Poetry

[Petrushka]

TWELFTH NIGHT by LAURIE LEE


No night could be darker than this night,
No cold so cold,
As the blood snaps like a wire,
And the heart’s sap stills,
And the year seems defeated.
O never again, it seems, can green things run,
Or sky birds fly,
Or the grass exhale its humming breath
Powdered with pimpernels,
From this dark lung of winter.
Yet here are lessons for the final mile
Of pilgrim kings;
The mile still left when all have reached
Their tether’s end: that mile
Where the Child lies hid
For see, beneath the hand, the earth already
Warms and glows;
For men with shepherd’s eyes there are
Signs in the dark, the turning stars,
The lamb’s returning time.
Out of this utter death he’s born again,
His birth our saviour;
From terror’s equinox he climbs and grows,
Drawing his finger’s light across our blood –
The sun of heaven, and the son of god.

[Padraig]

I don't suppose Christmas was celebrated in Rome when this poem was written, but ........ it's the thought that counts?

Thank You

For New Year, Postumus, ten years ago,
You sent me four pounds of good silver plate.
The next year, hoping for a rise in weight
(For gifts should either stay the same or grow)
I got two pounds. The third and fourth produced
Inferior presents, and the fifth year's weighed
Only a pound - Septicus' work, ill-made
Into the bargain. Next I was reduced
To an eight-ounce oblong salad-platter; soon
It was a miniature cup that tipped the scales
At even less. A tiny two-ounce spoon
Was the eighth year's surprise. The ninth, at length
And grudgingly, disgorged a pick for snails
Lighter than a needle. Now, I note, the tenth
Has come and gone with nothing in its train.
I miss the old four pounds. Let's start again.

Martial
trans James Michie

[Petrushka]

THE HOUSE OF CHRISTMAS by G K CHESTERTON


There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay on their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost - how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

[johncorrigan]

For all you toying with forthcoming resolution for '15, here's a few comments on the year change from the late Dennis O'Driscoll courtesy of the Guardian's 'Saturday Poem':

New Year Party

By landslide vote
we drive the old year out,
unanimously pass
motions of no confidence.

It had been granted an entire year
to fulfil its promise, only to renege
on its mandate, plague the world
sadistically with tribulation

The new year’s manifesto
is progressive, forward looking.
Now we may turn a fresh leaf,
happy that winter’s recession
will give way to steady growth,
longer, balmier, user-friendly days.

We take to the streets:
rabid supporters of the New Year
party, cheering its inauguration,
determined to renew its mandate
annually from now on.

Let the midnight countdown begin.
High time the bells chimed
with our boisterous rejoicing,
lent ringing endorsement
to our future prospects
while last year’s absolute ruler
is banished: Disgraced.
Outdated. Past it. History.

Dennis O’Driscoll

[Anna]

I came across this, by William Thom, which I thought rather nice as the Scots banned Christmas until 1958 and still cling to their Pagan roots so, here's a dram to yee!

Come, Scotland’s dearest holiday,
Auld-fashioned, hearty Hogmanay!
How foul or fair the weather be
A kindly welcome waiteth thee;
Whether ye splash through mire and mud
Whaur bickerin’ burnies raise a scud,
Or powdery snaw – nae fricht – nae skaith,
We’ll trachel through a sax-fut wreath,
Rinnin’ full weel – full welcome aye,
Wha come to haud their Hogmanay,
Syne blythelie rings through hut an’ ha’,
‘A health to them that’s far awa’.’

[johncorrigan]

I came across this, by William Thom, which I thought rather nice as the Scots banned Christmas until 1958 and still cling to their Pagan roots so, here's a dram to yee!

Come, Scotland’s dearest holiday,
Auld-fashioned, hearty Hogmanay!
How foul or fair the weather be
A kindly welcome waiteth thee;
Whether ye splash through mire and mud
Whaur bickerin’ burnies raise a scud,
Or powdery snaw – nae fricht – nae skaith,
We’ll trachel through a sax-fut wreath,
Rinnin’ full weel – full welcome aye,
Wha come to haud their Hogmanay,
Syne blythelie rings through hut an’ ha’,
‘A health to them that’s far awa’.’

Thanks Anna. We trachelled through a bit mud and sleet and rain on the way home from a Hoggers gathering, with Aurora to the North and we felt blessed and I wish ye all blessings for 2015.

[Keraulophone]

Thank you, FHG, for instigating this poetry thread a year ago today. It has been so refreshing to amble through these pages in the early hours; far more illuminating of the human condition than tuning in to the World Service. Since some of us might be feeling a wee bit delicate this morning, the title of the following poem came to mind, but it's just the poet's indignant thoughts as he opens his morning mail, having a swipe at all and sundry, and sad that his friend the good Doctor has just a short time to live. I haven't been able to spot any Pope so far, and I realise that an 18th century tubercular, feuding 'Scriblerian' of knowing satire and invective is something of an acquired taste, out of fashion even, but I have omitted the succeeding 351 glorious lines (parts 2-7)! He was a master of balanced rhyming couplets; other poets used them, but none as fluently as he did. (I can easily post the remainder should Pope-fanciers demand.)

Incidentally, 'Clemy' on the dreaded Breakfast earlier on, played the Romanza from VW5, claiming the fifth to have been the late Michael Kennedy's favourite VW symphony. I suspect No.5 would be most VW-fanciers' overall preference, but distinctly recall MK saying, in the John Bridcut film on RVW, that the composer would never equal the opening of the Sea Symphony for devastating impact and originality, and that it remained a favourite. (Note the indefinite article.) Anyway, what a daft way for Breakfast to remember a friend of the composer, to single out one favourite.

But back to poetry, please...



Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot - (part 1 of 7)


Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigu'd, I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free;
Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls
With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,
If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie;
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years."

"Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:
"The piece, you think, is incorrect: why, take it,
I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace,
I want a patron; ask him for a place."

Pitholeon libell'd me—"but here's a letter
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,
He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine."

Bless me! a packet—"'Tis a stranger sues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse."
If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!"
If I approve, "Commend it to the stage."
There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,
The play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it,
And shame the fools—your int'rest, sir, with Lintot!"
"Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much."
"Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
"Sir, let me see your works and you no more."

Alexander Pope (1734)

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

Thank you, Kph - I am so glad I started this Thread; I have encountered so many poems I didn't know before, and one or two poets whom I'd never heard of!

And thanks for the Pope (which looks a bit odd, now I've typed it!) - I have never really been enthralled by the poetry of his contemporaries, but there is an edge to Pope's writing that sets him apart.

[Keraulophone]

'...an edge...' - too true!

Cutting & pasting the text nearly drew blood.

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

Have we had any Milton yet? Certainly none recently (ducks to avoid hundreds of posts pointing out that there are five examples on the previous "page", including the one I'm about to post), so:

Sonnet XXIII

Methought I saw my late espouséd saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.

Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.
Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined
So clear as in no face with more delight.

But, oh, as to embrace me she inclined
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

Sylvia Plath, reflecting (ostensibly, at least) on her infant daughter (the poet Freida Hughes) 's first confrontation with snow and ice:

New Year on Dartmoor

This is newness: every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.

[eighthobstruction]

If it is anything at all, I wish it was not a soggy glass hat....spat with the need of spats....

Musical accompaniment to a slow day....https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-LFCAKGUUo

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

No spats on this Thread, I hope, 8thOb! That was a lovely piece you posted - spare and eloquently understated, and all the more powerful because of it: many thanks


A Christmas card I received sent me news of the death last year of a friend I had lost contact with - one of those friendships that I'd thought was "dormant"; ready to start all over again immediately the next time we met. Not to be, alas. Over twenty years ago, she gave me a collection of poems by William Carlos Williams as a birthday present. This one seems appropriate

A Coronal

New books of poetry will be written
New books and unheard-of manuscripts
will come wrapped in brown paper
and many and many a time
the postman will bow
and sidle down th leaf-plastered steps
thumbing over other men's business.

But we ran ahead of it all.
One coming after
could have seen her footprints
in the wet and followed us
among the stark chestnuts.

Anemones sprang where she pressed
and cresses
stood green in the slender source -
And new books of poetry
will be written, leather-colored oakleaves
many and many a time.

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

The Musician

They've told me MacAuley is gone now
Taking his tool-box and both his fiddles.
They are saying "What shall we do now?
There is no Music in in this or the next parish."

Until a replacement is found there
Not one note will be played after whist
Unless it is played from a record -
That, even the young say, won't be as good.

They will talk of MacAuley forever there,
Long after their own receipt of pensions,
Of his carpenter's wrist on his fiddle-bow
Stitching like mad through jig-time.

And so I have heard on the telephone
MacAuley is gone now, and both his fiddles
Lie in their cases under the stairs
With the Music we never knew he could read.

It is Beethoven and Bach they tell me,
And a very fat volume, a German tutor,
That cost six shillings before the war,
And its pages, they tell me, are black with notes,

It's your carpenter's wrist they remember
In love with your local tradition.
Your carpenter's fist could not break through
To the public of Bach and Beethoven.

So they've told me MacAuley is gone,
Both his fiddles lie under the stairs now
With Music by Bach and Beethoven
Beside six bob's worth of ambition.

Let them open your window frames, open your doors,
Think, as they sit on their mended chairs,
Of you, their Musician, and doctor to wood,
That no one has heard what you understood.

Douglas DUNN