Poetry

[Dermot]

Neutral Tones

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
– They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

Thomas Hardy

[DoctorT]

Neutral Tones

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
– They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

Thomas Hardy

Thanks Dermot. I love this poem. Even writing on it for O level English didn’t spoil it

[Dermot]

Horace Ode 4.7, followed by A.E. Housman's translation of what he described as ''the most beautiful poem in ancient literature.''

Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis
arboribusque comae;
mutat terra vices et decrescentia ripas
flumina praetereunt;

Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet
ducere nuda choros:
inmortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum
quae rapit hora diem.

frigora mitescunt Zephyris, ver proterit aestas
interitura, simul
pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox
bruma recurrit iners.

damna tamen celeres reparant caelestia lunae:
nos ubi decidimus
quo pius Aeneas, quo dives Tullus et Ancus,
pulvis et umbra sumus.

quis scit an adiciant hodiernae crastina summae
tempora di superi?
cuncta manus avidas fugient heredis amico
quae dederis animo.

cum semel occideris et de te, splendida, Minos
fecerit arbitria,
non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te
restituet pietas;

infernis neque enim tenebris Diana pudicum
liberat Hippolytum
nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro
vincula Pirithoo.

---------------

The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws
And grasses in the mead renew their birth,
The river to the river-bed withdraws,
And altered is the fashion of the earth.

The Nymphs and Graces three put off their fear
And unapparelled in the woodland play.
The swift hour and the brief prime of the year
Say to the soul, Thou wast not born for aye.

Thaw follows frost; hard on the heel of spring
Treads summer sure to die, for hard on hers
Comes autumn with his apples scattering;
Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs.

But oh, whate’er the sky-led seasons mar,
Moon upon moon rebuilds it with her beams;
Come we where Tullus and where Ancus are
And good Aeneas, we are dust and dreams.

Torquatus, if the gods in heaven shall add
The morrow to the day, what tongue has told?
Feast then thy heart, for what thy heart has had
The fingers of no heir will ever hold.

When thou descendest once the shades among,
The stern assize and equal judgment o’er,
Not thy long lineage nor thy golden tongue,
No, nor thy righteousness, shall friend thee more.

Night holds Hippolytus the pure of stain,
Diana steads him nothing, he must stay;
And Theseus leaves Pirithous in the chain
The love of comrades cannot take away.

[johncorrigan]

A lot less erudite, but here's Rabbie in 2021 - not as exciting:

Tam O'Shanter in Lockdown.

When chapman billies bide at hame

And drouthy neebors dae the same

As Tier four days are wearing late

And naebody dares tae tak' the gate,

And we sit boozin on our own

And gettin fou, an' makin moan,

We think much o' the lang Scots miles

The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles

That lie ootside oor lonely hames

Where we rest wi' oor hauf-cut dames.

The auld mare, Meg, is in the byre,

Her maister's spark oot by the fire.

Nae witches dance in Alloway

For Tam O'Shanter's hame the day.

[cloughie]

Excellent jc - and just to prove Haggis is out of this world:

https://www.msn.com/en-gb/money/technology/haggis-in-space-how-did-scottish-butcher-simon-howie-launch-haggis-into-space-for-burns-night-and-why/ar-BB1d4vjU

[johncorrigan]

Excellent jc - and just to prove Haggis is out of this world:

https://www.msn.com/en-gb/money/tech...hy/ar-BB1d4vjU

Wonder how they got the haggis' three legs into a space suit, cloughie? Amazin' whit they can do these days.

[agingjb]

The little villanette,
Much shorter than a villanelle,
Expresses brief regret;

A single epithet,
On which we do not need to dwell.
The little villanette
Expresses brief regret.

[antongould]

A lot less erudite, but here's Rabbie in 2021 - not as exciting:

Tam O'Shanter in Lockdown.

When chapman billies bide at hame

And drouthy neebors dae the same

As Tier four days are wearing late

And naebody dares tae tak' the gate,

And we sit boozin on our own

And gettin fou, an' makin moan,

We think much o' the lang Scots miles

The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles

That lie ootside oor lonely hames

Where we rest wi' oor hauf-cut dames.

The auld mare, Meg, is in the byre,

Her maister's spark oot by the fire.

Nae witches dance in Alloway

For Tam O'Shanter's hame the day.

Excellent JC

[antongould]

At Grass

The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter in,
Till wind distresses tail and mane;
Then one crops grass, and moves about
- The other seeming to look on -
And stands anonymous again

Yet fifteen years ago, perhaps
Two dozen distances sufficed
To fable them : faint afternoons
Of Cups and Stakes and Handicaps,
Whereby their names were artificed
To inlay faded, classic Junes -

Silks at the start : against the sky
Numbers and parasols : outside,
Squadrons of empty cars, and heat,
And littered grass : then the long cry
Hanging unhushed till it subside
To stop-press columns on the street.

Do memories plague their ears like flies?
They shake their heads. Dusk brims the shadows.
Summer by summer all stole away,
The starting-gates, the crowd and cries -
All but the unmolesting meadows.
Almanacked, their names live; they

Have slipped their names, and stand at ease,
Or gallop for what must be joy,
And not a fieldglass sees them home,
Or curious stop-watch prophesies :
Only the grooms, and the grooms boy,
With bridles in the evening come.

[johncorrigan]

My old Dad loved the geegees, anton...he would have fair enjoyed that, as did I. I was talking to my sister last night - she's thirteen years my junior and I found out that we had both stood outside the same bookies down a back lane in Paisley when we were young, listening to the hubbub from inside and seeing a fug of smoke every time the door of the forbidden place opened, waiting for him to put his line on. Thanks!

[Padraig]

My old Dad loved the geegees, anton...he would have fair enjoyed that, as did I. I was talking to my sister last night - she's thirteen years my junior and I found out that we had both stood outside the same bookies down a back lane in Paisley when we were young, listening to the hubbub from inside and seeing a fug of smoke every time the door of the forbidden place opened, waiting for him to put his line on. Thanks!

There's poetry in all that as well, John. Just get up and say it, says Amanda.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plU-QpcEswo

[Padraig]

Last week I heard a song on EC that took my fancy. I always find it difficult to follow the words in a song, even in English, but I knew I did not recognise them. It turned out to be a Hardy poem set by Gerald Finzi, and I paid attention to the title, since I did not know the poem. I have to say that I read Thomas Hardy's poems frequently - I bought the Wordsworth 'Works of Thomas Hardy' paperback in 1994, and I have been dipping in since then; so I was surprised that 'At Middlefield Gate in February' didn't even ring a bell.

I have been told variously that poems must be read aloud; the best way is to hear it read well, if possible by the poet; anthologies are not the way to get to know poetry; poems must be seen in the context of the whole volume etc. I have experienced all of the above and I most enjoy reading the poem for myself and seeing the words on the page, and seeing the rhythm and the rhyme and all the vowels and consonants and searching for tricks of the trade. Worst of all is hearing a poem for the first time as a song, which is why I had to find 'At Middlefield Gate in February' and give it a good read. It was a familiar theme but as usual lovingly observed and tenderly retrieved.

At Middlefield Gate in February

The bars are thick with drops that show
As they gather themselves from the fog
Like silver buttons ranged in a row,
And as evenly spaced as if measured, although
They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by,
And the blades of last year's grass
While the fallow ploughland turned up nigh
In raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie -
Too clogging for feet to pass.

How dry it was on a far-back day
When straws hung the hedge, and around,
When amid the sheaves in amorous play
In curtained bonnets and light array
Bloomed a bevy now underground.

T. Hardy 1917

[Bella Kemp]

Last week I heard a song on EC that took my fancy. I always find it difficult to follow the words in a song, even in English, but I knew I did not recognise them. It turned out to be a Hardy poem set by Gerald Finzi, and I paid attention to the title, since I did not know the poem. I have to say that I read Thomas Hardy's poems frequently - I bought the Wordsworth 'Works of Thomas Hardy' paperback in 1994, and I have been dipping in since then; so I was surprised that 'At Middlefield Gate in February' didn't even ring a bell.

I have been told variously that poems must be read aloud; the best way is to hear it read well, if possible by the poet; anthologies are not the way to get to know poetry; poems must be seen in the context of the whole volume etc. I have experienced all of the above and I most enjoy reading the poem for myself and seeing the words on the page, and seeing the rhythm and the rhyme and all the vowels and consonants and searching for tricks of the trade. Worst of all is hearing a poem for the first time as a song, which is why I had to find 'At Middlefield Gate in February' and give it a good read. It was a familiar theme but as usual lovingly observed and tenderly retrieved.

At Middlefield Gate in February

The bars are thick with drops that show
As they gather themselves from the fog
Like silver buttons ranged in a row,
And as evenly spaced as if measured, although
They fall at the feeblest jog.

They load the leafless hedge hard by,
And the blades of last year's grass
While the fallow ploughland turned up nigh
In raw rolls, clammy and clogging lie -
Too clogging for feet to pass.

How dry it was on a far-back day
When straws hung the hedge, and around,
When amid the sheaves in amorous play
In curtained bonnets and light array
Bloomed a bevy now underground.

T. Hardy 1917

I agree, Padraig, that the best way to understand and learn to love a poem is to read it oneself. In my experience the very worst readers of poetry are the poets themselves - so many adopt an elevated 'poetry tone' that makes them sound pompous and absurd. The worst offenders are Dylan Thomas, Tony Harrison and T S Eliot. I can never follow poetry when sung: I think one has to understand the emotions expressed in a different way that is deeper than rational 'understanding'. I do love dipping into anthologies, however - I graze lightly over a few poems before finding one to settle into.

[jayne lee wilson]

I agree, Padraig, that the best way to understand and learn to love a poem is to read it oneself. In my experience the very worst readers of poetry are the poets themselves - so many adopt an elevated 'poetry tone' that makes them sound pompous and absurd. The worst offenders are Dylan Thomas, Tony Harrison and T S Eliot. I can never follow poetry when sung: I think one has to understand the emotions expressed in a different way that is deeper than rational 'understanding'. I do love dipping into anthologies, however - I graze lightly over a few poems before finding one to settle into.

Surprised to read this.... personally I love the way Harrison reads his masterpiece, "V"..... with utterly idiomatic attention to tone, phrase, rhythm and meaning....his own spoken and poetic voice encompasses it all....

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FA3AL14d05k

[vinteuil]

Laertes

When he found Laertes alone on the tidy terrace, hoeing
Around a vine, disreputable in his gardening duds,
Patched and grubby, leather gaiters protecting his shins
Against brambles, gloves as well, and, to cap it all,
Sure sign of his deep depression, a goatskin duncher,
Odysseus sobbed in the shade of a pear-tree for his father
So old and pathetic that all he wanted then and there
Was to kiss him and hug him and blurt out the whole story,
But the whole story is one catalogue and then another,
So he waited for images from that formal garden,
Evidence of a childhood spent traipsing after his father
And asking for everything he saw, the thirteen pear-trees,
Ten apple-trees, forty fig-trees, the fifty rows of vines
Ripening at different times for a continuous supply,
Until Laertes recognised his son and, weak at the knees,
Dizzy, flung his arms around the neck of great Odysseus
Who drew the old man fainting to his breast and held him there
And cradled like driftwood the bones of his dwindling father.



Michael Longley


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