Poetry

[johncorrigan]

Christmas in Envelopes

Monks are at it again, quaffing, carousing;
And stage-coaches, cantering straight out of Merrie England,
In a flurry of whips and fetlocks sacks and Santas.

Raphael has been roped in, and Botticelli;
Experts predict a vintage year for Virgins.

From the Theologically challenged, Richmond Bridge,
Giverny, a lugger by moonlight, doves. Ours

Costs less than these in money, more in time;
Like them, is hopelessly irrelevant,
But brings, like them, the essential message

love

U.A.Fanthorpe

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

I'm not a great admirer of Fanthorpe, but I like that one, jc

[johncorrigan]

I'm not a great admirer of Fanthorpe, but I like that one, jc

I'd never read anything by him, ferney, or at least not as far as I recall. I really liked the bit about the 'Theologically challenged'.

[vinteuil]

I'd never read anything by him, ferney, or at least not as far as I recall. I really liked the bit about the 'Theologically challenged'.

... or even by her

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U._A._Fanthorpe

[jean]

If you were trying to guess, it's quite hard to think of a man's name beginning with U...

Here is one I always turn to at this time of year. I should have posted it yesterday:

A Nocturnall Upon St. Lucies Day Being the Shortest Day

TIS the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,
Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,
The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;
The worlds whole sap is sunke:
The generall balme th' hydroptique earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the beds-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and enterr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar'd with mee, who am their Epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers bee
At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:
For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new Alchimie.
For his art did expresse
A quintessence even from nothingnesse,
From dull privations, and leane emptinesse:
He ruin'd mee, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darknesse, death; things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have;
I, by loves limbecke, am the grave
Of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have wee two wept, and so
Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two Chaosses, when we did show
Care to ought else; and often absences
Withdrew our soules, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown;
Were I a man, that I were one,
I needs must know; I should preferre,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; All, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.
You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sunne
At this time to the Goat is runne
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since shee enjoyes her long nights festivall,
Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call
This houre her Vigill, and her Eve, since this
Bothe the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.

(John Donne)

[vinteuil]

.



... ferney beat you by a couple of days...

[jean]

So he did...and I've certainly posted it more than once myself, though maybe not here... But I got the spellilng right!

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

But I got the spellilng right!

Whose?

[jean]

Not mine, obviously!

[johncorrigan]

... or even by her

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U._A._Fanthorpe

Thanks for the info, vinteuil.

[johncorrigan]

If you were trying to guess, it's quite hard to think of a man's name beginning with U...

My son's name is Uist, jean.

[jean]

A name hitherto quite unknown to me!

[Padraig]

My son's name is Uist, jean.

Thanks John for your PM. PMs I can read, but can't seem to send.

I now know 3 Us - Uist, Uel and Ulick.

[Padraig]

Thanks John for your PM.

Bliain ur faoi mhaise daoibh.

[Padraig]

Bliain ur faoi mhaise daoibh.

Got a Collected Poems of Paul Muldoon for Christmas, John. I knew only a few of his and am finding this collection tough enough going. Here's an easy one by a different poet, about another poet - that's three for the price of one!

November 1967

to Katherine

I awoke with a pain in my head
And my mother standing at the end of the bed;
There's bad news in the paper', she said
'Patrick Kavanagh is dead.'

After a week which was not real
At last I settled down to a natural meal;
I was sitting over a pint and a beef sandwich
In Mooney's across the street from the Rotunda.

By accident I happened to tune in
To the conversation at the table from me;
I heard an old Northsider tell to his missus
'He was pure straight; God rest him; not like us.'

Paul Durcan