General Chat

I havent time tonight to put on the poems I like but one to look for is Vitae Lampada, cant remember who bybut I think Henry Newbolt. Was inspiring to an idealistic youngster. Jean

Thank you, some lovely poems here, really enjoyed reading them.

Ann
Glos

Of course.


The Listeners

"IS anybody there?" said the Traveler,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence chomped the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor.
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the traveler's head:
And he smote upon the door a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveler;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveler's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Walter De La Mare

Ah, Walter de la Mare! Reminds me of something I was planning to offer. We need a lighter note. ;)

In an old children's annual that I missed being able to buy on line, two of the poets whose work was included were Walter de la Mare and Percival Hale Coke.

What, you've never heard of Percival Hale Coke??

Well, he was my weird gr-grfather's sister's husband's brother's son. So there.

Name: Percival Coke
Year of Registration: 1898
Quarter of Registration: Jul-Aug-Sep
District: Scarborough
County: Yorkshire - East Riding, Yorkshire - North Riding, North Yorkshire
Volume: 9d
Page: 401

son of

Name: Percy Hale Coke
Year of Registration: 1858
Quarter of Registration: Apr-May-Jun
District: Neath (1837-1970)
County: Breconshire, Glamorgan
Volume: 11a
Page: 475

who apparently was not the Mayor of Harrogate, at least not after 1889.

In the early 20s, Percival (the son) self-published poetry. I have found and bought two volumes on line. When I read what follows to The Bob, and then set about wrapping it back up in its voluminous bubble wrap, he said: "You wrap that up. You bury it in the back yard."

Herewith.


THE FOOL
Death touched me with his fleshless claw,
I was calm and unrebuffed,
And when the Blue Bird flew my way,
I tried to have it stuffed.


The Bob knows poop when he smells it.

Percival seems to have been nothing if not self-indulgently morose. Also rather fond of the word "gay", and even though it didn't mean then what it means now, I have my suspicions.


THE POET'S SONG
I've had full measure of laughter and leisure,
Of Pride and Passion, Poetry and Pleasure,
Now let me drink the lees ;
Sorrow can take me, sift me and shake me,
Beat me and break me, or mould me and make me,
What she may please ;
That which remains of me, losses and gains of me,
Bruises and Pains of me, Bondage and chains of me,
All these I throw ;
Since there's an ending of loving and lending,
Giving and spending, and joyous pretending,
Much better be so ;
Vanished the best of me, gallant protest of me,
Dreaming and jest of me, music and zest of me,
Faith, Hope and Trust ;
Not a ray in me of what was gay in me,
Springtime and May in me, Elfin and fay in me,
Crumbled to dust.
For what is great of me, pity the state of me,
Heaviness, Hate of me, Sorrow the mate of me,
Freezing my blood.
Songs still unsung in me, Life hot and young in me,
And the Soul that was flung in me,
Ashes and mud.



Dang. I just went to my email to find that copy, and it was in a message I had sent two years ago to the poetry professor (who also played sax at the House of Blues ... and sigh, didn't want me). It came back as unknown address. I think he had probably died.

So, enough downers.

I have a favourite Walter de la Mare, but I can't remember what it is. Something about the moon?

I have put this on before but it is a favourite...goodnight all xx

Walter De la Mare. 1873–

Nod

SOFTLY along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
The waters of no-more-pain;
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
"Rest, rest, and rest again."

What a lovely thread,

Have just logged on and had a good read.....thank you all :-))


Susan
x

Thanks Kathryn, she was such a lovely Mum.......

No headstone for me, I am to be scattered......on a muckheap perhaps.....lol.....

After John McCarthy was taken hostage in the late 1980's he was imprisoned in the Lebanon for almost 5 years. During that time, against all the odds, a postcard was delivered to him one day. It was from a woman in England. On the postcard was written Konstantin Simonov's poem.

Is that what they mean by fate?

K

Sally, that gravestone inscription is so sweet and touching.

I may have to rethink what what I have planned for mine.

"You are here."

But hey, I think Dead Phil would approve. ;)

All lovely. Especially the more Lovelace, one I like too.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Lovelace

"... On April 30, 1642, on behalf of Royalists in Kent, he presented to Parliament a petition asking them to restore the Anglican bishops to the Long Parliament; he was immediately imprisoned in Westminster Gatehouse. During his sentence, he wrote 'To Althea, From Prison.' ..."

Of course, that runs in my veins. If my weird gr-grfather really was a Monck, one of my ancestors restored the monarchy. ;)


Simonov I didn't know, but Wiki does:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Konstantin_Simonov

Konstantin Simonov ... (28 November 1915 in Petrograd - August 28, 1979 in Moscow) was a Soviet/Russian author. His full name was Konstantin (born Kirill) Mikhailovich Simonov. He was a well-known war poet who wrote a popular poem called "Wait for me", about a soldier in the war asking his beloved to wait for his return. The poem was addressed to his wife, the actress Valentina Serova. It was immensely popular at the time and remains one of the best-known poems in the Russian language."


What people in the Soviet Union endured in WWII ... I have always been depressed by the idea of all the millions of women left "spare" by the millions of men who died, and were left with a life of sweeping streets and then, when they were very old and capitalism, er, freedom came, selling their shoes on those streets to survive.

And now for one of my favourites....so sad.


WAIT FOR ME.
by Konstantin Simonov

Wait for me, and I'll return
Only wait very hard.
Wait when you are filled with sorrow
Wait in the sweltering heat,
Wait when the others have stopped waiting,
Forgetting their yesterdays.

Wait even when from afar no letters come to you,
Wait even when others are tired of waiting...
And when friends sit around the fire
Drinking to my memory,
Wait, and do not hurry to drink to my memory too.

Wait. For I'll return, defying every death.
And let those who did not wait say that I was lucky.
They will never understand that in the midst of death
You with your waiting saved me.
Only you and I know how I survived.
It's because you waited, as no one else did.

This one is a bit long, but it means a lot to me......it is one of four by Alexander Anderson, a poet from the little mining village of Kirkconnel where my Mum was born......I have a book of his poetry which belonged to my grandfather and which he would read to his children from........this is the first and called Cuddle Doon, my Mum would recite them by heart, and my Sis and I put the words, Cuddle Doon on her headstone.......


on

by Alexander Anderson

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi muckle faught and din.
"Oh try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues,
Your faither's comin' in."
They niver heed a word I speak,
I try tae gie a froon,
But aye I hap' them up an' cry
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid,
He aye sleeps next the wa'
Bangs up and cries, "I want a piece!"
The rascal starts them a'.
I rin and fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop a wee the soun',
Then draw the blankets up an' cry,
"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries oot frae neath the claes,
"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at aince,
He's kittlin' wi' his taes."
The mischief in that Tam for tricks,
He'd bother half the toon,
But aye I hap them up an' cry,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

At length they hear their faither's fit
An' as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces tae the wa'
An Tam pretends tae snore.
"Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,
As he pits aff his shoon.
"The bairnies, John, are in their beds
An' lang since cuddled doon!"

An' just afore we bed oorsel's
We look at oor wee lambs,
Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck
An Rab his airm roun' Tam's.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed
An' as I straik each croon,
I whisper till my heart fills up:
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' mirth that's dear tae me.
But soon the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet come what will to ilka ane,
May He who rules aboon,
Aye whisper, though their pows be bald:
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"

Here is one of my favourites......I used to go twice a day every day to our local farm and work in the open in all weathers......and in winter, when I had to break the ice on the horse troughs, and the old farmhouse, I could almost imagine myself in those times......and I always thought of this poem....



WHEN icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, 5
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow, 10
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl—
Then nightly sings the staring owl 15
Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.


....

lol Kathryn very true....I have wondered over the years if the words unspoken (or not spoken at the right time) would have made a big difference in the long run....

maybe like your grandmother we all have a 'photo hidden' that no one else will ever know the truth about.....

A personal favorite of mine;

To Althea, from Prison


When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.



by Richard Lovelace

Ah, Rose -- but if we had made that move and uttered those words, the others, the ones we did make and we did utter, would have become the move not made and the words not uttered! ;)

But nonetheless, the "what if" of that night in the coffeehouse will follow me to my own grave, for sure. And it's probably an "if only" more than a "what if", no matter how badly reason says it would have turned out.

When my gramma died about 12 years ago, at 94, my mother and I were standing in my grampa's workroom in the basement that was mostly as he had left it 15 years earlier, and for some reason gramma's old photo album was there. On one page of pictures from about 1918, a space was empty -- the corner thingies were there, but no picture. We wondered what it had been a photo of.

The next day, we were sorting through gramma's bedroom. At the bottom of the bottom drawer in her night table, under some other stuff, we found the picture. It was her as a teenager, sitting on a fallen log with a young man we didn't recognize.

Don't know how long it had been since she took the photo out of the album and put it there, how long it had been since she looked at it, and what she was thinking when she did. Never will.

Aha.

http://www.neilrollinson.com/

;)

I'm afraid his poetry is one of those things that people will have to go read for themselves, as reproducing it here could offend anyone with an aversion to certain words! Very evocative, what I read.

Rather ashamed to say, for one plainly so hip as I: I tend to like my poetry old. My Phil excesses notwithstanding. ;)

Kathryn...arguably the saddest words..."What might have been".......

the move not made, the words not uttered....

Oh, Dead Phil wallowing.

Just search for Phil Ochs someplace like amazon. I'm not sure which There But For Fortune is listed at amazon.co.uk. A music store should be able to advise as to what is on which album, though, and order the right one.

My own favourite is Pleasures of the Harbour ... because some years before seeing Phil in the plesh, I was at the back of a chartered bus coming home from a Young Socialist meeting in Monteal, and a lovely young man (who also turned out to be an alcoholic, at the tender age of 16, a year younger than I was) took my last 50 cents to buy cigarettes and came back with a pack of Gitanes ... yeeecccch ... and then played his guitar and sang songs from Pleasures of the Harbour to me all the way home ... It's actually one of the least political, but most poetic, of his records.

To complete the highjacking of the thread -- although some of Phil's oeuvre is kinda relevant to genealogy hounds -- here he is in a Victorian mood:


Millionaires and paupers walk the hungry streets
Rich and poor companions of the restless beat
Strangers in a foreign land
Strike a match with trembling hand
Learn too much to ever understand
But nobodys buying flowers from the flower lady

Lovers quarrel, snarl away their happiness
Kisses crumble in a web of lonliness
Its written by the poison pen
Voices break before they bend
The door is slammed
Its over, once again
But nobodys buying flowers from the flower lady

Poets agonize, they cannot find the words
And the stone stares at the sculptor asks are you absurd?
The painter paints his brushes back
Through the canvas runs a crack
Portrait of the pain never answers back
But nobodys buying flowers from the flower lady

Soldiers, disillusioned, come home from the war
Sarcastic students tell them not to fight no more
And they argue through the night
Black is black and white is white
Walk away both knowing they are right
But nobodys buying flowers from the flower lady

Smoke dreams of escaping souls are drifting by
Dull the pain of living as they slowly die
Smiles change into a sneer
Washed away by whiskey tears
In the quicksand of their mind they disappear
Still nobodys buying flowers from the flower lady

Feeble, aged, people almost to their knees
Complain about the present using memories
Never found their pot of gold
Wrinkled hands pound weary holes
Each line screams out youre old, youre old, youre old
But nobodys buying flowers from the flower lady

And the flower lady hobbles home without a sale
Tattered shreds of petals leave a fading trail
Not a pause to hold a rose
Even she no longer knows
The lamp goes out the evening now is closed
And nobodys buying flowers from the flower lady

Dear Kathryn,
Dont worry I am not misled, I have learned some good stuff of this thread tonight..
I am satisfied if I end each day more informed than I started it.....
Goodnight and God bless
cmd