

Something fruity for a sombre Tuesday night...ahem...

‘Carnal Apple, Woman Filled, Burning Moon,’

Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,
slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.

Pablo Neruda

[Alf]

The Mariner’s Compass

by Simon Armitage

Living alone, I’m sailing the world
single-handed in a rented house.
Last week I rounded the Cape of Good Hope,
came through in one piece;

this morning, flying fish
lying dead in the porch with the post.
I peg out duvet covers and sheets
to save fuel when the wind blows,

tune the engine so it purrs all night
like a fridge, run upstairs
with the old-fashioned thought
of plotting a course by the stars.

Friends wave from the cliffs,
talk nervously about the coast-guard station.
Under the rules, close contact
with another soul means disqualification.

Is this about the "joys" of living alone ?


On another track I was reading the NY Times review of 'Walking Home' the other day:

"This parade becomes a bit like a tweedy version of Forrest Gump’s grizzled jog across America, dozens of acolytes in tow."

Not a good review but I thought comparing Simon Armitage with Bill Bryson wasn't very helpful nor was comparing the Appalachian Trail with the Pennine Way :thunbdown:

[Mossdog]

Is this about the "joys" of living alone ?


On another track I was reading the NY Times review of 'Walking Home' the other day:

"This parade becomes a bit like a tweedy version of Forrest Gump’s grizzled jog across America, dozens of acolytes in tow."

Not a good review but I thought comparing Simon Armitage with Bill Bryson wasn't very helpful nor was comparing the Appalachian Trail with the Pennine Way :thunbdown:

I think your inverted commas "joys" are quite right Alf. There's a sad transience of life about it as if not a state of choice.

[Alf]

I think your inverted commas "joys" are quite right Alf. There's a sad transience of life about it as if not a state of choice.

I loved the two R S Thomas selections Mossy. "Breath held like a cap in the hand."

[Alf]

THE A30
A man on his own in a car
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle
and puffs at his pitiful life.

She's losing her looks very fast,
she loses her temper all day;
that lorry won't let me get past,
this Mini is blocking my way.

"Why can't you step on it and shift her!
I can't go on crawling like this!
At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead-
Thank heavens we don't have to kiss.

"I'd like a nice blonde on my knee
And one who won't argue or nag.
Who dares to come hooting at me?
I only give way to a Jag.

"You're barmy or plastered, I'll pass you, you bastard-
I will overtake you. I will!"
As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe
And the corner's accepting its kill.

John Betjeman

I like this - I drive for a living so helps me to calm my road rage.

I was listening to the radio last week and Suggs was on reading a John Betjeman poem about the death of his father which I hadn't heard before.

On a Portrait of a Deaf Man

The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,
The tie, discreetly loud,
The loosely fitting shooting clothes,
A closely fitting shroud.

He liked old city dining rooms,
Potatoes in their skin,
But now his mouth is wide to let
The London clay come in.

He took me on long silent walks
In country lanes when young.
He knew the names of ev'ry bird
But not the song it sung.

And when he could not hear me speak
He smiled and looked so wise
That now I do not like to think
Of maggots in his eyes.

He liked the rain-washed Cornish air
And smell of ploughed-up soil,
He liked a landscape big and bare
And painted it in oil.

But least of all he liked that place
Which hangs on Highgate Hill
Of soaked Carrara-covered earth
For Londoners to fill.

He would have liked to say goodbye,
Shake hands with many friends,
In Highgate now his finger-bones
Stick through his finger-ends.

You, God, who treat him thus and thus,
Say "Save his soul and pray."
You ask me to believe You and
I only see decay.

John Betjeman

[that_fjell_guy]

THE A30
A man on his own in a car
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with dottle
and puffs at his pitiful life.

She's losing her looks very fast,
she loses her temper all day;
that lorry won't let me get past,
this Mini is blocking my way.

"Why can't you step on it and shift her!
I can't go on crawling like this!
At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead-
Thank heavens we don't have to kiss.

"I'd like a nice blonde on my knee
And one who won't argue or nag.
Who dares to come hooting at me?
I only give way to a Jag.

"You're barmy or plastered, I'll pass you, you bastard-
I will overtake you. I will!"
As he clenches his pipe, his moment is ripe
And the corner's accepting its kill.

John Betjeman

I like this - I drive for a living so helps me to calm my road rage.

This has gone on my wee poetry copies document!! Like it!!

[Hes]

Me too! Just catching up and really enjoyed both. Also liked Mossy's saucy little number

I loved the two R S Thomas selections Mossy. "Breath held like a cap in the hand."

[that_fjell_guy]

I think I must like Betjeman 'cos I like the last one too! I have a cd of his poems with, I think Brittain played over them...or is it under them!?

Not Brittain...Jim Parker(!?). The cd is Britain by Betjeman.