| Non-motoring > About time we had a poetry thread. | Miscellaneous |
| Thread Author: Ted | Replies: 32 |
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New Sun 29 May 11 12:52
About time we had a poetry thread. - Ted
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A verse from W H Auden...The Shield of Achilles. Describing a hot, dusty Spanish square folowing a firing squad...... A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, loitered about that vacancy. A bird flew up to safety from his well aimed stone. That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third were axioms to him, who'd never heard of any place where promises were kept, or one could weep.....because another wept. Ted |
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New Sun 29 May 11 13:29
About time we had a poetry thread. - Dog
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My late friend taught me these 2 verses written in a Gray-ve yard, and they are with me 4ever. "THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me". "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave". |
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New Sun 29 May 11 13:37
About time we had a poetry thread. - Zero
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It was eight bells ringing, For the morning watch was done, And the gunner's lads were singing As they polished every gun. It was eight bells ringing, And the gunner's lads were singing, For the ship she rode a-swinging, As they polished every gun. Oh! to see the linstock lighting, Téméraire! Téméraire! Oh! to hear the round shot biting, Téméraire! Téméraire! Oh! to see the linstock lighting, And to hear the round shot biting, For we're all in love with fighting On the fighting Téméraire. It was noontide ringing, And the battle just begun, When the ship her way was winging, As they loaded every gun. It was noontide ringing, When the ship her way was winging, And the gunner's lads were singing As they loaded every gun. There'll be many grim and gory, Téméraire! Téméraire! There'll be few to tell the story, Téméraire! Téméraire! There'll be many grim and gory, There'll be few to tell the story, But we'll all be one in glory With the Fighting Téméraire. There's a far bell ringing At the setting of the sun, And a phantom voice is singing Of the great days done. There's a far bell ringing, And a phantom voice is singing Of renown for ever clinging To the great days done. Now the sunset breezes shiver, Téméraire! Téméraire! And she's fading down the river, Téméraire! Téméraire! Now the sunset's breezes shiver, And she's fading down the river, But in England's song for ever She's the Fighting Téméraire. www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/joseph-mallord-william-turner-the-fighting-temeraire |
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New Sun 29 May 11 15:06
About time we had a poetry thread. - Ted
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That's very stirring, can you recite itby memory ? Z. This is one of the few I can, along with Adlestrop by Edward Thomas. Shelley.... I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: 'Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.' I wish I could recite In Memoriam by Tennyson but at 700 verses...I won't live long enough ! Ted |
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New Sun 29 May 11 16:13
About time we had a poetry thread. - madf
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All very uplifting. There was a young lady from Riga who smiled as she rode on a tiger they returend from the ride with the lady inside and the smile on the face of the tiger.. |
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New Sun 29 May 11 16:29
About time we had a poetry thread. - Clk Sec
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Can't quite remember where I got this one from... My forgetter's getting better but my rememberer is broke, To you that may seem funny but, to me, that is no joke. For when I'm "here" I'm wondering If I really should be "there", And, when I try to think it through, I haven't got a prayer! Often times I walk into a room, say "what am I here for?" I wrack my brain, but all in vain a zero, is my score. At times I put something away where it is safe, but, Gee! The person it is safest from, generally, is me! When shopping I may see someone, say "Hi" and have a chat, Then, when the person walks away I ask myself, "who the heck was that?" Yes, my forgetter's getting better while my rememberer is broke, And it's driving me plumb crazy and that isn't any joke. |
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New Sun 29 May 11 16:48
About time we had a poetry thread. - Roger.
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The Stranger within my gate, He may be true or kind, But he does not talk my talk-- I cannot feel his mind. I see the face and the eyes and the mouth, But not the soul behind. The men of my own stock, They may do ill or well, But they tell the lies I am wanted to, They are used to the lies I tell; And we do not need interpreters When we go to buy or sell. The Stranger within my gates, He may be evil or good, But I cannot tell what powers control-- What reasons sway his mood; Nor when the Gods of his far-off land Shall repossess his blood. The men of my own stock, Bitter bad they may be, But, at least, they hear the things I hear, And see the things I see; And whatever I think of them and their likes They think of the likes of me. This was my father's belief And this is also mine: Let the corn be all one sheaf-- And the grapes be all one vine, Ere our children's teeth are set on edge By bitter bread and wine. Rudyard Kipling. |
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New Sun 29 May 11 17:03
A Fine Poem for Times of Grief and Loss - Meldrew
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If I be the first of us to die, Let grief not blacken long your sky. Be bold yet modest in your grieving. There is a change but not a leaving. For just as death is part of life, The dead live on forever in the living. And all the gathered riches of our journey, The moments shared, the mysteries explored, The steady layering of intimacy stored, The things that made us laugh or weep or sing, The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring, The wordless language of look and touch, The knowing, Each giving and each taking, These are not flowers that fade, Nor trees that fall and crumble, Nor are the stone, For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand And mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand. What we were, we are. What we had, we have. A conjoined past imperishably present. So when you walk the wood where once we walked together And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow, Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land, And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand, And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you, Be still. Close your eyes. Breathe. Listen for my footfall in your heart. I am not gone but merely walk within you. |
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New Sun 29 May 11 17:21
A Fine Poem for Times of Grief and Loss - Dog
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One of my favorites ~ IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! |
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New Sun 29 May 11 18:04
A Fine Poem for Times of Grief and Loss - Ted
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Not for grief and loss but for tomato ketchup..... Shake, shake and shake the bottle.... non'll come...and then a lot'll. Ted |
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New Sun 29 May 11 22:29
A Fine Poem for Times of Grief and Loss - CGNorwich
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A much parodied poem. Here' a rather good recent example If— (you want to be a true jihadi) If you can hack the head off from a hostage Who 's kneeling bound and helpless on the floor; If you can purge yourself of each last vestige Of decency, morality, and Law; If you can hate and never tire of hating, Or, faced with truth, still hold fast to your lies, Or, while you 're hard at work decapitating, Show no trace of pity in your eyes: If you can teach your kids the “victim” story, Stir Muslim losers trapped in English slums, Fill youthful heads with crackpot dreams of glory, And urge them on to fiery martyrdoms; If you can use religion as a cover For deeds no man could pardon or excuse, Or claim that all the ills we humans suffer Are machinations of the evil Jews: If you can use the fruits of Western science (A science that your culture cannot match) To broadcast all your hatred and defiance, Or carry out your crimes with more dispatch; If you can put aside sectarian violence, Co-operate with Shi'ites from Iran, Unite Islam; intimidate to silence All Muslims who won't sign up to your plan: If you can fly a plane into a building Filled with harmless folk you 've never seen, Or seize a school that 's full of little children And murder them when rescuers break in; If you can fill each precious living minute With sixty seconds' worth of evil done, Yours is heaven, and all the virgins in it, And then you 'll be a real jihadi, son! |
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New Sun 29 May 11 18:58
About time we had a poetry thread. - Zero
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>> >> That's very stirring, can you recite itby memory ? Z. > Yes I can, it was the poem our class had to learn and then recite at an inter school poetry reading contest. |
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New Sun 29 May 11 19:22
About time we had a poetry thread. - madf
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Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty Wi bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle. I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth born companion An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't. Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's win's ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld. But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy! Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! |
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New Sun 29 May 11 19:39
About time we had a poetry thread. - Slidingpillar
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`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. `Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!' He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. `And has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! He chortled in his joy. `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. First verse I've used as a microphone and sound system tester since I was at school. Beats "testing, testing 1,2,3,4" any day of the week. |
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New Sun 29 May 11 22:00
About time we had a poetry thread. - Ted
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Mentioning In Memoriam, I've always liked these five verses on the return of the body of the poet's best friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, who had died suddenly on his ' Grand tour ' Hallam was engaged to Tennyson's sister, Emily. Fair ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro' early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow'd race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me. Ted |
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New Sun 29 May 11 22:05
About time we had a poetry thread. - Dog
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What is this life if full of care We have no time to stand and stare? No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep, or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this, if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. |
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New Sun 29 May 11 22:10
About time we had a poetry thread. - ....
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I'll bring this down with a bang... Never liked poetry at school but as I was at high school in the mid-80's what always stuck with me was rhyme of the ancient mariner by Tayler Coleridge. Probably because I grew up on the coast but had no connections with the fishing fraternity, that and Iron Maiden's Rime of the Ancient Mariner track on the Powerslave album. Last edited by: gmac on Sun 29 May 11 at 22:14
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New Mon 30 May 11 00:02
About time we had a poetry thread. - Londoner
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Some great stuff up-thread, but on a lighter note.... There was a young man from Japan, Whose limericks just didn't scan, Try as he might, All day and all night, He could never think of a last line to rhyme with the rest of the limerick. |
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New Mon 30 May 11 00:29
About time we had a poetry thread. - hawkeye
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A toast I give you now Professor Twist A conscientious scientist. Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!" And sent him off to distant jungles. Camped on a tropic riverside One day he missed his loving bride. She had, the guide informed him later, Been eaten by an alligator. Professor Twist could not but smile, "You mean," he said, "a crocodile". Ogden Nash |
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New Mon 30 May 11 00:41
About time we had a poetry thread. - ....
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Congratulations Londoner ! I was wondering who would be the first... |
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New Mon 30 May 11 06:05
About time we had a poetry thread. - Pat
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LOGIC OF LIFE Maybe God wanted us to meet the wrong people before Meeting the right one so that when we finally meet The right person we will know how to be grateful for that gift Maybe when the door of happiness closes another opens But often times we look so long at the closed door That we don’t see the one that has opened for us Maybe its true that we don’t know what we have got Until we lose it but it is also true that we don’t know What we have been missing until it arrives Giving someone all your love is never an assurance That they will love you back Don’t expect love in return, just wait for it to grow in their heart But if it does not, be content it grew in yours Dream what you want to dream, go where you want to go, Be where you want to be because you only have one life And one chance to do all the things you want to do The happiest of people don’t necessarily have the best of everything They just make the most of everything that comes their way Happiness lies for those who cry, those who hurt Those who have searched, and those who have tried, For only they can appreciate the importance of people Who have touched their lives. Love begins with a smile, grows with a kiss and ends with a tear. The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past BUT …..You cant go on well in life until you let go Pat |
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New Mon 30 May 11 09:41
About time we had a poetry thread. - Dog
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| Nice one Pat - I like that. |
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New Mon 30 May 11 19:00
About time we had a poetry thread. - Roger.
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This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England From Richard II, Act 2 (Shakespeare) Now THAT brings a lump to MY throat! |
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New Mon 30 May 11 19:03
About time we had a poetry thread. - Dog
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| Doesn't really apply to Gran Brittania 2011 though does it :( |
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New Mon 30 May 11 19:09
About time we had a poetry thread. - Zero
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Enter the KING WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man's company That fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day. |
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New Mon 30 May 11 20:34
About time we had a poetry thread. - Crankcase
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Look at the flame if you want to, hear the sharp crack of the fission, smell the brief vapour of ozone, feel static motion. I am the joy you really pay for, but which comes completely free; I am your god on the final day, for the truth is you are me... |
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New Mon 30 May 11 21:43
About time we had a poetry thread. - Londoner
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Especially for gmac, here is one that we did at school. Great poem by a great anti-war poet. (I have posted before on a "great lines" thread about the phrase "An ecstasy of fumbling") Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind. GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. |
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New Mon 30 May 11 23:39
About time we had a poetry thread. - Ted
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High flight...The RAF poem. More poignant as the poet, Magee, was killed in a wartime air accident. Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of --Wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air... Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark or even eagle flew -- And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. Ted |
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New Tue 31 May 11 09:41
About time we had a poetry thread. - Roger.
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Test o' Fires by Michael Gibb Placing Satan in their handbags they go 'a knocking on doors where they're least expected to trade the here-and-now for everlasting obscurity. All for a Book filled with the occult, murderous intentions, and twisted realities where truth is falsehood and falsehood is gospel and a simple question merits the death penalty. With the pitter-patter of tiny feet they approach with learned stealth caring for nothing but the opium high of testifying. Overjoyed by rejection yet bewildered by disbelief their prayer orgies strafe the ethers in long arches of arrogance. "We have the truth!" they proclaim boldly as legion more proclaim a differing story. I read their Book filled with insanity, conflict, and unnumbered depravities then look into their junkie eyes. Nothing that I say can appease the Beast lurking behind the message with peace on the lips and dripping evil on the tongue. Quickly closing the door on the message of death disguised in goodness, a sigh of relief passes my lips. The wolves of the forest have been kept at bay for at least one more day. Last edited by: Roger on Tue 31 May 11 at 09:41
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New Wed 1 Jun 11 09:24
About time we had a poetry thread. - Dog
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The Log Fire. Beechwood fires are bright and clear If the logs are kept a year; Chestnut’s only good they say, If for long ‘tis laid away But Ash new or Ash old Is fit for a queen with crown of gold Birch and Fir logs burn too fast Blaze up bright but do not last; It is by the Irish said Hawthorn bakes the sweetest bread; Elmwood burns like churchyard mold- Even the very flames are cold. But Ash green or Ash brown Is fit for a queen with golden crown. Poplar gives a bitter smoke Fills your eyes and makes you choke; Applewood will scent your room With an incense like perfume; Oaken logs if dry and old Keep away the winter’s cold. But Ash wet or Ash dry A king shall warm his slippers by. |
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New Wed 1 Jun 11 10:41
About time we had a poetry thread. - helicopter
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I love this poem by John Betjeman......... "The village inn, the dear old inn, So ancient, clean and free from sin, True centre of our rural life Where Hodge sits down beside his wife And talks of Marx and nuclear fission With all a rustic's intuition. Ah, more than church or school or hall, The village inn's the heart of all." So spake the brewer's P. R. O., A man who really ought to know, For he is paid for saying so. And then he kindly gave to me A lovely coloured booklet free. 'Twas full of prose that sang the praise Of coaching inns in Georgian days, Showing how public-houses are More modern than the motor-car, More English than the weald or wold And almost equally as old, And run for love and not for gold Until I felt a filthy swine For loathing beer and liking wine, And rotten to the very core For thinking village inns a bore, And village bores more sure to roam To village inns than stay at home. And then I thought I must be wrong, So up I rose and went along To that old village alehouse where In neon lights is written "Bear". Ah, where's the inn that once I knew With brick and chalky wall Up which the knobbly pear-tree grew For fear the place would fall? Oh, that old pot-house isn't there, It wasn't worth our while; You'll find we have rebuilt "The Bear" In Early Georgian style. But winter jasmine used to cling With golden stars a-shine Where rain and wind would wash and swing The crudely painted sign. And where's the roof of golden thatch? The chimney-stack of stone? The crown-glass panes that used to match Each sunset with their own? Oh now the walls are red and smart, The roof has emerald tiles. The neon sign's a work of art And visible for miles. The bar inside was papered green, The settles grained like oak, The only light was paraffin, The woodfire used to smoke. And photographs from far and wide Were hung around the room: The hunt, the church, the football side, And Kitchener of Khartoum. Our air-conditioned bars are lined With washable material, The stools are steel, the taste refined, Hygienic and ethereal. Hurrah, hurrah, for hearts of oak! Away with inhibitions! For here's a place to sit and soak In sanit'ry conditions. Typical Betjeman wit and sadly true of what has happened to most of the village inns that I knew and loved.... |
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New Wed 1 Jun 11 11:23
About time we had a poetry thread. - Mapmaker
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I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. [Took quite some time to google a version without the eroneous "go" as the third word.] |
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New Wed 1 Jun 11 11:26
About time we had a poetry thread. - Mapmaker
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"A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The was deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter." And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires gong out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty, and charging high prices.: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly. Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory. All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we lead all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death. [Eliot; my chosen version being Britten's Canticle IV which sends shivers through me every time.] |
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