*Poem of the day thread

[Ceej]

Just a random favourite...



On Eastnor Knoll
by John Masefield

SILENT are the woods, and the dim green boughs are
Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through
The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy
Calling the cows home.

A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but
Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset
Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on
The misty hill-tops.

Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning
Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are
A silent army of phantoms thronging
A land of shadows.

 

[tastebud]

This was an important one for me, yesterday

Chosen by a father for a deceased son, read by a cousin/neice:

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

/

 

[MightyAphrodite]

thats lovely and sad at the same time tastebud.

brought a tear to my eye.

 

[Ceej]

thats lovely and sad at the same time tastebud.

brought a tear to my eye.

Ditto. Gorgeous poem.

 

[lillia]

If I could write words – Spike Milligan

If I could write words
Like leaves on an autumn forest floor,
What a bonfire my letters would make.
If I could speak words of water,
You would drown when I said
“I love you.”



<sigh>

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

Being your slave what should I do but tend
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world without end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

-Sonnet 57 by Shakespeare

 

[London_Calling]

Heard this soppy shit on the radio - for Muvers Day:

How can that be my baby?
How can that be my son?
Standing on a rugger field,
more than six foot one.
Steam rising from him,
his legs are streaked with blood,
and he wears a yellow mouthguard,
in a face that's black with mud.

How can that be my baby?
How can he look like that?
I used to sit him on my knee
and read him postman pat.
Those little ears with cotton buds
I kept in perfect shape
But now they're big and purple
and they're fastened back with tape.

How can that be my baby?
When did he reach that size?
What happened to his wellies
with the little froggy eyes?
His shirt is on one shoulder
but it's hanging off the other
and the little baffled person at his feet
is me: his mother.


- Pam Ayres

 

[Mrs Magpie]

Tube Station

The tube lift mounts,
sap in a stem,
And blossoms its load,
a black, untidy rose.

The fountain of the escalator
curls at the crest,
breaks and scatters
A winnow of men,
a sickle of dark spray.


A. S. J. Tessimond

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

I like that one Mrs M

 

[Ceej]

Whenever I read a Pam Ayres poem, I hear it in a Pam Ayres voice - really irritating!


Apples.

My father is dying
He died nine years ago this June
They phoned from the hospital
with the news. His face a cask
once used for storing living things.
A cup of tea, grown cold and orange
on the stand beside the bed.
Length of his fingers, nails like horn,
unclipped. Though dead
my father is still dying.
Oh, slowly, sure as the long fall of rain
I reach out again for his apple
and bite into its flesh
and hold him - bright and sharp,
safe inside the hollow of my mouth.

John Harvey.

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

Come Into the Garden, Maud
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

 

[Clair De Lune]

Love and harmony combine,
And round our souls entwine
While thy branches mix with mine,
And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit,
Chirping loud and singing sweet;
Like gentle streams beneath our feet
Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,
I am clad in flowers fair;
Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,
And the turtle buildeth there.

There she sits and feeds her young,
Sweet I hear her mournful song;
And thy lovely leaves among,
There is love, I hear his tongue.

There his charming nest doth lay,
There he sleeps the night away;
There he sports along the day,
And doth among our branches play.

 

[Ceej]

One for a reflective Friday at midnight...

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

Friendship IXX
By Khalil Gibran

And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship."

Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay."

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?

Seek him always with hours to live.

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

Oh, I do love that poem. Haven't read it for a very long time though, thanks

This is cheating but I couldn't decide between the poem above and this one so I thought I'd choose them both. I try to overlook the religious overtones of his work so I usually ignore the last line of this one. I'm sure he wouldn't mind...



A Tear And A Smile
By Khalil Gibran

I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart
For the joys of the multitude.
And I would not have the tears that sadness makes
To flow from my every part turn into laughter.

I would that my life remain a tear and a smile.

A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding
Of life's secrets and hidden things.
A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and
To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods.

A tear to unite me with those of broken heart;
A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.

I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live Weary and despairing.

I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the
Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are
Satisfied the most wretched of people.
I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and Longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody.

With evening's coming the flower folds her petals
And sleeps, embracingher longing.
At morning's approach she opens her lips to meet
The sun's kiss.

The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment.
A tear and a smile.

The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come
Together and area cloud.

And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys
Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping
To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to Return to the sea, its home.

The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting.
A tear and a smile.

And so does the spirit become separated from
The greater spirit to move in the world of matter
And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow
And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death
And return whence it came.

To the ocean of Love and Beauty----to God.

 

[MightyAphrodite]

There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

 

[Ceej]

Mighty Aphrodite, someone sent me that poem after my son died - it still moves me. : indeed.


I'm feeling in need of something to stiffen the sinews today -

Invictus by WE Henley.

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,
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
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid

It matters not how strait the gate
How charged with punishments are the scroll
I am the Master of my fate
I am the Captain of my soul.


*puts shoulders back, lifts chin*

 

[Ceej]

And me again....

The Reading by Wendy Cope, who I love....she's all about laughing instead of crying.

In crumpled, Bardic corduroy
The poet took the stage
And read aloud his deathless verse
Page by deathless page

I gazed at him as though intent
on every word, he said.
From time to time I'd close my eyes
And smile, and nod my head

He may have thought that every phase
Sent shivers down my spine
Perhaps I helped encourage him
To read till half past nine

Don't ask me what it was all about
I haven't got a clue
I spent a blissful evening, lost,
In carnal thoughts of you

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

Invictus is another one of those poems that I found incredibly moving when I first read it. I love this thread

 

[Ceej]

Invictus is another one of those poems that I found incredibly moving when I first read it. I love this thread

Oh, me too!

Another one I love, for the joyous images it creates...

High FlightBy Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee (Killed 11 December 1941)


Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

That's a lovely one. I'm going to read it to ShiftyJnior later as we were watching a programme about fighter pilots the other day

Ok. Here is another poem that really stuck in my head and every time I read it I am reminded of the time I first read it and how I though 'Oh my God, that's so true, that's precisely how I feel'
I was a young teen, in hospital and developed a raging crush on my physiotherapist, he made my palms go sweaty and my voice go giggly and stuff Fuck's sake...

Love's Philosophy
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine? -

See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ah yes, I can still remember his fresh white uniform...

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

Ok, I'm cheating but so what.

here's one by Raymond Carver

Late Fragment
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.



And another by the same author



What The Doctor Said
He said it doesn't look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong

 

[discokermit]

here's one i wrote last week, whilst going through my phone book and wondering about all the people i've lost contact with.

it's called 'mobile phone based reminiscences'

magda magda magda,
i wish i 'ad 'a' shag'da.

 

[Steel Icarus]

Considering the Snail

The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth's dark. He
moves in a wood of desire,

pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts. I cannot tell
what power is at work, drenched there
with purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail's fury? All
I think is that if later

I parted the blades above
the tunnel and saw the thin
trail of broken white across
litter, I would never have
imagined the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.

~ Thom Gunn

 

[MightyAphrodite]

Mighty Aphrodite, someone sent me that poem after my son died - it still moves me. : indeed.

ive just seen this Ceej...it is moving isnt it....ive just had a read on here just now and am sobbing again...its not hard to do when i read this, i know its the same for you, i can only speak for me but obv ive always felt a connection to you and its not hard to see why, i almost feel like i know you, and im glad..xxxxx

 

[dynamicbaddog]

dog​

a single dog
walking along on a hot sidewalk of
summer
appears to have the power
of ten thousand gods.

why is this?

- Charles Bukowski

 

[lontok09]

He would not stay for me, and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder,
And went with half my life about my ways.

A.E.Housman

 

[Ceej]

I know we've already had one for today, but this is for Mighty Aphrodite...to read when it all gets a bit too heavy. x

Reflexions by Max Ehrmann

Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
Not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.

Spare me from bitterness
and from the sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.

Though the world know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.

Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.

Let me not follow the clamour of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time's olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening's
twilight find me gentle still.

 

[Pickman's model]

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.

1. 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?

 

[Ceej]

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.

That's lovely - a brand new one for me!


Not quite the same thing, but I was given some photos today that I hadn't seen before...



A Short Film by Ted Hughes

It was not meant to hurt.
It had been made for happy remembering
By people who were still too young
To have learned about memory.

Now it is a dangerous weapon, a time-bomb.
Which is a kind of body-bomb, long-term, too.
Only film, a few frames of you skipping, a few seconds.
You aged about ten there, skipping and still skipping.

Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge.
This thing has a fine fuse, less a fuse
Than a wavelength attuned, an electronic detonator
To what lies in your grave inside us.

And how that explosion would hurt
Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat
Over the skin-surface, a bracing of nerves
For something that has already happened.