the poetry thread

[useless]

"Five Words in a Line"

[peterms]

Beyond Dubh-Chladach Robin Robertson

Quote

for Duncan McLean

Seven years we’d waited;
three bairns lost inside, and two born dead.
Rab blamed himself, then me,
then the crone on the next island, then the wee folk –
the sithchean – the fair folk, the peerie folk.
So when I started to show, for certain, he went to work:
pulled a handful of nails from the ruined jetty, gathered
pieces of oak and elder and the sacred rowan;
began filling a bucket with stail; laid out
the reaping hook, the Bible, his silver sixpence, the gold ring,
and with his joiner’s tools made us a cradle
of the holy wood, nailed it round with iron.

As my time grew close, he drew water from the well,
collected mussel-shells to hang from the beams with bindweed
so they’d clack above the crib;
mistletoe and the sixpence for the bed, and leaves of the mòthan
to spread out under me, as I came to fruit.
There was no minister on these rocks and no saining for me here,
so Rab had a wreath of rowan over the bed, the Bible
held open by the rusted shears that made the shape of the cross,
the bucket of maistir there
against the grey folk, the noiseless ones,
and a cup of well-water with the gold ring in it
for the three mouthfuls that would save me.

And saved we were.

He was beautiful, our son: blue-eyed, fair; fresh as meltwater.
I took him out one morning, to the machair, laying him down
on a cushion of clover at the marram’s edge
where he tilted his head to hear, like a bird;
watched, as I picked spring flowers – marsh marigolds,
buttercups, pansies, primroses, silverweed, vetch,
ragged-robin, yellow rattle, eyebrights, thrift.

It was a false spring, though, that year;
the cold held on, deep-rooted in the ground.
We walked a lit candle three times round the crib;
washed him three times in saltwater, passed him
three times over the fire,
but saw he was wrong:
always feeding, always famished. Ravenous, thirsty,
he took more than both of us, but never grew.
When I so much as touched him, he cried out –
girning and yowling all day and night, like a snared rabbit.
Rab wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t use his name,
called him misgrown; a mimmerkin. Worst of all: spelled.
‘We must cast the faery out,’ he said.
‘In their hollow hills – I’ve heard men tell – their floors
are paved with the teeth of human children.’

He put him in a foxglove bath, brought in a shovel
heavy with salt, a cross drawn through it,
laid it on the fire to burn.
He would have burnt the child if I’d let him.
‘Our boy’s been changed, taken away –
this creature left behind, to eat us empty.
It’s either trial by fire or water, you decide.’

I carried him down to the beach that evening, the tide coming in
and my heart in flitters. As I laid him down at the sea’s lip
there was a rustling sound, like wind in the trees
or a hawk, stooping to the kill,
and I looked over the water to the far skerries
to see a grey-haired man, levering himself onto the rock.

The way he came
is the way he’s now gone back.

My mother always said we wear our dreams – all living things:
the goshawk shows on his breast a flock of geese,
the mountain hare becomes snow in winter; the mackerel
carries the streamoury of the north-dancers on its back,
the silver-green and barred black
that drains to grey when it’s taken from the sea.
So our son had eyes the blue of the far places,
and wore his skin like water.

For some it is not long, the waiting, for that
decay of light; when all is flown, all faded, washed away.

When I reached the cottage, the crib was still empty.
The crib lies empty still.

 

[8pints]

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand

--- The Stolen Child - William Butler Yeats ---

[mjmooney]

Nice to see this thread bumped. Good choices, @peterms and @8pints. 

[Rugeley Villa]

I just don’t get poetry at all . 

[useless]

snow lies
earth flies
lights flip
night walks in
night lies on a rug of stars
night how are you spelled?
like an inane lever
sleeps the insane river
she is not aware
of the moon everywhere
animals gnash their canines
in black gold cages
animals bang their heads
animals are the ospreys of saints
the world flies around the universe
in the vicinity of stars
dashes weeping like a swallow
seeks a home a nest
there's no nest a hole
the universe is alone
maybe rarely will pass
time as poor as a knight
yes or will pass
away a bedridden miss
then a crowd of relations
will rush in and cry alas
in steel houses
will howl loudly
she's dead and buried
hopped to paradise big-bellied
God God have pity
good God on the precipice
but God said Go play
and she entered paradise
there spun askance aslant
numbers houses and seas
which perceived
the accidental is amiss
there God languished behind bars
with no eyes no legs no arms
so that maiden in tears
sees all this in the heavens
sees various eagles
appear out of night
and fly inane
and flash insane
this is so depressing
the dead maiden will say
serenely surprised
God will say
what's depressing what's
depressing, God, life
what are you talking about
what O noon do you know
you press pleasure and Paris
to your breast like two pears
you swell like music
you're swell like a statue
then the wood howled
in final despair
it spies through the trees
a meandering ribbon
little ribbon an eight
slinky Lena of fate
Mercury was in the air
spinning like a top
and the bear
sunned his coat
people also walked around
bearing fish on a platter
bearing on their hands
ten fingers on a ladder
while this was occurring
that maiden rested
rose from the dead and forgot
yawned and said
you guys, I had a dream
what can it mean
dreams are worse than macaroni
they make crows double over
I was not dying at all
no I was lying
I was eyeing
I was gaping I was crying
I was aping and replying
a fit of lethargy
was had by me among the effigies
let's partake in entertainment
let's gallop to the cinema
and she sped off like an ass
to satisfy her innermost
here's the shining of the world
night how are you spelled

Aleksandr Ivanovich Vvedensky

[VILLAMARV]

Quote

Talk in the Night

'Why are you sighing?'
'For all the voyages I did not make
Because the boat was small, might leak, might take
The wrong course, and the compass might be broken,
And I might have awoken
In some strange sea and heard
Strange birds crying'.

'Why are you weeping?'
'For all the unknown friends or lovers passed
Because I watched the ground or walked too fast
Or simply did not see
Or turned aside for tea
For fear an old wound stirred
From its sleeping'.

ASJ Tessimond

 

[veloman]

I'm not afraid of pussycats

They only eat up mice and rats

But a hippopotamus , would eat the lot of us !

 

Have a guess who wrote that. (Hint - not Rupert Brooke or Wordsworth)

[mjmooney]

1 hour ago, veloman said:

I'm not afraid of pussycats

They only eat up mice and rats

But a hippopotamus , would eat the lot of us !

 

Have a guess who wrote that. (Hint - not Rupert Brooke or Wordsworth)

Spike Milligan? 

[veloman]

Spot on !!

[mjmooney]

2 hours ago, veloman said:

Spot on !!

I didn't look it up, it just had Spike written all over it. Probably from "Silly Verse for Kids", which I loved at primary school. Note to self: must get a new copy. 

[useless]

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw—
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN'T THERE !
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

T S Eliot

[A'Villan]

age old wisdom
silently watches
patiently calling
waiting until
i am ready
to hear

[A'Villan]

When I have ceased to break my wings
Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
When I have looked Life in the eyes,
Grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the Truth,
And taken in exchange--my youth.

Sara Teasdale

[useless]

The sun does arise,

And make happy the skies.

The merry bells ring

To welcome the Spring.

The sky-lark and thrush,

The birds of the bush,

Sing louder around,

To the bells’ cheerful sound. 

While our sports shall be seen

On the Ecchoing Green.

 

Old John, with white hair 

Does laugh away care,

Sitting under the oak,

Among the old folk, 

They laugh at our play, 

And soon they all say.

‘Such, such were the joys. 

When we all girls & boys, 

In our youth-time were seen, 

On the Ecchoing Green.’

 

Till the little ones weary

No more can be merry

The sun does descend,

And our sports have an end: 

Round the laps of their mothers, 

Many sisters and brothers,

Like birds in their nest,

Are ready for rest;

And sport no more seen,

On the darkening Green.

 

William Blake

[mjmooney]

2 hours ago, useless said:

The sun does arise,

And make happy the skies.

The merry bells ring

To welcome the Spring.

The sky-lark and thrush,

The birds of the bush,

Sing louder around,

To the bells’ cheerful sound. 

While our sports shall be seen

On the Ecchoing Green.

 

Old John, with white hair 

Does laugh away care,

Sitting under the oak,

Among the old folk, 

They laugh at our play, 

And soon they all say.

‘Such, such were the joys. 

When we all girls & boys, 

In our youth-time were seen, 

On the Ecchoing Green.’

 

Till the little ones weary

No more can be merry

The sun does descend,

And our sports have an end: 

Round the laps of their mothers, 

Many sisters and brothers,

Like birds in their nest,

Are ready for rest;

And sport no more seen,

On the darkening Green.

 

William Blake

Blake has some reputation as a great poet, but frankly, that is seriously crap. I've often wondered whether he was deliberately taking the piss (a la William McGonagall) with that one.

[mjmooney]

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini

Clive James

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
For I know it tastes as pure as Malvern water,
Though laced with bright bubbles like the acqua minerale
That melted the kidney stones of Michelangelo
As sunlight the snow in spring.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
In a green Lycergus cup with a sprig of mint,
But add no sugar –
The bitterness is what I want.
If I craved sweetness I would be asking you to bring me
The tears of Annabel Croft.

I never asked for the wrist-bands of Maria Bueno,
Though their periodic transit of her glowing forehead
Was like watching a bear’s tongue lap nectar.
I never asked for the blouse of Françoise Durr,
Who refused point-blank to improve her soufflé serve
For fear of overdeveloping her upper arm –
Which indeed remained delicate as a fawn’s femur,
As a fern’s frond under which cool shadows gather
So that the dew lingers.

Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini
And give me credit for having never before now
Cried out with longing.
Though for all the years since TV acquired colour
To watch Wimbledon for even a single day
Has left me shaking with grief like an ex-smoker
Locked overnight in a cigar factory,
Not once have I let loose as now I do
The parched howl of deprivation,
The croak of need.

Did I ever demand, as I might well have done,
The socks of Tracy Austin?
Did you ever hear me call for the cast-off Pumas
Of Hana Mandlikova?
Think what might have been distilled from these things
And what a small request it would have seemed –
It would not, after all, have been like asking
For something so intimate as to arouse suspicion
Of mental derangement.
I would not have been calling for Carling Bassett’s knickers
Or the tingling, Teddy Tinling B-cup brassiere
Of Andrea Temesvari.

Yet I denied myself.
I have denied myself too long.
If I had been Pat Cash at that great moment
Of triumph, I would have handed back the trophy
Saying take that thing away
And don’t let me see it again until
It spills what makes this lawn burst into flower:
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

In the beginning there was Gorgeous Gussie Moran
And even when there was just her it was tough enough,
But by now the top hundred boasts at least a dozen knock-outs
Who make it difficult to keep one’s tongue
From lolling like a broken roller blind.
Out of deference to Billie-Jean I did my best
To control my male chauvinist urges –
An objectivity made easier to achieve
When Betty Stove came clumping out to play
On a pair of what appeared to be bionic legs
Borrowed from Six Million Dollar Man.

I won’t go so far as to say I harbour
Similar reservations about Steffi Graf –
I merely note that her thigh muscles when tense
Look interchangeable with those of Boris Becker –
Yet all are agreed that there can be no doubt
About Martina Navratilova:
Since she lent her body to Charles Atlas
The definition of the veins on her right forearm
Looks like the Mississippi river system
Photographed from a satellite,
And though she may unleash a charming smile
When crouching to dance at the ball with Ivan Lendl,
I have always found to admire her yet remain detached
Has been no problem.

But when the rain stops long enough for the true beauties
To come out swinging under the outshone sun,
The spectacle is hard for a man to take,
And in the case of this supernally graceful dish –
Likened to a panther by slavering sports reporters
Who pitiably fail to realise that any panther
With a top-spin forehand line drive like hers
Would be managed personally by Mark McCormack –
I’m obliged to admit defeat.

So let me drink deep from the bitter cup.
Take it to her between any two points of a tie-break
That she may shake above it her thick black hair,
A nocturne from which droplets as they fall
Flash like shooting stars –
And as their lustre becomes liqueur
Let the full calyx be repeatedly carried to me.
Until I tell you to stop
Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.

[A'Villan]

I have wrestle with an alligator, I done tussle with a whale, I've handcuffed lightening, thrown thunder in jail!

Only last week, I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalised a brick, I'm so mean I make medicine sick!

[mjmooney]

55 minutes ago, A'Villan said:

I have wrestle with an alligator, I done tussle with a whale, I've handcuffed lightening, thrown thunder in jail!

Only last week, I murdered a rock, injured a stone, hospitalised a brick, I'm so mean I make medicine sick!

See, that is obviously rap, rather than poetry. It would probably have tediously identikit 'beats' behind it. 

[A'Villan]

28 minutes ago, mjmooney said:

See, that is obviously rap, rather than poetry. It would probably have tediously identikit 'beats' behind it. 

It's classic Muhammad Ali brother.