A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

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?

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.

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!

Thats a nice poem

Anonymous1987 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--

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.

Thanks Bearhunter, I've never read that poem before, it's really beautiful.

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!"

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-where

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!”

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.

Madman by Paul Durcan

Every child has a madman on their street :
The only trouble about our madman is he's our father.

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.

Lovely thread!

This is the poem that impressed me recently. Funny when you imagine the little snail saying people can't chase him.

Snail
-Patrick Kavanagh