Poetry

[Padraig]

Can anyone tell me the words (or where to find them) of the childrens poem that begins: 'My name is Mr Widgery I really don't know why, I'm just a nice old tortoise kind of diffident and shy ...
I had the words but now can't find them despite Googling.

Sorry Gradus - I gave Google plenty of options, but no luck. I once knew of a Widgery, but he was not a tortoise.

Post it up if you find it,

[johncorrigan]

The Permanence of the Young Men


No man outlives the grief of war
Though he outlive its wreck:
Upon the memory a scar
Through all his years will ache.

Hopes will revive when horrors cease;
And dreaming dread be stilled;
But there shall dwell within his peace
A sadness unannulled.

Upon his world shall hang a sign
Which summer cannot hide:
The permanence of the young men
Who are not by his side.

William Soutar (1898-1943)

William Soutar was a Perthshire poet and writer. I found a card in a charity shop recently with this poem on it.

[Padraig]

The Permanence of the Young Men


No man outlives the grief of war
Though he outlive its wreck:
Upon the memory a scar
Through all his years will ache.

Hopes will revive when horrors cease;
And dreaming dread be stilled;
But there shall dwell within his peace
A sadness unannulled.

Upon his world shall hang a sign
Which summer cannot hide:
The permanence of the young men
Who are not by his side.

William Soutar (1898-1943)

William Soutar was a Perthshire poet and writer. I found a card in a charity shop recently with this poem on it.

A fated discovery for you John. Well done. The Gods were smiling on you.

[johncorrigan]

Hummingbird

Suppose I say summer,

write the word “hummingbird,”

put it in an envelope,

take it down the hill

to the box. When you open

my letter you will recall

those days and how much,

just how much, I love you.

Raymond Carver

[Hitch]

Some Notes on Bach and Haydn

it is quite something to turn your radio on
low
at 4:30 in the morning
in an apartment house
and hear Haydn
while through the blinds
you can see only the black night
as beautiful and quiet
as a flower.
and with that
something to drink,
of course,
a cigarette,
and the heater going,
and Haydn going.
maybe just 35 people
in a city of millions listening
as you are listening now,
looking at the walls,
smoking quietly,
not hating anything,
not wanting anything.
existing like mercury
you listen to a dead man's music
at 4:30 in the morning,
only he is not really dead
as the smoke from your cigarette curls up,
is not really dead,
and all is magic,
this good sound
in Los Angeles.
but now a siren takes the air,
some trouble, murder, robbery, death . . .
but Haydn goes on
and you listen,
one of the finest mornings of your life
like some of those when you were very young
with stupid lunch pail
and sleepy eyes
riding the early bus to the railroad yards
to scrub the windows and sides of trains
with a brush and oaktie
but knowing
all the while
you would take the longest gamble,
and now having taken it,
still alive,
poor but strong,
knowing Haydn at 4:30 a.m.,
the only way to know him,
the blinds down
and the black night
the cigarette
and in my hands this pen
writing in a notebook
(my typewriter at this hour would
scream like a raped bear)
and
now
somehow
knowing the way
warmly and gently
finally
as Haydn ends.
and then a voice tells me
where I can get bacon and eggs,
orange juice, toast, coffee
this very morning
for a pleasant price
and I like this man
for telling me this
after Haydn
and I want to get dressed
and go out and find the waitress
and eat bacon and eggs
and lift the coffee cup to my mouth,
but I am distracted:
the voice tells me that Bach
will be next: "Brandenburg Concerto No. 2
in F major,"
so I go into the kitchen for a
new can of beer.
may this night never see morning
as finally one night will not,
but I do suppose morning will come this day
asking its hard way --
the cars jammed on freeways,
faces as horrible as unflushed excreta,
trapped lives less than beautiful love,
and I walk out
knowing the way
cold beer in hand
as Bach begins
and
this good night
is still everywhere.

Charles Bukowski

[johncorrigan]

Some Notes on Bach and Haydn

Charles Bukowski

Thanks, Hitch. That was great. I was just reading Raymond Carver's poem about Bukowski (You Don't Know What Love Is (an Evening with Charles Bukowski) last week, so this was timely and excellent.

[Hitch]

Thanks, Hitch. That was great. I was just reading Raymond Carver's poem about Bukowski (You Don't Know What Love Is (an Evening with Charles Bukowski) last week, so this was timely and excellent.

I'm glad you enjoyed it. I looked up the Carver poem you mentioned and it was worth doing so. What a portrait!

[johncorrigan]

Trio

Coming up Buchanan Street, quickly, on a sharp winter evening
a young man and two girls, under the Christmas lights –
The young man carries a new guitar in his arms,
the girl on the inside carries a very young baby,
and the girl on the outside carries a chihuahua.
And the three of them are laughing, their breath rises
in a cloud of happiness, and as they pass
the boy says, ‘Wait till he sees this but!’
The chihuahua has a tiny Royal Stewart tartan coat like a teapot-
holder,
the baby in its white shawl is all bright eyes and mouth like favours
in a fresh sweet cake,
the guitar swells out under its milky plastic cover, tied at the neck
with silver tinsel tape and a brisk sprig of mistletoe.
Orphean sprig! Melting baby! Warm chihuahua!
The vale of tears is powerless before you.
Whether Christ is born, or is not born, you
put paid to fate, it abdicates
under the Christmas lights.
Monsters of the year
go blank, are scattered back,
can’t bear this march of three.

– And the three have passed, vanished in the crowd
(yet not vanished, for in their arms they wind
the life of men and beasts, and music,
laughter ringing them round like a guard)
at the end of this winter’s day.

Edwin Morgan