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Vanilla are planning an update to the site on April 24th (next Wednesday). It is a major PHP8 update which is expected to boost performance across the site. The site will be down from 7pm and it is expected to take about an hour to complete. We appreciate your patience during the update.
Thanks all.
A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away
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My girlfriend is a music/piano teacher. She is a brilliant pianist but she goes into school each morning early to practice alone. Something about this is so impressive and admirable to me. I wrote this for her, but haven't given it to her yet. I haven't written much poetry and am not educated in Literature. Can I ask for a critical analysis?
THE PIANO TEACHER
Spying her through the keyhole
They kneel, little, quietly quarrelling
Seats are few for this show.
No one else is in this early.
She sits square
Eyes shut, jaw solid
A sober sway and nod to pace her flow..
Petite in sight and stature
Titanic in presence
Her fingertips immortalising souls.
They are settled now and patient
Silently staring
In awe and admiration
At their Chopin, honing
True to her direction
Ever yearning to improve
An appetite she knows she’ll never sate.
Jinking and grinding
Proving firm her doctrine
The voyage to perfection is practice made.0 -
Wxfrd Jay : My critical analysis is that you have a lucky girlfriend. I really liked your poem.
I love this poem by Emily Dickinson. It charmingly and succinctly captures that second of being disappointed by someone or something you cherished and felt you knew /understood and the realisation that you've only your self to blame for not being more discerning. I've found it float into my head at such times in my own life & found it articulated exactly my own feelings.
It Dropped So Low In My Regard
IT dropped so low in my regard
I heard it hit the ground,
And go to pieces on the stones
At bottom of my mind;
Yet blamed the fate that flung it, less
Than I reviled myself
For entertaining plated wares
Upon my silver shelf.
Emily Dickinson0 -
This is called Ecclesiastes and it was written by Derek Mahon. It's a portrait of the attitude of a dogmatic partisan in the Northern Ireland conflict. I believe it is specifically modelled on Ian Paisley.
One of the things I love about this poem is that it attacks the dogmatic person in the same unrelenting and domineering tone that passionate people so often employ themselves (note the repetition, and the absence of full stops). Yet the words are anything but irrational. "Bury that red bandana and stick, that banjo; this is your country, close one eye and be king." A definitive line of the conflict, in my opinion. Go forward, this is all yours, close your mind totally to the concerns and fears of the other half of the community.
God, you could grow to love, it, God-fearing, God-
chosen purist little puritan that,
for all your wiles and smiles, you are (the
dank churches, the empty streets,
the shipyard silence, the tied-up swings) and
shelter your cold heart from the heat
of the world, from woman-inquisition, from the
bright eyes of children. Yes, you could
wear black, drink water, nourish a fierce zeal
with locusts and wild honey, and not
feel called upon to understand and forgive
but only to speak with a bleak
afflatus, and love the January rains when they
darken the dark doors and sink hard
into the Antrim hills, the bog meadows, the heaped
graves of your fathers. Bury that red
bandana and stick, that banjo; this is your
country, close one eye and be king.
Your people await you, their heavy washing
flaps for you in the housing estates -
a credulous people. God, you could do it, God
help you, stand on a corner stiff
with rhetoric, promising nothing under the sun.0 -
This is one of my favourite poems by Kavanagh. The opening lines never fail to give me a chill. I love that he looks to ordinary life and the simplest forms of nature to find the divine and that he aspires to innocence.
Advent
We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.
And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.
O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning-
We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we'll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won't we be rich, my love and I, and
God we shall not ask for reason's payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God's breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour-
And Christ comes with a January flower.0 -
I'm a day late, but better late than never:
November
by Thomas Hood
No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--
No "t'other side the way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!0 -
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I've always liked this poem - it doesn't stir my emotions as much as other favourites, but it makes me think about choices and leaves me wondering:
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.0 -
Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.0 -
Emily Dickinson is a master of morbidity as is shown in this poem.
I felt a funeral in my brain by Emily Dickinson
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through. And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead,
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
And then a plank in reason, broke,
And I dropped down and down--
And hit a world at every plunge,
And finished knowing--then--0 -
Thats a nice poemAnonymous1987 wrote: »Emily Dickinson is a master of morbidity as is shown in this poem.
I felt a funeral in my brain by Emily Dickinson
I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through. And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.
And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead,
Then space began to toll
As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.
And then a plank in reason, broke,
And I dropped down and down--
And hit a world at every plunge,
And finished knowing--then--0 -
DIALOGUE
there is very little I want really -
a stone cottage on the edge of a lake
darkened with woods
(there would have to be woods)
and of course some someone special
we could live there quietly with the birds
you don't want much my friend
just more than anyone has ever managed
even the birds.
- David Egan0 -
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One of my favourite poems - makes me sad but at the same time it's comforting as a reminder that grief is shared:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W.H. Auden.0 -
Variation On The Word Sleep
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Margaret Atwood0 -
Thanks Bearhunter, I've never read that poem before, it's really beautiful.0
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Neutral Tones
by Thomas Hardy
We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
– They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.
Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.
The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….
Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.0 -
This one I remember from school - I even had to learn the whole thing over a holiday as a punishment for something or other. It's still great fun and I have no hard feelings!
The Pobble Who Has No Toes
by Edward Lear
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"
The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -provided he minds his nose!"
The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"
But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said -"It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"0 -
Sylvia Plath's You're. I love the language of this poem, it always cheers me up when I read it. Such a contrast to many of her other poems!
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.0 -
The Man From God Knows Where - Florence Wilson.
Evokes such an atmosphere of those times,his "slouchy hat" is genius. Included in Voices and Poetry of Ireland,the recording by Phil Coulter really brings it to life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PtvPfhwj7UI
Into our townlan, on a night of snow,
Rode a man from God-knows-where;
None of us bade him stay or go,
Nor deemed him friend, nor damned him foe.
But we stabled his big roan mare:
For in our townlan we're decent folk,
An if he didn't speak, why none of us spoke,
An we sat till the fire burned low.
We're a civil sort in our wee place,
So we made the circle wide
Round Andy Lemon's cheerful blaze,
An wished the man his length o days;
An a good end to his ride,
He smiled in under his slouchy hat
Says he: "There's a bit of a joke in that,
For we ride different ways."
The whiles we smoked we watched him
From his seat fornent the glow,
I nudged Joe Moore, "You wouldn't dare
To ask him who he's for meetin there,
An how far has he got to go?"
But Joe wouldn't dare, nor Wullie Boy Scott,
An he took no drink - neither cold nor hot
This man from God-knows-where.
It was closin time, an late forbye,
When us ones braved the air
I ne'er saw worse, may I live or die,
Than the sleet that night, an I says, says I,
"Ye'll find he's for stoppin there."
But at screich o day, through the gable pane
I watched him spur in the peltin rain,
An I juked from his rovin eye.
Two winters more, then the Trouble Year,
When the best that a man could feel
Was the pike he kept in hidlin's near,
Till the blood o hate an the blood o fear
Would be redder nor rust on the steel.
Us ones quit from mindin the farms
Let them take what we gave wi the weight o our arms,
From Saintfield to Kilkeel.
In the time o the hurry, tho we had no lead
We all of us fought with the rest
An if e'er a one shook like a tremblin reed
None of us gave neither hint nor heed,
Nor even showed we'd guessed.
We men of the North had a word to say,
An we said it then, in our own dour way,
An we spoke as we thought was best.
All Ulster over, the weemen cried
For the standin crops on the lan
Mony's the sweetheart an mony's the bride
Would liefer hae gone till where he died.
An hae murned her lone by her man,
But us ones weathered the thick of it,
An we used to dander along an sit
In Andy's side by side.
What with discourse goin to an fro,
The night would be wearin thin,
Yet never so late when we rose to go
But someone would say: "D'ye mind thon snow,
An the man came wanderin in?"
An we'd be fallin to talk again,
If by chance he was one o them
The man who went like the win
Well, 'twas gettin on past the heat o the year
When I rode to Newtown fair;
I sold as I could - the dealers were near
Only three pounds eight for the Innis steer,
An nothin at all for the mare -
But I met McKee in the throng o the street
Says he, "The grass has grown under our feet
Since they hanged young Warwick here"
An he told me that Boney had promised help
To a man in Dublin town
Says he, "If ye've laid the pike on the shelf,
Ye'd best go home hot-foot by yerself,
An once more take it down."
So by Comber road I trotted the gray
An never cut corn until Killyleagh
Stood plain on the risin groun
For a wheen o days we sat waitin the word
To rise an go at it like men,
But no French ships sailed into Cloughey Bay,
An we heard the black news on a harvest day
That the cause was lost again;
An Joey an me, an Wullie Boy Scott,
We agreed to ourselves we'd as lief as not
Hae been found in the thick o the slain
By Downpatrick Gaol I was bound to fare
On a day I'll remember, faith
For when I came to the prison square
The people were waitin in hundreds there,
An you wouldn't hear stir nor breath
For the sodgers were standin, grim an tall,
Round a scaffold built fornent the wall,
An a man stepped out for death
I was brave an near to the edge o the throng,
Yet I knowed the face again,
An I knowed the set, an I knowed the walk
An the sound of his strange up-country talk,
For he spoke out right an plain
Then he bowed his head to the swingin rope
While I said, "Please God" to his dyin hope
An "Amen" to his dyin prayer.
That the wrong would cease an the right prevail -
For the man that they hanged at Downpatrick Gaol
Was the man from God-knows-where0 -
The Silver Tanner
I was on my way to school one day,
Feeling slightly down
When i spotted something shiney,
Lying upon the ground,
it was a silver sixpence
so bright, and looking new,
I quickley stooped to pick it up,
for tanners are so few,
now what shall i do with this i said
as a thought came to my head,
I'll take it home to mummy,
It'll buy a loaf of bread,
so i turned and ran back home again
the tanner held tightly in my hand
it made me late for school that day
for it was a brave wee bit away
but when i found that tanner
that was a lucky day,
why have you come home agaim,
said mummy with a frown,
cause i've found a silver tanner,
it was lying on the ground
I just thought of you dear mummy
for with it you can buy some bread,
she looked at me, and gave a gentle smile
you can keep that silver tanner son
at least for just a little while
be off to school, and you'll have to run
for spending that silver tanner will give
you so much fun.0 -
The Irish Times magazine on Christmas Eve had four poems by Paul Durcan. I really liked this one:
The Recession
The bank robbers in the Celtic Tiger era –
I do not mean the gentlemen with the sawn-off shot-guns –
I mean the double-vent bonus boys –
Brought a reign of terror into the lives
Of the innocent, the elegant, the confused, the polite
Such as the woman passer-by who this morning stopped me on Duke Street:
“You wouldn’t know me but I knew your father!
I’m 82!
You’re so like him! You’re just so like him!
Isn’t it a simply glorious morning?
And it’s not yet even eleven o’clock!
(Imperious glance at bony wrist) It’s only ten-to-eleven
On a Saturday morning in the middle of December
And the sun beaming like a toddler on a potty!
The Recession! Don’t even say the word.
Don’t utter it.
I lost my pension, the whole jing bang lot
To that gang of tight-bottomed, piotious, creeping Jesuses in Allied Irish Banks.
What does it matter?
I am 82 and I am as new as a snowdrop.
No, not a snowdrop, a sunflower.
I’ve just been looking in the window of CLEO’S in Kildare Street.
Do you know it? She sells Celtic Clothes. A gem of a shop.
She’s got a vase of sunflowers in the middle of the window
And, all around it, garments
Of every hue of gold you have ever seen,
Every lunula, every monstrance.
It could be an altar in St Petersburg, CLEO’S window,
An iconic boutique, all hand-knitted vestments,
The holiness of the soul’s body, no less!
I said to myself: This is ME, this window!
This window is ME!
CLEO’S is ME!
And I have four sons who think the world of me
While over on the north side
Mary Brierly who is only half my age
Is at death’s door.
Cancer. Inoperable. Now that’s a thing . . .
So nice meeting you, so nice. Bye-ee!”0 -
Auld Lang Syne
by Robert Burns
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
Chorus
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit,
Sin' auld lang syne.
Chorus
We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.
Chorus
And there's a hand, my trusty fere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.
Chorus0 -
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Mistah Kurtz -- he dead
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.0 -
Love this thread, only just found it. This poem is a revelation to me, in that 400 yrs beyond this man's death, I feel for him. Long live poetry! 'The firmest faith is in the fewest words....' - beautiful.
Sir Edward Dyer 1540 - 1607
The lowest trees have tops...
The lowest trees have tops,
the ant her gall,
the fly her spleen,
the little spark his heat,
and slender hairs cast shadows
though but small,
and bees have stings
although they be not great.
Seas have their source,
and so have shallow springs,
and love is love
in beggars and in kings.
Where waters smoothest run,
deep are the fords,
the dial stirs,
yet none perceives it move:
The firmest faith
is in the fewest words,
the turtles cannot sing,
and yet they love,
True hearts have eyes
and ears no tongues to speak:
They hear, and see, and sigh,
and then they break.0 -
metrovelvet wrote: »I love this poem, Did you know it took her 15 years to write it?
Transit -Richard Wilbur
A woman I have never seen before
Steps from the darkness of her town-house door
At just that crux of time when she is made
So beautiful that she or time must fade.
What use to claim that as she tugs her gloves
A phantom heraldry of all the loves
Blares from the lintel? That the staggered sun
Forgets, in his confusion, how to run?
Still, nothing changes as her perfect feet
Click down the walk that issues in the street,
Leaving the stations of her body there
Like whips that map the countries of the air.
WOW! That blows me away altogether! The last verse is spectacular....0 -
Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
Than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda0 -
Madman by Paul Durcan
Every child has a madman on their street :
The only trouble about our madman is he's our father.0 -
I was reminded of this while shopping for something electrical in Tesco. Some of you may remember E. J. Thribb, perpetually 17½, who wrote a poem for each edition of Private Eye. This one came from 1997 and deserves another airing:
In Memoriam Kenneth Wood, inventor of the "Kenwood" Mixer and the Reversible Toaster.
So. Farewell then
Ken Wood.
Inventor of the
Reversible
Toaster.
Reversible the of
Inventor
Wood Ken.
Then farewell
So.
E.J. Thribb, inventor of the
Reversible Poem (½71)0 -
This poem was written in Irish in the 9th century on the margins of a manuscript in france. Robin Flower translation.
Pangur Ban
I and Pangur Ban, my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at ;
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.
Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will;
He too, plies his simple skill,
'tis a merry thing to see
at our task how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.
Oftentimes a mouse will stray
Into the hero Pangur's way ;
Oftentimes my keen thoughts set
Takes a meaning in its net.
'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly ;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.
When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then !
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love !
So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat and I ;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine, and he has his.
Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade:
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.0 -
Pangur ban. thats a class poem.that cat features well in the animated film "The Book of Kells".great movie.very trippy0
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Lovely thread!
This is the poem that impressed me recently. Funny when you imagine the little snail saying people can't chase him.
SnailI go from you, I recede-Patrick Kavanagh
Not by steps violent
But as a snail backing
From the lewd finger of humanity
I go from you as a snail
Into my twisted habitation.
And you!
It does not matter how you
React. I know the shadow-ways
Of Self
I know the last sharp bend
And the volleyed light.
You are lost
You can merely chase the silver I have let
Fall from my purse,
You follow silver
And not follow me.0 -
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One of my favourite poems - makes me sad but at the same time it's comforting as a reminder that grief is shared:
That's an excellent poem. WH Auden was homosexual, so the poem was presumably written for a man. I challenge anyone who says homosexuality is "unnatural" or "wrong" to read that poem and see it in emotion scarcely seen in "natural" "correct" heterosexuals.0
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