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  • Serial_Apologist
    Full Member
    • Dec 2010
    • 37692

    Murray Lachlan Young: After the Jabberwocky

    The website of Murray Lachlan Young. Poet | Author | Playwright | Performer


    A pity this is not on youtube.

    Comment

    • Padraig
      Full Member
      • Feb 2013
      • 4237

      I could hardly resist this one:

      The Briefcase

      for Seamus Heaney


      I held the briefcase at arm's length from me;
      the oxblood or liver
      eelskin with which it was covered
      had suddenly grown supple.

      I'd been waiting in line for the cross-town
      bus when an almighty cloudburst
      left the sidewalk a raging torrent.

      And though it contained only the first
      inkling of this poem, I knew I daren't
      set the briefcase down
      to slap my pockets for an obol -

      for fear it might slink into a culvert
      and strike out along the East River
      for the sea. By which I mean the 'open' sea.

      Paul Muldoon from Madoc: A Mystery 1990

      Comment

      • johncorrigan
        Full Member
        • Nov 2010
        • 10363

        Originally posted by Padraig View Post
        I could hardly resist this one:

        The Briefcase

        for Seamus Heaney

        Paul Muldoon from Madoc: A Mystery 1990
        Clingin' on despite the urge to run, Padraig? Wonder if the rain had him back over by. And thanks also for the reminder about obols...I need to start using that term in everyday life...or everyday death.

        Fosterage
        for Michael McLaverty

        ‘Description is revelation!’ Royal
        Avenue, Belfast, 1962,
        A Saturday afternoon, glad to meet
        Me, newly cubbed in language, he gripped
        My elbow. ‘Listen. Go your own way.
        Do your own work. Remember
        Katherine Mansfield—I will tell
        How the laundry basket squeaked ... that note of exile.’
        But to hell with overstating it:
        ‘Don’t have the veins bulging in your Biro.’
        And then, ‘Poor Hopkins!’ I have the Journals
        He gave me, underlined, his buckled self
        Obeisant to their pain. He discerned
        The lineaments of patience everywhere
        And fostered me and sent me out, with words
        Imposing on my tongue like obols.

        Seamus Heaney

        Comment

        • Padraig
          Full Member
          • Feb 2013
          • 4237

          Originally posted by johncorrigan View Post
          . And thanks also for the reminder about obols...I need to start using that term in everyday life...or everyday death.
          'Just lay me down in my native peat
          With a jug of punch at my head and feet.'

          It Is What It Is

          It is what it is, the popping underfoot of the bubble wrap
          in which Asher's new toy came,
          popping like bladder wrack on the foreshore
          of a country towards which I've been rowing
          for fifty years, my peeping from behind a tamarind
          at the peeping ox and ass, the flyer for a pantomime,
          the inlaid cigarette box, the shamrock-painted jug,
          the New Testament bound in red leather
          lying open, Lordie, on her lap
          while I mull over the rules of this imperspicuous game
          that seems to be missing one piece, if not more.
          Her voice at the gridiron coming and going
          as if snatched by a sea wind.
          My mother. Shipping out for good. For good this time.
          The game. The plaything spread on the rug.
          The fifty years I've spent trying to put it together.

          Paul Muldoon from Horse Latitudes 2006

          Comment

          • vinteuil
            Full Member
            • Nov 2010
            • 12843

            A Bookshop Idyll


            Between the GARDENING and the COOKERY
            Comes the brief POETRY shelf;
            By the Nonesuch Donne, a thin anthology
            Offers itself.

            Critical, and with nothing else to do,
            I scan the Contents page,
            Relieved to find the names are mostly new;
            No one my age.

            Like all strangers, they divide by sex:
            Landscape near Parma
            Interests a man, so does The Double Vortex,
            So does Rilke and Buddha.

            'I travel, you see', 'I think' and 'I can read'
            These titles seem to say;
            But I Remember You, Love is my Creed,
            Poem for J.
            ,

            The ladies' choice, discountenance my patter
            For several seconds;
            From somewhere in this (as in any) matter
            A moral beckons.

            Should poets bicycle-pump the human heart
            Or squash it flat?
            Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;
            Girls aren't like that.

            We men have got love well weighed up; our stuff
            Can get by without it.
            Women don't seem to think that's good enough;
            They write about it,

            And the awful way their poems lay open
            Just doesn't strike them.
            Women are really much nicer than men:
            No wonder we like them.

            Deciding this, we can forget those times
            We sat up half the night
            Chock-full of love, crammed with bright thoughts,
            names, rhymes,
            And couldn't write.

            Comment

            • vinteuil
              Full Member
              • Nov 2010
              • 12843

              Tarantella
              (1929)

              Do you remember an Inn,
              Miranda?
              Do you remember an Inn?
              And the tedding and the spreading
              Of the straw for a bedding,
              And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
              And the wine that tasted of tar?
              And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
              (Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
              Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
              Do you remember an Inn?
              And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
              Who hadn't got a penny,
              And who weren't paying any,
              And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
              And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
              Of the clap
              Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
              Of the girl gone chancing,
              Glancing,
              Dancing,
              Backing and advancing,
              Snapping of a clapper to the spin
              Out and in --
              And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
              Do you remember an Inn,
              Miranda?
              Do you remember an Inn?

              Never more;
              Miranda,
              Never more.
              Only the high peaks hoar:
              And Aragon a torrent at the door.
              No sound
              In the walls of the Halls where falls
              The tread
              Of the feet of the dead to the ground
              No sound:
              But the boom
              Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

              Comment

              • vinteuil
                Full Member
                • Nov 2010
                • 12843

                Off Cartage he, that worthie warier
                Could ouercome, but cowld not use his chaunce;
                And I, like wise off all my long endever,
                The sherpe conquest, tho fortune did avaunce,
                Could not it vse : the hold that is gyvin over
                I unpossest : so hangith in balaunce
                Off warr, my pees, reward of all my payne;
                At Mountzon thus I restles rest in Spayne.

                Wyatt was in Mountzon, Spain, in 1537, as an ambassador from England. The poem may be interpreted as a comment on his diplomatic failures, or as a love poem in which he laments his lack of success with his new mistress.

                Off Cartage he
                = Hannibal, who in 218-216 BC defeated the Romans on various occasions, yet failed to take advantage of his victories and capture Rome.

                Comment

                • Tetrachord
                  Full Member
                  • Apr 2016
                  • 267

                  Originally posted by vinteuil View Post
                  Tarantella
                  (1929)

                  Do you remember an Inn,
                  Miranda?
                  Do you remember an Inn?
                  And the tedding and the spreading
                  Of the straw for a bedding,
                  And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
                  And the wine that tasted of tar?
                  And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
                  (Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
                  Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
                  Do you remember an Inn?
                  And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
                  Who hadn't got a penny,
                  And who weren't paying any,
                  And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
                  And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
                  Of the clap
                  Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
                  Of the girl gone chancing,
                  Glancing,
                  Dancing,
                  Backing and advancing,
                  Snapping of a clapper to the spin
                  Out and in --
                  And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
                  Do you remember an Inn,
                  Miranda?
                  Do you remember an Inn?

                  Never more;
                  Miranda,
                  Never more.
                  Only the high peaks hoar:
                  And Aragon a torrent at the door.
                  No sound
                  In the walls of the Halls where falls
                  The tread
                  Of the feet of the dead to the ground
                  No sound:
                  But the boom
                  Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
                  I can remember learning that for speech delivery and projection whilst at drama school in the late 1960s. We had to concentrate on the onomatopoeia and the assonance and alliteration. And we had to deliver it very very rapidly without making a mistake! It was also very good for understanding the rhythms of speech.

                  Comment

                  • Padraig
                    Full Member
                    • Feb 2013
                    • 4237

                    Evening in Paradise

                    Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
                    Had in her sober livery all things clad;
                    Silence accompanied, for beast and bird,
                    They to their grassy couch these to their nests
                    Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale,
                    She all night long her amorous descant sung;
                    Silence was pleased; now glowed the firmament
                    With living sapphires: Hesperus that led
                    The starry host, rode brightly, till the moon
                    Rising in clouded majesty, at length
                    Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
                    And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

                    John Milton from Paradise Lost IV

                    Comment

                    • johncorrigan
                      Full Member
                      • Nov 2010
                      • 10363

                      from Elegy One

                      End of a Campaign

                      There are many dead in the brutish desert,
                      who lie uneasy
                      among the scrub in this landscape of half-wit
                      stunted ill-will. For the dead land is insatiate
                      and necrophilous. The sand is blowing about still.
                      Many who for various reasons, or because
                      of mere unanswerable compulsion, came here
                      and fought among the clutching gravestones,
                      shivered and sweated,
                      cried out, suffered thirst, were stoically silent, cursed
                      the spittering machine-guns, were homesick for Europe
                      and fast embedded in quicksand of Africa
                      agonized and died.
                      And sleep now. Sleep here the sleep of dust.

                      There were our own, there were the others.
                      Their deaths were like their lives, human and animal.
                      There were no gods and precious few heroes.
                      What they regretted when they died had nothing to do with
                      race and leader, realm indivisible,
                      laboured Augustan speeches or vague imperial heritage.
                      (They saw through that guff before the axe fell.)
                      Their longing turned to
                      the lost world glimpsed in the memory of letters:
                      an evening at the pictures in the friendly dark,
                      two knowing conspirators smiling and whispering secrets;
                      or else
                      a family gathering in the homely kitchen
                      with Mum so proud of her boys in uniform:
                      their thoughts trembled
                      between moments of estrangement, and ecstatic moments
                      of reconciliation: and their desire
                      crucified itself against the unutterable shadow of someone
                      whose photo was in their wallets.
                      Their death made his incision.

                      There were our own, there were the others.
                      Therefore, minding the great word of Glencoe’s
                      son, that we should not disfigure ourselves
                      with villainy of hatred; and seeing that all
                      have gone down like curs into anonymous silence,
                      I will bear witness for I knew the others.
                      Seeing that littoral and interior are alike indifferent
                      and the birds are drawn again to our welcoming north
                      why should I not sing them, the dead, the innocent?

                      Hamish Henderson
                      Last edited by johncorrigan; 22-01-17, 15:48. Reason: sp.

                      Comment

                      • Padraig
                        Full Member
                        • Feb 2013
                        • 4237

                        Scots Wha Hae

                        Robert Bruce's address to his army, before the battle of Bannockburn.

                        Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
                        Scots, wham Bruce has often led,
                        Welcome to your gory bed,
                        Or to victorie.

                        Now's the day, and now's the hour;
                        See the front o' battle lour!
                        See approach proud Edward's power -
                        Chains and slaverie!

                        Wha will be a traitor knave?
                        Wha can fill a coward's grave?
                        Wha sae base as be a slave?
                        Let him turn and flee!

                        Wha for Scotland's King and law
                        Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
                        Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?
                        Let him follow me!

                        By oppression's woes and pains!
                        By your sons in servile chains!
                        We will drain our dearest veins
                        But they shall be free!

                        Lay the proud usurpers low!
                        Tyrants fall in every foe!
                        Liberty's in every blow!
                        Let us do or die!

                        Robert Burns.

                        Comment

                        • Alain Maréchal
                          Full Member
                          • Dec 2010
                          • 1286

                          Originally posted by Tetrachord View Post
                          I can remember learning that for speech delivery and projection whilst at drama school in the late 1960s. We had to concentrate on the onomatopoeia and the assonance and alliteration. And we had to deliver it very very rapidly without making a mistake! It was also very good for understanding the rhythms of speech.
                          Hilaire Belloc was a close friend of GK Chesterton. Together they founded a weekly political newspaper called "The New Witness" in which Gilbert's brother, C...

                          Comment

                          • johncorrigan
                            Full Member
                            • Nov 2010
                            • 10363

                            This poem by the recently deceased John Montague turned up on Poetry Please today. Sometimes I feel like doing it, though I'd add in something about the teeth.

                            There are Days

                            (for Lawrence Sullivan)


                            There are days when
                            one should be able
                            to pluck off one’s head
                            like a dented or worn
                            helmet, straight from
                            the nape and collarbone
                            (those crackling branches!)

                            and place it firmly down
                            in the bed of a flowing stream.
                            Clear, clean, chill currents
                            coursing and spuming through
                            the sour and stale compartments
                            of the brain, dimmed eardrums,
                            bleared eyesockets, filmed tongue.

                            And then set it back again
                            on the base of the shoulders:
                            well tamped down, of course,
                            the laved skin and mouth,
                            the marble of the eyes
                            rinsed and ready
                            for love; for prophecy?

                            John Montague

                            Comment

                            • Padraig
                              Full Member
                              • Feb 2013
                              • 4237

                              I can't help thinking of a raging hangover John. Not that you would know about those.

                              PS I'm surprised you did not pick up on #416 seeing the day that was in it.

                              Comment

                              • johncorrigan
                                Full Member
                                • Nov 2010
                                • 10363

                                Originally posted by Padraig View Post
                                I can't help thinking of a raging hangover John. Not that you would know about those.

                                PS I'm surprised you did not pick up on #416 seeing the day that was in it.
                                I was at a Burn's Supper, Padraig, up in the Village Hall on Saturday night. Mrs C was unconvinced that the so-called Veggie Haggis had never seen a bit of meat; I was unconvinced about the carnie haggis (Nae gushin' entrails here); the tatties were dry as bone, and the neeps mighty weet. The Band who of course rendered us wi' 'Scots Wha Hae' were dreadful and tune free; and to drive matters home, in a moment of weakness I had agreed to do without the drink for a few weeks, e'en though the whisky was flowin'. And for aw that, Padraig, me and Mrs C still managed to enjoy ourselves. One of the highlights was the Address to the Haggis delivered with panache and gusto by a local worthy, e'en though that particular so called chieftain o' the puddin' race didnae deserve it.

                                His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
                                An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
                                Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
                                Like onie ditch;
                                And then, O what a glorious sight,
                                Warm-reekin, rich!

                                Is there that owre his French ragout,
                                Or olio that wad staw a sow,
                                Or fricassee wad mak her spew
                                Wi’ perfect sconner,
                                Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
                                On sic a dinner?


                                (excerpts from 'Address to the Haggis' by Robert Burns)
                                Last edited by johncorrigan; 30-01-17, 21:00. Reason: Nae hangover next day either!

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