Are there any poets out there?

[gamba]

It happened a very long time ago. Wakening in the small hours in a state of mental confusion, I was aware of words, whole lines of words forming sentences. In fact, it also seemed quite poetic. ( if I do say so myself ! ) So, out of bed, write them down & see how they look in the morning. A little tidying up here and there and a sudden " did I really do that. " No way could my conscious self have put this together. The brevity and imagery of the second line, the slow drip, drip, drip of the last line. ( 'vault and vault' represents sky and tomb ). If I didn't write this - then who did ?

I sit tight coiled and waiting,
As a gargoyle hunched in space
Surmounts the soaring columns of a vast cathedral.
Poised between vault and vault,
Watching through the ages
And knowing with the stone
The slow erosion each day brings.

[salymap]

I like that very much Gamba, thanks and good wishes, saly

[EdgeleyRob]

I know it
I'm no poet

However

There was a composer called Franz
His music has plenty of fans
But just his for a week
Made them other stuff seek
Now they're all listening to Chopins.

And a short ode to breakfast on 3.

It's the lack of complete works
That really irks.

[Mary Chambers]

Oh well, since sonnets and poems written fifty years ago have already been mentioned, I will cautiously present one of mine. Be sympathetic, please - I was seventeen and hopelessly romantic. I'm acutely embarrassed especially by the second line, which means nothing whatsoever, but no doubt sounded good to me at the time. Not a word has been altered since 1957. (The answer to the thorny problem addressed in the poem is to write music or paint pictures, neither of which I could do.)

Sonnet for any Poet

You who have tried, for many seasons past
To build a palace in your inmost heart
To snare a flower in words, or catch the vast
Bright sunset in the nettings of your art:
You who have laboured, that you might set down
For coming generations, every spring
Your heart has lived through - tried to catch the brown
Of homely earth, the way the skylarks sing -
Have you not wished that words would cease to be,
That each bewildered thing you meant to say,
Might from this strangling web of words be free,
Might be remembered in some other way?
You cannot trap the sky, the song of birds,
You cannot speak, while still enclosed in words.

[EdgeleyRob]

There was a young fellow named Fred.
He was reading the bargains thread.
He kept buying more stuff.
Although he had enough.
And now his account's in the red.

[salymap]

Oh well, since sonnets and poems written fifty years ago have already been mentioned, I will cautiously present one of mine. Be sympathetic, please - I was seventeen and hopelessly romantic. I'm acutely embarrassed especially by the second line, which means nothing whatsoever, but no doubt sounded good to me at the time. Not a word has been altered since 1957. (The answer to the thorny problem addressed in the poem is to write music or paint pictures, neither of which I could do.)

Sonnet for any Poet

You who have tried, for many seasons past
To build a palace in your inmost heart
To snare a flower in words, or catch the vast
Bright sunset in the nettings of your art:
You who have laboured, that you might set down
For coming generations, every spring
Your heart has lived through - tried to catch the brown
Of homely earth, the way the skylarks sing -
Have you not wished that words would cease to be,
That each bewildered thing you meant to say,
Might from this strangling web of words be free,
Might be remembered in some other way?
You cannot trap the sky, the song of birds,
You cannot speak, while still enclosed in words.

Sounds fine to me Mary, I only remember a bit of this poem [thankfully] Brought on by a piece of Delius about the two birds flying endlessly, forget the title.

If I were bound to God, to Love
For Freedom is in ties,
Give me an horizon for my wings to span,
Liberty is sweet but life without compulsion lies,
Heavy and fettered on the hands of man.

Oh dear, where is HS to take control of his thread again?

PS I was about 17 too,Mary.

[EdgeleyRob]

It's a wonderful place to be.
The forum of radio three.

Please take the time to post.
About music that moves you the most.

We would all love to know.
What you've bought or are listening to now.

If it's knowledge you seek or advice.
Ask on here you don't have to ask twice.

Disputes there are a few.
We all have a point of view.

You may disagree with some.
But your views are always welcome.

The message this forum sends.
Is that you are amongst music loving friends.

Its a wonderful place to be.
The forum of radio three.

(Still waiting for the phone to ring)

[Mary Chambers]

PS I was about 17 too,Mary.

The thing about being 17 is that one isn't too critical, and words flow more easily (usually rather too easily in my case). You're clever to remember yours. I've still got mine.

[Hornspieler]

Sounds fine to me Mary, ...........
Oh dear, where is HS to take control of his thread again?

......

Take control? Certainly not! I'm an enthusiastic member of the audience and I'm delighted that people are willing to share their ouvres with the rest of us.

For myself, I shall make one more contribution.

When at school, of all the poetry that was rammed down our unwilling throats, ("The Lake Isle of Innisfree", for example) one short poem really appealed to me and lodged itself into my memory. I quote it here:

Jenny kissed me

Jenny kissed me when we met
Jumping from the chair she sat in
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

Leigh Hunt

My own offering is partly a tribute to that short but delightful verse:

Consolation

Whenever fate has been unkind
Whenever life's left me behind
One thought has comforted my mind
Pamela loves me.

At times when I've been overwrought
Whatever problems life has brought,
I've gained new strength when I have thought
Pamela loves me.

Whatever help I've had to borrow
On days of hopelessness and sorrow,
I've still looked forward to tomorrow.
Pamela loves me.

When I look back upon my life
And days of bitterness and strife,
It comforts me to know my wife,
Pamela, loves me

HS 2011

[mercia]

I wish I'd been made to learn poetry off by heart at school.
Even after seventy years my father could recite Hemans's Casabianca and Masefield's Cargoes, learnt at school

[MrGongGong]

I wish I'd been made to learn poetry off by heart at school.
Even after seventy years my father could recite Hemans's Casabianca and Masefield's Cargoes, learnt at school

I was and it really put me off ..........

Though I have a soft spot for Basil Brush's reading the Lady of Shallot............

"She walked around the room a lot
the Lady of Shallot.............boom boom "

[salymap]

Take control? Certainly not! I'm an enthusiastic member of the audience and I'm delighted that people are willing to share their ouvres with the rest of us.

For myself, I shall make one more contribution.

When at school, of all the poetry that was rammed down our unwilling throats, ("The Lake Isle of Innisfree", for example) one short poem really appealed to me and lodged itself into my memory. I quote it here:


My own offering is partly a tribute to that short but delightful verse:

Consolation

Whenever fate has been unkind
Whenever life's left me behind
One thought has comforted my mind
Pamela loves me.

At times when I've been overwrought
Whatever problems life has brought,
I've gained new strength when I have thought
Pamela loves me.

Whatever help I've had to borrow
On days of hopelessness and sorrow,
I've still looked forward to tomorrow.
Pamela loves me.

When I look back upon my life
And days of bitterness and strife,
It comforts me to know my wife,
Pamela, loves me

HS 2011

well said HS:

[Mary Chambers]

I was and it really put me off ..........

Though I have a soft spot for Basil Brush's reading the Lady of Shallot............

"She walked around the room a lot
the Lady of Shallot.............boom boom "

I loved every minute of learning poetry by heart. I can only manage the first two lines of Casabianca, but can still say Cargoes. The Lake Isle of Innisfree and Jenny Kissed Me - the last one was in an anthology of poems for eight-year-olds I was given as a present.

The version of Casabianca that most sticks in my mind, however, is:

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Did he wash his dirty neck?
Did he heck!

Basil Brush has summed up the Tennyson pretty well

[cloughie]

I loved every minute of learning poetry by heart. I can only manage the first two lines of Casabianca, but can still say Cargoes. The Lake Isle of Innisfree and Jenny Kissed Me - the last one was in an anthology of poems for eight-year-olds I was given as a present.

The version of Casabianca that most sticks in my mind, however, is:

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Did he wash his dirty neck?
Did he heck!

Basil Brush has summed up the Tennyson pretty well

or the Spike Milligan variation

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled.
Twit.

[amateur51]

Take control? Certainly not! I'm an enthusiastic member of the audience and I'm delighted that people are willing to share their ouvres with the rest of us.

Share my ouvres? With you?

My mother warned me about men like you