*Poem of the day thread

[chrissie]

I spent all my summers for thirteen years in Mexborough with my grandparents until they emigrated to be with their eldest daughter. A fact which may interest only myself and perhaps, but not likely, Ted Hughes. (It is odd to think I probably met him and never knew - it was a small town and my Nana was a leading light in many ways. However, I have no idea who the footballer is.)

It is good to allow more than one poem a day if this thread has been quiet. But every now and again, maybe it is not so bad a thing to allow enough posts per day to average out as one? As long as we don't all do it, what do you think, RubyTooGood? A good lover of poetry would let it go once and again, perhaps?

The Wife of Bath might ask where we draw the line, of course. dormouse2 should be more tenacious - go on, post your poem!

My Grandmother in India
unrolls a thin worn cotton pad on mud packed floor,
and lies down to take her nind.
A bony hand her only pillow.
Black saree her only wrap.

Sound asleep in seconds.

Copyright ©2000, Jay Alagia

 

[RubyToogood]

I think more than one is allowable if the thread's been quiet, but more than two is too much IMO. The point of the thread is to offer poetry in bite-sized pieces that don't overwhelm.

 

[Guanabana]

More Auden

W. H. Auden:
"The Two" (or "The Witnesses")


THE TWO


You are the town and we are the clock.
We are the guardians of the gate in the rock.
The Two.
On your left and on your right
In the day and in the night,
We are watching you.

Wiser not to ask just what has occurred
To them who disobeyed our word;
To those
We were the whirlpool, we were the reef,
We were the formal nightmare, grief
And the unlucky rose.

Climb up the crane , learn the sailor's words
When the ships from the islands laden with birds
Come in.
Tell your stories of fishing and other men's wives:
The expansive moments of constricted lives
In the lighted inn.

But do not imagine we do not know
Nor that what you hide with such care won't show
At a glance.
Nothing is done, nothing is said,
But don't make the mistake of believing us dead:
I shouldn't dance.

We're afraid in that case you'll have a fall.
We've been watching you over the garden wall
For hours.
The sky is darkening like a stain,
Something is going to fall like rain
And it won't be flowers.

When the green field comes off like a lid
Revealing what was much better hid:
Unpleasant.
And look, behind you without a sound
The woods have come up and are standing round
In deadly crescent.

The bolt is sliding in its groove,
Outside the window is the black remov-
ers' van.
And now with sudden swift emergence
Come the woman in dark glasses and humpbacked surgeons
And the scissors man.

This might happen any day
So be careful what you say
Or do.
Be clean, be tidy, oil the lock,
Trim the garden, wind the clock,
Remember the Two.

 

[chazegee]

[Sorry, I've deleted this because it's getting completely out of hand now. This thread isn't exactly short of posts at the moment, and if you want to post your own work then please start another thread for it. R2G]

 

[Sasaferrato]

William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903

7. Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance 5
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 10
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate: 15
I am the captain of my soul.

 

[pooka]

However, I have no idea who the footballer is.

That's probably because he came from Thurnscoe, about 5 miles away - a long way in the Dearne Valley!

 

[Concrete Meadow]

on Friday the 13th and eve of the full moon -



To The Moon

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, -
And ever - changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

[chrissie]

Poems and science don't seem natural bedfellows, but I like this one:

The Mandelbrot Set

I zoom down in on more and more detail
On my computer screen, til late at night,
And marvel how those million swirls of light
Lie hidden in a scant equation's pale:

Variety that custom cannot stale,
As though whole planets full of creatures might
Be hidden in an egg--compressed as tight
As an age of fossils in an inch of shale.

If there's a God--though in my heart, I just
Cannot convince myself there is--She must,
I think, feel something of this same delight:

"Look here what swirling forms, what flowers, what jewels,
Snails, novas, Newton--from these simple rules:
Six quarks, four forces, evolution, light!"

Raphael Carter (1994)

 

[pooka]

If it's science and poetry you're after, here's one from Miroslav Holub, a Czech pathologist.

Pathology

Here in the Lords bosom rest
the tongues of beggars,
the lungs of generals,
the eyes of informers,
the skins of martyrs,

in the absolute of
of the microscope lenses.

I leaf through Old Testament slices of liver,
in the white monuments of brain I read
the hieroglyphs
of decay.

Behold, Christians,
Heaven, Hell and Paradise
in bottles.
And no wailing,
not even a sigh.
Only dust moans.
Dumb is history
Strained
through capillaries.

Equality dumb. Fraternity dumb.

And out of the tricolours of mortal suffering
we day after day
pull
threads of wisdom

Miroslav Holub (1924 -1998)

 

[chrissie]

That last one seemed a bit gloomy at first but was quite optimistic in the end.

The quota has gone today but how about seeing who can post a poem about birth or parenthood in honour of Zee, CyberP's and Daisy, their new baby?

 

[butchersapron]

Here's one from Blakes 'Songs of ...' - this one is from the Innocence section, not sure if it's quite approriate though:

A Cradle Song

Sweet dreams form a shade
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams

Sweet sleep with soft down,
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.

Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles
All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep sleep happy child.
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep

Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee,
Thy maker lay and wept for me

Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee.

Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are his own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

 

[RubyToogood]

I'm going to, ahem, break my own rule because I think that poem really needs its opposite number from the Songs of Experience. I like Blake's illustrations but I don't quite "get" some of his poems, like the one above. I just tend to think "what a load of twaddle". I'd be interested to hear Chrissie's (or anyone else's) views of Blake.

Cradle Song

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful light shall break.

 

[butchersapron]

I was going to do that but thought i'd better not as it breaks the rules and might be a bit of downer - plus in my version fro some reason the 2nd one is not included in the collection - despite it claiming to be complete.

 

[RubyToogood]

PS I came across this poetry site which also has a poem of the day, and a random poem thingy.

 

[RubyToogood]

I agree it's a bit of a downer, but I think you need one after that!

 

[chrissie]

Originally posted by RubyToogood
II'd be interested to hear Chrissie's (or anyone else's) views of Blake

I am supposed to like him in case I am ever forced to teach him. Some of his stuff is wonderfully visual and rolls off the tongue, but a great deal of it sentimental codswallop. Still, it made him happy as he say in his garden in the noddy!

I could well be shot for such heresy.

I like Keats the bestest - wonderfully fecund stuff!

 

[Rua]

To keep on the childbirth theme, and to add in an Irish touch, seeing as it was Bloomsday yesterday, here's Louis MacNeice:

Louis MacNeice - Prayer before Birth

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.
---

Also a bit depressing, but still a great poem.

 

[chrissie]

By gum!

Notwithstanding the greatness of the poetry in the current offerings, young Daisy could have trouble with some of these birth poems.

Anyone got a celebratory one?

 

[Rua]

I was actually looking for "The Birth" by Paul Muldoon, but I couldn't find it on the internet and my book is in storage.

So here is "The Cradle Song for Asher" also by Muldoon:

When they cut your birth cord yesterday
it was I who drifted away.
Now I hear your name (in Hebrew, "blest")
as yet another release of ballast
- and see, beyond your wicker
gondola, camp-fires, cities, whole continents flicker.

 

[Concrete Meadow]

For Aung San Suu Kyi, on her 58th birthday today, the 19th of June -


I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.


- Emily Dickinson

 

[chrissie]

I think Daisy will be happy with the flicker of whole continents!

Cheers. I feel better too, now.

And so to move on to other subjects.....

 

[Rua]

Here's one of my very favourite poems by the Palestinian poet, Mahmud Darwish.


On this great journey, I love you more


On this great journey I love you more. After a while
you will lock the city gates. I have no heart in your hands, and no
road to carry me; on this great journey I love you more.

There is no milk for the pomegranate on our balcony since leaving your breast.
The date palm grows lighter, the weight of the hill
lighter, and lighter too our paths to the sunset.
The earth grew lighter as it waved goodbye to its land. The words grew lighter
and the stories grew lighter on the steps of the night.
But my heart is heavy.

So leave it here beside your house, howling and crying
for our beautiful time.
I have no homeland but my heart,
on this great journey I love you more.

I have emptied my soul of all words: I love you more
On this journey the butterflies guide our souls,
on this journey we remember the button of a shirt we had lost,
and forget the crown of our days;
we remember the perfume of apricot liqueur, and forget
the dance of the horse on our wedding night.

On this journey
we are equal to the birds,
we are gentle with our days, and are content with little.
If it were from you, I would be content
with a golden dagger dancing in my murdered heart.

So kill me at your leisure, that I might say: I love you more than
I said before this great journey.
I love you.
Nothing can hurt me now
Not the sky, not the water …
Not the basil of your morning
Nor the lilac of your evening
can hurt me after this great journey …

 

[Thumper Browne]

A short poem by Spike Milligan......

Po.

 

[Yossarian]

I Want To Paint
Adrian Henri


Part One
I want to paint
2000 dead birds crucified on a background of night
Thoughts that lie too deep for tears
Thoughts that lie too deep for queers
Thoughts that move at 186000 miles/second
The Entry of Christ into Liverpool in 1966
The Installation of Roger McGough to the Chair of Poetry at
Oxford
Francis Bacon making the President's Speech at the Royal
Academy Dinner

I want to paint
50 life-sized nudes of Marianne Faithfull
(all of them painted from life)
Welsh Maids by Welsh Waterfalls
Heather Holden as Our Lady of Haslingden
A painting as big as Picadilly full of neon signs buses
Christmas decorations and beautiful girls with dark blonde
hair shading their faces

I want to paint
The assassination of the entire Royal Family
Enormous pictures of every pavingstone in Canning Street
The Beatles composing a new National Anthem
Brian Patten writing poems with a flamethrower on disused
ferryboats

A new cathedral 50 miles high made entirely of pram-wheels
An empty Woodbine packet covered in kisses
I want to paint
A picture made from the tears of dirty-faced children in
Chatham Street
I want to paint
I LOVE YOU across the steps of St George's Hall
I want to paint
pictures.


Part Two
I want to paint
The Simultaneous and Historical Faces of Death
10000 shocking pink hearts with your name on
The phantom negro postmen who bring me money in my
dreams
The first plastic daffodil of Spring pushing its way
through the OMO packets in the Supermarket
The portrait of every 6th Form schoolgirl in the country
A full-scale map of the World with YOU at the centre
An enormous lily-of-the-valley with every flower on a separate
canvas

Lifesize jellybabies shaped like Hayley Mills
A black-and-red flag flying over Parliament
I want to paint
Every car crash on all the motorways of England
Pere Ubu drunk at 11 o'clock at night in Lime Street
A SYSTEMATIC DERANGEMENT OF ALL THE SENSES
In black running letters 50 miles high over Liverpool

I want to paint
Pictures that children can play hopscotch on
Pictures that can be used as evidence at Murder trials
Pictures that can be used to advertise cornflakes
Pictures that can be used to frighten naughty children
Pictures worth their weight in money
Pictures that tramps can live in
Pictures that children would find in their stockings on
Christmas morning
Pictures that teenage lovers can send each other
I want to paint
pictures.

 

[PearlySpencer]

Nice one yossarian - good stuff

 

[PearlySpencer]

This is one of my favourites. Never fails to move me.

The Terrible Things

They will do terrible things
to your face-
wiping away the colours of dreaming
from your eyes
and forking your tongue's
innocent laughter


Storming the secret places
of your garden mind
where magic seeds your life with wonder,
they will prune and dig and hack
and leave a dreadful emptiness
where once jungles flowered.


When your body would bend
itself to earth's warm pulse
or drink the juices of the seasons
or paint the skies
with fierce imaginings
they will erect barriers and cages
around the wild creature
which is your soul.


And you will forget
that once you knew
the power of magic
and the joy of freedom
as you wither away
behind the terrible things
they have done to your face.



Tina Morris

 

[PearlySpencer]

And on a lighter note

My cat and i

Girls are simply the prettiest things
My cat and i believe
And we're always saddened
When it's time for them to leave


We watch them titivating
(that often takes a while)
And though they keep us waiting
My cat and i just smile


We like to see them to the door
Say how sad it couldn't last
Then my cat and i go back inside
And talk about the past.


Roger McGough

 

[PearlySpencer]

Beginnings


Next year's echo calls:
life really can change
foul government falls
ideas re-arrange
leaders get rumbled
false prophets fade
the old order crumbles
we move out of the shade
walls will come down
the prisons are burning
under cold ground
warm worms are turning


Jeff Cloves

 

[Wyn]

After Love

Afterwards, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.

These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.

Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.

The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar

and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.

Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when

the wolf, the mongering wolf
who stands outside the self

lay lightly down, and slept.

Maxine Kumin

 

[Mr Retro]

This is Mrs R's favorite sonnet. I don't much like it myself. What do you peeps think of it?

Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.