Poetry

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  • Padraig
    Full Member
    • Feb 2013
    • 4236

    Originally posted by johncorrigan View Post
    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'.

    Comment

    • Padraig
      Full Member
      • Feb 2013
      • 4236

      Originally posted by Padraig View Post
      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.

      Comment

      • johncorrigan
        Full Member
        • Nov 2010
        • 10359

        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

        Comment

        • johncorrigan
          Full Member
          • Nov 2010
          • 10359

          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

          Comment

          • Padraig
            Full Member
            • Feb 2013
            • 4236

            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.

            Comment

            • johncorrigan
              Full Member
              • Nov 2010
              • 10359

              [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.



              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.

              Comment

              • Padraig
                Full Member
                • Feb 2013
                • 4236

                Originally posted by johncorrigan View Post
                [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

                Comment

                • aeolium
                  Full Member
                  • Nov 2010
                  • 3992

                  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

                  Comment

                  • johncorrigan
                    Full Member
                    • Nov 2010
                    • 10359

                    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.

                    Comment

                    • Padraig
                      Full Member
                      • Feb 2013
                      • 4236

                      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

                      Comment

                      • johncorrigan
                        Full Member
                        • Nov 2010
                        • 10359

                        Originally posted by Padraig View Post
                        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.

                        Originally posted by Padraig View Post
                        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.

                        Comment

                        • ferneyhoughgeliebte
                          Gone fishin'
                          • Sep 2011
                          • 30163

                          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)
                          [FONT=Comic Sans MS][I][B]Numquam Satis![/B][/I][/FONT]

                          Comment

                          • Tevot
                            Full Member
                            • Nov 2010
                            • 1011

                            Originally posted by ferneyhoughgeliebte View Post
                            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.

                            Comment

                            • ferneyhoughgeliebte
                              Gone fishin'
                              • Sep 2011
                              • 30163

                              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
                              .
                              [FONT=Comic Sans MS][I][B]Numquam Satis![/B][/I][/FONT]

                              Comment

                              • ferneyhoughgeliebte
                                Gone fishin'
                                • Sep 2011
                                • 30163

                                ... 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.
                                [FONT=Comic Sans MS][I][B]Numquam Satis![/B][/I][/FONT]

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