Poetry

[Padraig]

Here's a beautiful piece from the American Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver that I was pointed towards recently.

Such delicacy and such 'discernment'.

[Padraig]

I have an offer to accept this volume, and I would like to forward the book .... Therefore I would ask that person to send me another PM with a forwarding address.

Message received. Package ready for tomorrow's post.

[johncorrigan]

Another of Mary Oliver's poems - I remember when I used to sleep in the forest from time to time. Must go try it again.

Sleeping in the Forest


I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

Mary Oliver

[johncorrigan]

Lines Written on a Seat
on the Grand Canal, Dublin


'Erected to the memory of Mrs. Dermot O'Brien'

O commemorate me where there is water,
Canal water, preferably, so stilly
Greeny at the heart of summer. Brother
Commemorate me thus beautifully
Where by a lock niagarously roars
The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence
Of mid-July. No one will speak in prose
Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands.
A swan goes by head low with many apologies,
Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges -
And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy
And other far-flung towns mythologies.
O commemorate me with no hero-courageous
Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.


-Patrick Kavanagh

[Padraig]

Some wonderful images in that sonnet. Cavanagh has shaken the mud off his wellies there. I'm rereading Collected Poems after a long neglect.

Meantime Michael Hartnett's poem An Dobharchú GontaThe Wounded Otter, translated from the Irish by the author himself.

A wounded otter
on a bare rock
a bolt in her side,
stroking her whiskers
stroking her webbed feet.

Her ancestors
told her once
that there was a river.
a chrystal river,
a waterless bed.

They also said
there were trout there
fat as tree trunks
and kingfishers
bright as blue spears -
men there without cinders
in their boots,
men without dogs
on leashes.

she did not notice
the world die
nor the sun expire.
She was already
swimming at ease
in the magic chrystal river.

[johncorrigan]

[QUOTE=Padraig;496315]Some wonderful images in that sonnet. Cavanagh has shaken the mud off his wellies there. I'm rereading Collected Poems after a long neglect.

I went looking for it after reading Durcan's 'The Spirit that Lives Alone', Padraig. After reading 'O commemorate me where there is water, Canal water preferably...' I was uncontrollably laughing for about 10 minutes...sore face and all that. Wonderful, only then to be fated to fall apart by the end. So I thought I'd seek out the bench which I knew nothing of and the poem followed.

http://www.skibbereeneagle.ie/web/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/Patrick-Kavanagh-Statue.jpg

That was very sad about the wounded otter. I'll look forward to seeing some uninjured ones on the Hebrides in a week or so, if fortune is smiling.

[Padraig]

[That was very sad about the wounded otter. I'll look forward to seeing some uninjured ones on the Hebrides in a week or so, if fortune is smiling.

Don't forget the fly rod - you never know your luck.


Die Forelle

I lean on a bridgerail watching the clear calm,
a homeless sound of joy is in the sky:
a fisherman making falsecasts over a brook,
a two pound browntrout darting with scornful quickness,
drawing straight lines like arrows through the pool.
The man might as well snap his rod on his knee,
each shake of a boot or finger scares the fish;
trout will never hit flies in this brightness.
I go on watching, and the man keeps casting,
he wades, and stamps his feet, and muddies the water;
before I know it, his rod begins to dip.
He wades, he stamps, he shouts to turn the run
of the trout with his wetfly breathed into his belly -
broken whiplash in the gulp of joy.

Robert Lowell

[aeolium]

The Isles of Greece

THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.

The mountains look on Marathon—
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations;—all were his!
He counted them at break of day—
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now—
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!

What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no;—the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, 'Let one living head,
But one, arise,—we come, we come!'
'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine:
Hark! rising to the ignoble call—
How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave—
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
We will not think of themes like these!
It made Anacreon's song divine:
He served—but served Polycrates—
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Miltiades!
O that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks—
They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords and native ranks
The only hope of courage dwells:
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade—
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!


Lord Byron

[johncorrigan]

I haven't worked all this out but I've been enjoying trying since I saw this poem by Paul Farley in Saturday's Guardian.


August

WCW I £300,000
TED I £175,000
ROB 8IE £125,000
M4I2 VEL £114,995
CI ARE £110,075
ELII OTT £90,000
B7 RON £42,500
ALF 7E £30,000
KEA 7S £29,995
SHE II3Y £26,495
6 WEN £23,495
Y3 ATS £19,995
AUD 3N £19,995
EML IY £16,995
MA6I CAL £15,990
LOU IIIS £14,995
MAC 837H £14,995
D27 DEN £14,995
WAII AGE £13,075
FRO 3T £11,795
PHII LUP £10,490
WYA 77T £9,995
POP 6E £9,995
SA55 S0N £9,995
MMII TON £8,995
E8I5 HOP £8,995
G333 0FF £8,995
SEI4 MUS £3,945
BLI4 KEY £3,745
SYL IIIA £3,745
WOR 82 £3,445
WI STC £1,945
D007 NNE £1,199
EP02 EZP £157

Paul Farley

Probably not done it justice...here's a link.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/aug/03/saturday-poem-august-by-paul-farley

[Padraig]

John, car numbers? I have to look up my own when asked for it. It wouldn't make the vanity list.

Thank you for the PM - the Iona Postcard. As you might remember I cannot send replies. Re the Paul Durcan volume, on page 64 there is a sketch of David Kelly, Actor. What a contrast with that scoundrel, the Irish builder, O'Reilly, who nearly caused the actual collapse of Fawlty Towers; but not without his own hilarity.

My most recent read is Seamus Heaney, New Selected Poems, 1988 - 2013.
It concludes with his last poem, for his granddaughter.

In Time
for Síofra

Energy, balance, outbreak:
Listening to Bach
I saw you years from now
(More years that I'll be allowed)
Your toddler wobbles gone,
A sure and grown woman.

Your bare foot on the floor
Keeps me in step; the power
I first felt come up through
Our cement floor long ago
Palps your sole and heel
And earths you here for real.

An oratorio
Would be just the thing for you;
Energy, balance, outbreak
At play for their own sake
But for now we foot it lightly
In time, and silently.

Seamus Heaney
18 August 2013

[johncorrigan]

John, car numbers? I have to look up my own when asked for it. It wouldn't make the vanity list.

Well Seamus is in there, Padraig, and I assume the Louis is McNeice.

Thank you for the PM - the Iona Postcard. As you might remember I cannot send replies. Re the Paul Durcan volume, on page 64 there is a sketch of David Kelly, Actor. What a contrast with that scoundrel, the Irish builder, O'Reilly, who nearly caused the actual collapse of Fawlty Towers; but not without his own hilarity.

For me David Kelly will forever be Cousin Enda to Milo O'Shea in the BBC's 'Me Mammy' (which in these days would probably be distinctly non-pc) but which we enjoyed in our house because it always had my Mum in stitches...a wonderful sight, I assure you.

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

FAIR summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore,
So fair a summer look for nevermore :
All good things vanish less than in a day,
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.
Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed ?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source,
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.
Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

Thomas Nashe (1592)

[Tevot]

FAIR summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore,
So fair a summer look for nevermore :
All good things vanish less than in a day,
Peace, plenty, pleasure, suddenly decay.
Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst,
Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed ?
O trees, consume your sap in sorrow's source,
Streams, turn to tears your tributary course.
Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year,
The earth is hell when thou leav'st to appear.

Thomas Nashe (1592)

And perhaps a mid C20th variation on a theme ? With echoes still today? Best Wishes Tevot ...


"Waking Early Sunday Morning" - by Robert Lowell

O to break loose, like the chinook
salmon jumping and falling back,
nosing up to the impossible
stone and bone-crushing waterfall –
raw-jawed, weak-fleshed there, stopped by ten
steps of the roaring ladder, and then
to clear the top on the last try,
alive enough to spawn and die.
Stop, back off. The salmon breaks
water, and now my body wakes
to feel the unpolluted joy
and criminal leisure of a boy –
no rainbow smashing a dry fly
in the white run is free as I,
here squatting like a dragon on
time's hoard before the day's begun!

Fierce, fireless mind, running downhill.
Look up and see the harbor fill:
business as usual in eclipse
goes down to the sea in ships –
wake of refuse, dacron rope,
bound for Bermuda or Good Hope,
all bright before the morning watch
the wine-dark hulls of yawl and ketch.

I watch a glass of water wet
with a fine fuzz of icy sweat,
silvery colors touched with sky,
serene in their neutrality –
yet if I shift, or change my mood,
I see some object made of wood,
background behind it of brown grain,
to darken it, but not to stain.

O that the spirit could remain
tinged but untarnished by its strain!
Better dressed and stacking birch,
or lost with the Faithful at Church –
anywhere, but somewhere else!
And now the new electric bells,
clearly chiming, "Faith of our fathers,"
and now the congregation gathers.

O Bible chopped and crucified
in hymns we hear but do not read,
none of the milder subtleties
of grace or art will sweeten these
stiff quatrains shoveled out four-square –
they sing of peace, and preach despair;
yet they gave darkness some control,
and left a loophole for the soul.

When will we see Him face to face?
Each day, He shines through darker glass.
In this small town where everything
is known, I see His vanishing
emblems, His white spire and flag-
pole sticking out above the fog,
like old white china doorknobs, sad,
slight, useless things to calm the mad.

Hammering military splendor,
top-heavy Goliath in full armor –
little redemption in the mass
liquidations of their brass,
elephant and phalanx moving
with the times and still improving,
when that kingdom hit the crash:
a million foreskins stacked like trash ...

Sing softer! But what if a new
diminuendo brings no true
tenderness, only restlessness,
excess, the hunger for success,
sanity or self-deception
fixed and kicked by reckless caution,
while we listen to the bells –
anywhere, but somewhere else!

O to break loose. All life's grandeur
is something with a girl in summer ...
elated as the President
girdled by his establishment
this Sunday morning, free to chaff
his own thoughts with his bear-cuffed staff,
swimming nude, unbuttoned, sick
of his ghost-written rhetoric!

No weekends for the gods now. Wars
flicker, earth licks its open sores,
fresh breakage, fresh promotions, chance
assassinations, no advance.
Only man thinning out his kind
sounds through the Sabbath noon, the blind
swipe of the pruner and his knife
busy about the tree of life ...

Pity the planet, all joy gone
from this sweet volcanic cone;
peace to our children when they fall
in small war on the heels of small
war – until the end of time
to police the earth, a ghost
orbiting forever lost
in our monotonous sublime.

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

Fifteen years ago today (25th September, 2000) RS Thomas died.

No Time

She left me. What voice
colder than the wind
out of the grave said:
"It is over"? Impalpable,
invisible, she comes
to me still, as she would
do, and I at my reading.
There is a tremor
of light, as of a bird crossing
the sun's path, and I look
up in recognition
of a presence in absence.
Not a word, not a sound,
as she goes her way,
but a scent lingering
which is that of time immolating
itself in love's fire.

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

... or perhaps his ode to Poetry itself, from his posthumous collection Residues (and so possibly from his last months):

Don't ask me;
I have no recipe
for a poem. You
know the language,

know where prose ends
and poetry begins.
There should be no
introit in a poem.

The listener should come
to and realise
verse has been going on
for some time. Let

there be no coughing
no sighing. Poetry
is a spell woven
by consonants and vowels

in the absence of logic.
Ask no rhyme
of a poem, only
that it keep faith

with life's rhythm.
Language will trick
you if it can.
Syntax is words'

way of shackling
the spirit. Poetry is that
which arrives at the intellect
by way of the heart.