Poetry

[Karafan]

Thanks, Petrushka. 'Death in Leamington' is one of my favourites - in my mind's eye I still see JB's delighted face after Maggie Smith and Kenneth Williams recited it to him on Parky in the '70s. What a lovely, talented and modest soul!

K

[Ferretfancy]

Here's one that perhaps is appropriate for a coming anniversary, although in fact it was written during WWII

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday
We had daily cleaning.And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing.But today,
Today we have naming of parts.Japonica
Glistens like coral in all the neighbouring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel.And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings.And this is the piling swivel.
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb.The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt.The purpose of this
is to open the breech, as you see.We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards. We call this
Easing the spring.And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers
They call it easing the Spring..

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb:like the bolt,
And the breech, the cocking piece,and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got, and the almond blossom
Silent in all the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

Henry Reed ( 1942)

[jayne lee wilson]

I do love that Henry Reed piece FF! The startling, blossoming lines, "Japonica/Glistens like coral..." the contrast of the exotic and the suburban, seems always to be somewhere in the back of my mind, and "which in our case we have not got" (with endless variations) has many a mundane application in our house...

[edashtav]

I do love that Henry Reed piece FF! The startling, blossoming lines, "Japonica/Glistens like coral..." the contrast of the exotic and the suburban, seems always to be somewhere in the back of my mind, and "which in our case we have not got" (with endless variations) has many a mundane application in our house...

Me too - takes me back to General Studies Art lessons with Bernard Walker at Bournemouth Schol. He was a published composer ( and friend of Percy Whiltlock) who loved to tempt us to explore the Third Programme. He read the Reed to us several times: unforgettable.

[jayne lee wilson]

Earthy Anecdote
by Wallace Stevens

Every time the bucks went clattering
Over Oklahoma
A firecat bristled in the way.

Wherever they went,
They went clattering,
Until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the right,
Because of the firecat.

Or until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the left,
Because of the firecat.

The bucks clattered.
The firecat went leaping,
To the right, to the left,
And
Bristled in the way.

Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes
And slept.

[Petrushka]

Love this parody of Henry Reed's 'Naming of Parts'. Came across it many years ago while doing 'O' Level Eng Lit.

Today we have Baking of Tarts. Yesterday
We had Simple Salads. And a fortnight tomorrow
We shall have How to Garnish Cod cutlets. But today
Today we have Baking of Tarts. The viewers
Ogle their screens in a flurry of breathless excitement,
For today we have Baking of Tarts.

This is the plastic mixing bowl. And this
Is the rolling-pin and the board, whose use you will see
In a moment. And this is the transparent oven
Which in your case you have not got. The speaker
Warms to her theme with ardent, unflagging exuberance,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the strawberry jam which is neatly extracted
With a gentle thrust of the spoon. And please do not let me
See anyone licking his fingers. It is perfectly easy
If you have any jam in your pot. The viewers
Are silent and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them licking their fingers.

And this you can see is the lard. The purpose of this
Is to prevent the pastry from sticking. We can smear it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Greasing the tin. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The viewers are fumbling for biscuits and spilling their coffee:
They call it ruining the carpet.

They call it ruining the carpet. It is perfectly easy
If your mind is attempting to cope with the cookery expert
While your hands are engaged in juggling with saucers and plates
And trying meanwhile to secure a reasonable share
Of the cheese straws, which in our case we have not got:
For today we have Baking of Tarts.

E V Milner

[Petrushka]

Another one from the same book as Baking of Tarts which had me in stitches back in 1971 when doing Eng Lit 'O' Level.


Timothy Winters comes to school
With eyes as wide as a football-pool,
Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters:
A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.

His belly is white, his neck is dark,
And his hair is an exclamation-mark.
His clothes are enough to scare a crow
And through his britches the blue winds blow.

When teacher talks he won't hear a word
And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird,
He licks the pattern off his plate
And he's not even heard of the Welfare State.

Timothy Winters has bloody feet
And he lives in a house on Suez Street,
He sleeps in a sack on the kitchen floor
And they say there aren't boys like him anymore.

Old Man Winters likes his beer
And his missus ran off with a bombardier,
Grandma sits in the grate with a gin
And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin.

The welfare Worker lies awake
But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake,
So Timothy Winters drinks his cup
And slowly goes on growing up.

At Morning Prayers the Master helves
for children less fortunate than ourselves,
And the loudest response in the room is when
Timothy Winters roars "Amen!"

So come one angel, come on ten
Timothy Winters says "Amen
Amen amen amen amen."
Timothy Winters, Lord. Amen

Charles Causley

[amateur51]

Carol Ann Duffy, my sort of poet laureate

Pope Joan


After I learned to transubstantiate
Unleavened bread
Into the sacred host
And swung the burning frankincense
Till blue -green snakes of smoke
Coiled round the hem of my robe
And swayed through those fervent crowds
High up in a papal chair
Blessing and blessing the air
Nearer to heaven
Than cardinals, archbishops, bishops, preists
Being Vicar of Rome
Having made the Vatican my home
Like the best of men
In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti amen
But twice as virtuous as them
I came to believe
That I did not believe a word
So I tell you now
Daughters or brides of the Lord
That the closest I felt
To the power of God
Was the sense of a hand
Lifting me, flinging me down
Lifting me, flinging me down
As my baby pushed out
From between my legs
Where I lay in the road
In my miracle
Not a man or a pope at all

[johncorrigan]

Carol Ann Duffy, my sort of poet laureate

Pope Joan

Thanks Am - I may have to re-assess the laureate after struggling through a couple of her poems trying to help with my distraught kids, and me less than delighted, in the lead up to their various efforts at Higher English. Since then I have read her work with opinion already formed. Unlike those, I really liked this. Must try harder!

[johncorrigan]

I'm not sure why I started reading Rilke - at times I find him impossible to get through, frustrating - he makes me feel like I'm a bit stupid. Yet sometimes I find him so beautifully compelling. This is from his selected poetry translated by Stephen Mitchell.

For the Sake of a Single Poem

…Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them to early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines.

For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough) – they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and knows the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighbourhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else-); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the star’s, – and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labour, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves – only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

[jayne lee wilson]

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

(Which was set to music by... which living composer..?)

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

(Which was set to music by... which living composer..?)

An early work by George Benjamin, A Mind of Winter - appeared on the first CD of his Music released by NIMBUS and sung by Penelope Walmsley-Clarke conducted by the composer. (I have the score and the CD).

[Padraig]

Also set by George Benjamin

[amateur51]

THE WIND tapped like a tired man,
And like a host, “Come in,”
I boldly answered; entered then
My residence within

A rapid, footless guest,
To offer whom a chair
Were as impossible as hand
A sofa to the air.

No bone had he to bind him,
His speech was like the push
Of numerous humming-birds at once

His countenance a billow,
His fingers, if he pass,
Let go a music, as of tunes
Blown tremulous in glass.

He visited, still flitting;
Then, like a timid man,
Again he tapped—’t was flurriedly—
And I became alone




Emily Dickinson

[johncorrigan]

Don't know if it's my age or just the time of year but I found myself at a lot of funerals this last couple of weeks.

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market —
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

John Updike