Poetry

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

If This Is a Man

You who live safe
In your heated homes,
You who come home at night to find
Hot food and friendly faces:

Consider if this is a man
Who toils in the mud,
Who knows no peace,
Who fights for half a loaf,
Who dies by a yes or a no.

Consider if this is a woman
With no hair and no name,
With no more strength to remember,
With empty eyes and a womb as cold
As a frog in winter.


Ponder that this happened:
I consign these words to you.
Carve them into your hearts
At home or on the street,
Going to bed or rising;
Tell them to your children.

Or may your house fall down,
May illness make you helpless,
And your children turn their eyes from you.

Primo Levi (1919 - 87)

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

Or, in the original:

Se questo è un uomo

Voi che vivete sicuri
nelle vostre tiepide case,
voi che trovate tornando a sera
il cibo caldo e visi amici:
Considerate se questo è un uomo
che lavora nel fango
che non conosce pace
che lotta per mezzo pane
che muore per un si o per un no.
Considerate se questa è una donna,
senza capelli e senza nome
senza più forza di ricordare
vuoti gli occhi e freddo il grembo
come una rana d'inverno.
Meditate che questo è stato:
vi comando queste parole.
Scolpitele nel vostro cuore
stando in casa andando per via,
coricandovi, alzandovi.
Ripetetele ai vostri figli.
O vi si sfaccia la casa,
la malattia vi impedisca,
i vostri nati torcano il viso da voi.

[Mal]

The Darkling Thrush

BY THOMAS HARDY

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

[Padraig]

Two great poems, ferney and Mal, the latter being one of my own favourites.

Not many people know that in the last moments of 1999 I started writing a poem, a sonnet, and I took inspiration from Hardy's example. I finished it but I have lost it.

ferney's poem put me in mind of another man to consider, who is safely at home:

Absence

I wake at night
in a house
white with moonlight.

Somewhere my son,
his vigour, his laughter;
somewhere my daughter.

Derek Mahon b.1941

[johncorrigan]

Mary Oliver RIP

Very sad to read of the death of American poet, Mary Oliver. She wrote about the natural world in her own unique way, lyrically telling the tales of her world. Here is 'Turtle'.


Turtle

Now I see it--
it nudges with its bulldog head
the slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble;
and now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal

who is leading her soft children
from one side of the pond to the other; she keeps
close to the edge
and they follow closely, the good children--

the tender children,
the sweet children, dangling their pretty feet
into the darkness.
And now will come--I can count on it--the murky splash,

the certain victory
of that pink and gassy mouth, and the frantic
circling of the hen while the rest of the chicks
flare away over the water and into the reeds, and my heart

will be most mournful
on their account. But, listen,
what's important?
Nothing's important

except that the great and cruel mystery of the world,
of which this is a part,
not to be denied. Once,
I happened to see, on a city street, in summer,

a dusty, fouled turtle plodded along--
a snapper--
broken out I suppose from some backyard cage--
and I knew what I had to do--

I looked it right in the eyes, and I caught it--
I put it, like a small mountain range,
into a knapsack, and I took it out
of the city, and I let it

down into the dark pond, into
the cool water,
and the light of the lilies,
to live.

Mary Oliver

[greenilex]

Thank you, Ferney. I cry easily.

[greenilex]

Comic Song:for the hopera files

When old Remona Liz
Saw Phil had had a spill
She put her handbag on the Chair:
“We wish no body ill:
But when we drive
We drive indeed.
A bargain is not sought.
Let’s put the matter
Straight before
That blankety World Court.”

The injured then did sue
For dinars and old gold:
Said Princess Anne
“You both of you are
Getting much too OLD.”
They forfeited their wealth
All for a jolly prang
And our austerity remains
In spite of the Big Bang.


Please understand that this came from relief at funerals postponed. It has the beginnings of a tune. Any takers?

[greenilex]

Oh well, off to the Ivory Tower in chains for a short river trip.

Nice while it lasted...

[johncorrigan]

Oh well, off to the Ivory Tower in chains for a short river trip.

Nice while it lasted...

As long as the DoE isn't steering you should be ok, greenie!

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

The Eve of St. Agnes (first two stanzas)

St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

John Keats

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

... and later in the poem:

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imag'ries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;

[Padraig]

Les Sylphides

Life in a day: he took his girl to the ballet;
Being shortsighted himself he could hardly see it -
The white skirts in the grey
Glade and the swell of the music
Lifting the white sails.

Calyx upon calyx, canterbury bells in the breeze
The flowers on the left mirror to the flowers on the right
And the naked arms above
The powdered faces moving
Like seaweed in a pool.

Now, he thought, we are floating - ageless, oarless -
Now there is no separation, from now on
You will be wearing white
Satin and a red sash
Under the waltzing trees.

But the music stopped, the dancers took their curtain,
The river had come to a lock - a shuffle of programmes -
And we cannot continue down
Stream unless we are ready
To enter the lock and drop.

So they were married - to be the more together -
And found they were never again so much together.
Divided by the morning tea,
By the evening paper,
By children and tradesmen's bills.

Waking at times in the night she found assurance
Due to his regular breathing but wondered whether
It was really worth it and where
The river had flowed away
And where were the white flowers.

Louis MacNeice 1907 - 1963

[Bella Kemp]

A wonderful half hour reading some of these poems. Thanks to all of you who take time to post these - much appreciated on a cold January night!

[johncorrigan]

My pal gave me a book, 'Lines of Vision', celebrating 150 years of the National Gallery of Ireland. Poets, platwrights and novelists were invited to reflect on a piece in the Gallery and produce a piece of writing. The following is part of a piece by Eilis Ni Dhuibhne, reflecting on the painting 'Nano's Dream Castle' by Gerard Dillon.

http://onlinecollection.nationalgallery.ie/objects/8901/nanos-dream-castle;jsessionid=DDEBBF9D2D4C2FE1E7A27229A4A4B49E?ctx=143bcc92-41bc-4890-928b-76441148220f&idx=2

A Dream Catalogue

In my garden I stand like a blade of grass. I cook a stew of shadows in a beechwood casserole. Cabbage light as butterflies, nettle breezes. Silver water from a spring my beverage. My fingers are the bristles of a brush that canter through a canvas meadow.

For years I have recorded my dreams
Insofar as the flimsy net, my only tool, can catch
swallows as they fly into the clouds
Or fishes darting under the slimy rock
Called I forget.

These are my themes:
Rivers breaking banks, tsunamis overwhelming,
Missing buses, friends vanishing around corners
Like eager rabbits finding fast their burrows.
Of course a certain share of sexual stuff
Involving ancient friends and complete strangers.

Then, houses
Like mushrooms in autumn fields
They crop up every night
My dreams enjoy a permanent building boom.
In my unconscious there are ten thousand mansions

Also, cottages and bungalows
Villas, palaces,
and castle upon castle

Eilis Ni Dhuibhne

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

Reveille

In the savage nights we dreamed
Dense and violent dreams,
Dreamed with soul and body:
Of returning; eating; telling.
Until the dawn command
Resounded curt and low:

"Wstawac!"

And our hearts cracked in our breasts.

Now we're homes again,
Our bellies are full,
We're finished with telling.
It's time. Soon we'll hear again
The strange command:

"Wstawac!"

Primo Levi

("wstawac" = "get up!" in Polish)