A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

On reading the John Summers poem posted by donegal man

I used presume the marriage deed
Was what turned young men grey.
John Summer's ode (well worth a read)
Suggests another way.

It seems when sex-starved, craven auld ones
Unleash their sensuous urges.
On dark-haired males (both good and bould ones)
The outcome's far from 'gurgeous'.

His ode describes with all details
The dangers such encounters
Can bring to unsuspecting males
By wizened, female 'mounters'

The folds of skin, the wrinkled line
The dried up, drooping mammary.
This babushka, this concubine
Will grab you tight to 'hammer ye'.

The stench of sweat, the stale, stale breath
The high jinks and the hijacks
Ain't natural, a sort of death
(And may not lead to climax)

So be forewarned and listen well
To what John has to say.
A female scorned is worse than Hell
And that's what turns you grey.

Vitaï Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
'Play up! play up! and play the game! '

The sand of the desert is sodden red,—
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; —
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up! play up! and play the game! '

This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind—
'Play up! play up! and play the game!

- Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)

Untitled

Whenever I am away from you,
the distance between us
a burdensome thing,
I always think of you in colours,
the smell of coffee as you so
proudly make it for me,
the perfect sunlight spilling
in through the window.
I miss you even when you
are beside me.
I dream of your body
even when you are sleeping
in my arms.
The words I love you
could never be enough.

I suppose we’ll have to invent new ones.

Christopher Poindexter

Wild Nights - Wild Nights!

Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile - the winds -
To a Heart in port -
Done with the Compass -
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -
Ah - the Sea!
Might I but moor - tonight -
In thee!

Emily Dickinson

Armistice Day (1918 - 2018)

An Unseen

I watched love leave, turn, wave, want not to go,
depart, return;
late spring, a warm slow blue of air, old-new.
Love was here; not; missing, love was there;
each look, first, last.

Down the quiet road, away, away, towards
the dying time,
love went, brave soldier, the song dwindling;
walked to the edge of absence; all moments going,
gone; bells through rain

to fall on the carved names of the lost.
I saw love's child uttered,
unborn, only by rain, then and now, all future
past, an unseen. Has forever been then? Yes,
forever has been.

Carol Ann Duffy

Whilst looking up the meaning of the word Scruggy* I came across two interesting poems. This is the first.

Taken from - Poems and Fugitive Pieces, by Eliza
Lines written on Ramsgate Pier, by Moonlight.  August 20, 1790.

Lines on a favourite Squirrel. Written in the School Vacation.

Ah, my Scuggy, is it drooping?
By thy hoarded store I tell;
By thy little nuts unscoopen,
Much I fear, thou art not well.

Scuggy—Scuggy; peep, my Scuggy,
Let me see thy glist'ning eye
Beam, whilst nuzzling in thy ruggy;—
Do not let thy mistress cry.

Wake, my Scuggy, bound to meet me;
Steal my sugar from my cup;
With thy lively anticks treat me;
Seek the milk, and lap it up.

On the teaboard take thy station,
Near the little china vase;
Nibble there thy morning's ration,
With thy pretty slender paws.

Sit erect in all thy beauty,
Furl aloft thy feather'd tail;
Grunt, nay, bite me, if it suits thee,
So that thou did nothing ail.

Hark! with all thy wonted cunning,
Perk thy little spiral ears;
Up the curtain wert thou running,
I'd divest me of these fears.

Come, my Scuggy, range my pocket,
Revel on the hidden store;
Rout and rummage all that stock it,
And when gone, I'll give thee more.

Seize the chesnut, brown and shining,
Shaded like thy pretty self;
Strip it to its silken lining!
Or go hide it on the shelf.—

Scuggy, look, thy favourite fruit—see!
Whisk from out thy prison door;
Let me hear thy tiny footsy
Pad and scud along the floor.

In the cream jug pop thy whisker,
I'll not fright thee for the theft;
Could I once more see thee frisk here,
I'd not be of hope bereft.

Scuggy—Scuggy; peep, my Scuggy,
Let me see thy bright bead-eye,
Brisk, though nuzzling in thy ruggy;—
Do not let thy mistress cry.

*Scruggy - dialect meaning a squirrel

First Meeting

When I first met you,
I knew that I had come at last home.
Home after wandering,
Home after long-puzzled searching,
Home after long being wind-born,
Wave-tossed, night-caught, long being lost.
And being with you was normal and needful
And natural as sleeping or waking.
And I was myself,
Who had never been wholly myself.
I was walking and talking
And laughing easily at last.
And the air was softer,
And sounds were sharper,
And colours were brighter,
And the sky was higher,
And length was not measured by milestones,
And time was not measured by clocks.
And this end was a beginning,
And these words are the beginning -
Of my thanks.

A.S.J. Tessimond

A Winter Day

The air is silent save where stirs
A bugling breeze among the firs;
The virgin world in white array
Waits for the bridegroom kiss of day;
All heaven blooms rarely in the east
Where skies are silvery and fleeced,
And o'er the orient hills made glad
The morning comes in wonder clad;
Oh, 'tis a time most fit to see
How beautiful the dawn can be

Wide, sparkling fields snow-vestured lie
Beneath a blue, unshadowed sky;
A glistening splendor crowns the woods
And bosky, whistling solitudes;
In hemlock glen and reedy mere
The tang of frost is sharp and clear;
Life hath a jollity and zest,
A poignancy made manifest;
Laughter and courage have their way
At noontide of a winter's day.

Faint music rings in wold and dell,
The tinkling of a distant bell,
Where homestead lights with friendly glow
Glimmer across the drifted snow;
Beyond a valley dim and far
Lit by an occidental star,
Tall pines the marge of day beset
Like many a slender minaret,
Whence priest-like winds on crystal air
Summon the reverent world to prayer.

Lucy Maud Montgomery

I was reminded of this poem from my school days after we went for a walk in Glenveagh this afternoon.

I Held You in the Square

I held you in the square
And felt the evening
Re-order itself around
Your smile.

The dreams I could never touch
Felt like your body.
Your gentleness made the
Night soft.

And even if we didn't know
Where we were going,
Nor what street to take
Or what bench to sit on
What chambers awaited
That would deliver us our
Naked joy,
I could feel in your spirit
The restlessness for a journey
Whose beauty lies
In the arriving moment
Of each desire.

Holding you in the evening square,
I sealed a dream
With your smile as the secret pact.

Ben Okri, 1986

It’s my Grandmother’s sixth anniversary this weekend and even though I’m a grown woman with a family of my own I still miss her so much.

I think about her most days and I miss her wisdom and common sense. Two of Seamus Heaney’s poems remind me of her - Staffolding and this poem.


‘When all the others were away at Mass’
[from Clearances in memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984]

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives–
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

Seamus Heaney

That Heaney poem is gorgeous, thanks so much I never read it before.

Saying Something

Things assume your shape. Discarded clothes, a damp shroud in the bathroom, vacant hands. This is not fiction. This is the plain and warm material of love. My heart assumes it.

We wake. Our private language starts the day. We make familiar movements through the house. The dreams we have no phrases for slip through our fingers into smoke.

I dreamed I was not with you. Wandering in a city, where you did not live, I stared at strangers, searching for a word to make them you. I woke beside you.

Sweetheart, I say. Pedestrian daylight terms scratch darker surfaces. Your absence leaves me with the ghost of love. Half-warm coffee cups or sheets, the gentlest kiss.

Walking home, I see you turning on the lights. I come in, from outside calling your name, saying something.

Carol Ann Duffy

For Theresa May.

All, All of a Piece

All, all of a piece throughout:
Thy chase had a beast in view;
Thy wars brought nothing about;
Thy lovers were all untrue.
'Tis well an old age is out,
And time to begin a new.

JOHN DRYDEN 1631 - 1700

Serious

Awake, alert,
Suddenly serious in love,
You’re a surprise.
I’ve known you long enough –
Now I can hardly meet your eyes.

It’s not that I’m
Embarrassed or ashamed.
You’ve changed the rules
The way I’d hoped they’d change
Before I thought: hopes are for fools.

Let me walk with you.
I’ve got the newspapers to fetch.
I think you know
I think you have the edge
But I feel cheerful even so.

That’s why I laughed.
That’s why I went and kicked that stone.
I’m serious!
That’s why I cartwheeled home.
This should mean something. Yes, it does.

James Fenton