poems we like

I love a talking book, me
User avatar
Martijn
Posts: 1260
Joined: Sat Oct 13, 2007 8:27 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/thinksmall
Location: Exeter
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by Martijn » Thu Jul 09, 2009 9:47 am

I have discovered The Poetry Archive; more accurately, I have installed RealPlayer so that I can listen to the poems on that site.

There is a 1930s recording of Yeats reading The Lake Isle of Innisfree. I like these very old audio recordings a lot, for you can really hear admiration of and respect for this magical thing called radio. Adding to the magic is that Yeats is almost singing his poem. And the poem itself is really good too.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

User avatar
crystalball
Posts: 5197
Joined: Fri Sep 28, 2007 6:04 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/felters
Location: That London
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by crystalball » Thu Jul 09, 2009 8:15 pm

Martijn wrote:I have discovered The Poetry Archive; more accurately, I have installed RealPlayer so that I can listen to the poems on that site.

There is a 1930s recording of Yeats reading The Lake Isle of Innisfree. I like these very old audio recordings a lot, for you can really hear admiration of and respect for this magical thing called radio. Adding to the magic is that Yeats is almost singing his poem. And the poem itself is really good too.
This is bloody amazing. All those recordings. Thanks Martijn! It's like, oh, I dunno... like 3D poetry. You hear a poem you know and it's as if it slips away from you and the ways in which you understood it and becomes entirely the poet's. And then yours once more when you start breathing again.

User avatar
cuppie
Posts: 877
Joined: Sat Sep 29, 2007 2:12 am
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/cuppie
Location: Ostrava

Re: poems we like

Post by cuppie » Fri Jul 10, 2009 3:42 pm

Martijn wrote:I have discovered The Poetry Archive; more accurately, I have installed RealPlayer so that I can listen to the poems on that site.
That's lovely. It stinks that they don't have Walt Whitman on there. I could totally be wrong but I think he was the first poet to ever have his voice recorded. He did it with Thomas Edison and you can barely make out what he's saying but you can tell that he's a little freaked out. I haven't heard it in years but it's wonderful.

User avatar
Martijn
Posts: 1260
Joined: Sat Oct 13, 2007 8:27 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/thinksmall
Location: Exeter
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by Martijn » Wed Aug 05, 2009 12:20 am

Oh, I never told the story here how, a few days after posting this, I went to an end-of-the-school-year-play of Dimitra's class when children of another class wanted to do something too, so they all did a poem they had done in school recently. I was totally awestruck when I heard these 9-year olds doing The Lake Isle of Innisfree!

I just finished Amit Chaudhuri's first novel, which is lovely by the way, and then discovered on his website that he has written some poetry too.

This one (The Writers; "On constantly mishearing ‘rioting’ as ‘writing’ on the BBC") is awesome:
There has been writing for ten days now
unabated. People are anxious, fed up.
There is writing in Paris, in disaffected suburbs,
but also in small towns, and old ones like Lyon.
The writers have been burning cars; they’ve thrown
homemade Molotov cocktails at policemen.
Contrary to initial reports, the writers
belong to several communities: Algerian
and Caribbean, certainly, but also Romanian,
Polish, and even French. Some are incredibly
young: the youngest is thirteen.
They stand edgily on street-corners, hardly
looking at each other. Long-standing neglect
and an absence of both authority and employment
have led to what are now ten nights of writing.

User avatar
nandodiao
Posts: 16
Joined: Sat Apr 17, 2010 8:10 pm
Location: Tampico, México

Re: poems we like

Post by nandodiao » Sun Apr 18, 2010 5:01 am

This is a translation from an spanish text. I think the name would be "Nocturn to Rosario". It was written by Manuel Acuña, a mexican poet who killed himself when he was just 24, after writing this.

Well, then, I am compelled
to say that I adore thee;
to tell thee that I love thee
with all my heart;
that there is much I suffer,
and that much I weep;
that more I can not bear,
and at the cry in which I implore
I entreat thee and speak in the name
of my lost illusions.

At night, when I rest
my temples on my pillow,
and towards another world
I wish to turn my mind,
I walk on, and on,
and at my journey’s end
the forms of my parents
are lost in vacancy,
and thou again returnest
to appear in my heart.

I understand thy kisses
are never to be mine;
I understand that in thine eyes
I ne’er shall see myself;
and I love thee, and in my mad
and ardent deliriums
I bless thy frowns;
I admire thy indifference.
And instead of loving thee less
I worship thee much more.

At times I think of giving thee
my eternal farewell;
to blot thee from my memory
and drown thee in my passion;
but if all be in vain,
and my soul forget thee not,
what wilt thou that I do,
part of my life,
what wilt thou that I do
with this—my heart?

And then, when thy sanctuary
was completed,
thy lamp was burning,
thy veil on the altar.
The sun of the morning
behind the belfry,
the torches emitting sparks,
the incensory smoking,
and there, open in the distance,
the door of my home.

I want you to know
that already many days
have I been ill and pallid
from so much lost sleep;
that all my hopes
have already died;
that my nights are dark—
so black and gloomy
that I know not even where
the future is fled.

How beautiful it would have been
to live beneath that roof,
we two united always,
and always loving each other;
thou always enamored;
I always contented;
we two a soul in one;
we two a single heart;
and between thee and me,
my mother like a god.
Imagine thou how beautiful
the hours of such a life!

How sweet and beautiful the journey
through such a land!
And I dreamed of that,
my holy betrothed,
and when upon it delirating
with my trembling heart,
I thought to be good
for thee, and for thee only.

Well knows God that this was
my most beautiful dream;
my anxiety and my hope;
my happiness and my joy.
Well knows God that in nothing
did I abridge my diligence,
but to love thee much
within the smiling home
that wrapped me in its kisses
when it saw my birth.
Such was my hope—
but now, against its brightness,
is opposed the deep abyss
that exists between the two.

Farewell for the last time,
love of my affections;
the light of my darkness,
the essence of my flowers
my poet’s lyre,
my youth, farewell!

User avatar
squirrelboutique
Posts: 3590
Joined: Fri Sep 28, 2007 6:05 pm

Re: poems we like

Post by squirrelboutique » Tue Apr 20, 2010 3:38 am

I've got a new found love for Eavan Boland.

That the Science of Cartography Is Limited

—and not simply by the fact that this shading of
forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,
the gloom of cypresses,
is what I wish to prove.

When you and I were first in love we drove
to the borders of Connacht
and entered a wood there.

Look down you said: this was once a famine road.

I looked down at ivy and the scutch grass
rough-cast stone had
disappeared into as you told me
in the second winter of their ordeal, in

1847, when the crop had failed twice,
Relief Committees gave
the starving Irish such roads to build.

Where they died, there the road ended

and ends still and when I take down
the map of this island, it is never so
I can say here is
the masterful, the apt rendering of
the spherical as flat, nor
an ingenious design which persuades a curve
into a plane,
but to tell myself again that

the line which says woodland and cries hunger
and gives out among sweet pine and cypress,
and finds no horizon

will not be there.

User avatar
cutestsneeze
Posts: 6
Joined: Tue Jul 27, 2010 3:40 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/

Re: poems we like

Post by cutestsneeze » Wed Aug 18, 2010 2:23 am

I've got a new found love for Eavan Boland.
oh, that poem's beautiful! i've never read anything by Eavan Boland before, now I think I probably should.

Here are some poems that I think are some of the most perfect and wonderful in existence! No matter how badly things are going or how rubbish i feel, they always make me feel better and my heart explode a little bit. i don't have the words to describe how special they are. anyway, this is my first post on anorak, hello!

Just Once

Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.

-Anne Sexton


Song of Joys

O to make the most jubilant song!
Full of music—full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!
Full of common employments—full of grain and trees.

O for the voices of animals—O for the swiftness and balance of fishes!
O for the dropping of raindrops in a song!
O for the sunshine and motion of waves in a song!

O the joy of my spirit—it is uncaged—it darts like lightning!
It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,
I will have thousands of globes and all time.

O the engineer's joys! to go with a locomotive!
To hear the hiss of steam, the merry shriek, the steam-whistle, the
laughing locomotive!
To push with resistless way and speed off in the distance.

O the gleesome saunter over fields and hillsides!
The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds, the moist fresh
stillness of the woods,
The exquisite smell of the earth at daybreak, and all through the forenoon.

O the horseman's and horsewoman's joys!
The saddle, the gallop, the pressure upon the seat, the cool
gurgling by the ears and hair.

O the fireman's joys!
I hear the alarm at dead of night,
I hear bells, shouts! I pass the crowd, I run!
The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in
perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.

O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human soul is
capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods.

O the mother's joys!
The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the
patiently yielded life.

O the of increase, growth, recuperation,
The joy of soothing and pacifying, the joy of concord and harmony.

O to go back to the place where I was born,
To hear the birds sing once more,
To ramble about the house and barn and over the fields once more,
And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.

O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast,
To continue and be employ'd there all my life,
The briny and damp smell, the shore, the salt weeds exposed at low water,
The work of fishermen, the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher;
I come with my clam-rake and spade, I come with my eel-spear,
Is the tide out? I Join the group of clam-diggers on the flats,
I laugh and work with them, I joke at my work like a mettlesome young man;
In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot
on the ice—I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice,
Behold me well-clothed going gayly or returning in the afternoon,
my brood of tough boys accompanying me,
My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no
one else so well as they love to be with me,
By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me.

Another time in warm weather out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots
where they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the buoys,)
O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water as I row
just before sunrise toward the buoys,
I pull the wicker pots up slantingly, the dark green lobsters are
desperate with their claws as I take them out, I insert
wooden pegs in the 'oints of their pincers,

I go to all the places one after another, and then row back to the shore,
There in a huge kettle of boiling water the lobsters shall be boil'd
till their color becomes scarlet.

Another time mackerel-taking,
Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill the
water for miles;
Another time fishing for rock-fish in Chesapeake bay, I one of the
brown-faced crew;
Another time trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with braced body,
My left foot is on the gunwale, my right arm throws far out the
coils of slender rope,
In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, my
companions.

O boating on the rivers,
The voyage down the St. Lawrence, the superb scenery, the steamers,
The ships sailing, the Thousand Islands, the occasional timber-raft
and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,
The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cook
supper at evening.

(O something pernicious and dread!
Something far away from a puny and pious life!
Something unproved! something in a trance!
Something escaped from the anchorage and driving free.)

O to work in mines, or forging iron,
Foundry casting, the foundry itself, the rude high roof, the ample
and shadow'd space,
The furnace, the hot liquid pour'd out and running.

O to resume the joys of the soldier!
To feel the presence of a brave commanding officer—to feel his sympathy!
To behold his calmness—to be warm'd in the rays of his smile!
To go to battle—to hear the bugles play and the drums beat!
To hear the crash of artillery—to see the glittering of the bayonets
and musket-barrels in the sun!

To see men fall and die and not complain!
To taste the savage taste of blood—to be so devilish!
To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy.

O the whaleman's joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!
I feel the ship's motion under me, I feel the Atlantic breezes fanning me,
I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head, There—she blows!
Again I spring up the rigging to look with the rest—we descend,
wild with excitement,
I leap in the lower'd boat, we row toward our prey where he lies,
We approach stealthy and silent, I see the mountainous mass,
lethargic, basking,
I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the weapon dart from his
vigorous arm;
O swift again far out in the ocean the wounded whale, settling,
running to windward, tows me,
Again I see him rise to breathe, we row close again,
I see a lance driven through his side, press'd deep, turn'd in the wound,
Again we back off, I see him settle again, the life is leaving him fast,
As he rises he spouts blood, I see him swim in circles narrower and
narrower, swiftly cutting the water—I see him die,
He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then
falls flat and still in the bloody foam.

O the old manhood of me, my noblest joy of all!
My children and grand-children, my white hair and beard,
My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

O ripen'd joy of womanhood! O happiness at last!
I am more than eighty years of age, I am the most venerable mother,
How clear is my mind—how all people draw nigh to me!
What attractions are these beyond any before? what bloom more
than the bloom of youth?
What beauty is this that descends upon me and rises out of me?

O the orator's joys!
To inflate the chest, to roll the thunder of the voice out from the
ribs and throat,
To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself,
To lead America—to quell America with a great tongue.

O the joy of my soul leaning pois'd on itself, receiving identity through
materials and loving them, observing characters and absorbing them,
My soul vibrated back to me from them, from sight, hearing, touch,
reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like,
The real life of my senses and flesh transcending my senses and flesh,
My body done with materials, my sight done with my material eyes,
Proved to me this day beyond cavil that it is not my material eyes
which finally see,
Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts,
embraces, procreates.

O the farmer's joys!
Ohioan's, Illinoisian's, Wisconsinese', Kanadian's, Iowan's,
Kansian's, Missourian's, Oregonese' joys!
To rise at peep of day and pass forth nimbly to work,
To plough land in the fall for winter-sown crops,
To plough land in the spring for maize,
To train orchards, to graft the trees, to gather apples in the fall.

O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore,
To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep, or race naked along the shore.

O to realize space!
The plenteousness of all, that there are no bounds,
To emerge and be of the sky, of the sun and moon and flying
clouds, as one with them.

O the joy a manly self-hood!
To be servile to none, to defer to none, not to any tyrant known or unknown,
To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,
To look with calm gaze or with a flashing eye,
To speak with a full and sonorous voice out of a broad chest,
To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth.

Knowist thou the excellent joys of youth?
Joys of the dear companions and of the merry word and laughing face?
Joy of the glad light-beaming day, joy of the wide-breath'd games?
Joy of sweet music, joy of the lighted ball-room and the dancers?
Joy of the plenteous dinner, strong carouse and drinking?

Yet O my soul supreme!
Knowist thou the joys of pensive thought?
Joys of the free and lonesome heart, the tender, gloomy heart?
Joys of the solitary walk, the spirit bow'd yet proud, the suffering
and the struggle?
The agonistic throes, the ecstasies, joys of the solemn musings day
or night?
Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space?
Prophetic joys of better, loftier love's ideals, the divine wife,
the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade?
Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul.

O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave,
To meet life as a powerful conqueror,
No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms,
To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving
my interior soul impregnable,
And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

For not life's joys alone I sing, repeating—the joy of death!
The beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments,
for reasons,
Myself discharging my excrementitious body to be burn'd, or render'd
to powder, or buried,
My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres,
My voided body nothing more to me, returning to the purifications,
further offices, eternal uses of the earth.

O to attract by more than attraction!
How it is I know not—yet behold! the something which obeys none
of the rest,
It is offensive, never defensive—yet how magnetic it draws.

O to struggle against great odds, to meet enemies undaunted!
To be entirely alone with them, to find how much one can stand!
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, face to face!
To mount the scaffold, to advance to the muzzles of guns with
perfect nonchalance!
To be indeed a God!

O to sail to sea in a ship!
To leave this steady unendurable land,
To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and the
houses,
To leave you O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship,
To sail and sail and sail!

O to have life henceforth a poem of new joys!
To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on!
To be a sailor of the world bound for all ports,
A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,)
A swift and swelling ship full of rich words, full of joys.

-Walt Whitman


Oban Girl

A girl in the window eating a melon
eating a melon and painting a picture
painting a picture and humming Hey Jude
humming Hey Jude as the light was fading

In the autumn she'll be married.

- Edwin Morgan

x

User avatar
stolenwine
Posts: 2071
Joined: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:27 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/stolenwine/
Location: giddy london
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by stolenwine » Wed Aug 18, 2010 4:55 pm

whoa, i'm here to post a couple of edwin morgan poems too!

Glasgow 5 March 1971

With a ragged diamond
of shattered plate-glass
a young man and his girl
are falling backwards into a shop-window.
The young man's face
is bristling with fragments of glass
and the girl's leg has caught
on the broken window
and spurts arterial blood
over her wet-look white coat.
Their arms are starfished out
braced for impact,
their faces show surprise, shock,
and the beginning of pain.
The two youths who have pushed them
are about to complete the operation
reaching into the window
to loot what they can smartly.
Their faces show no expression.
It is a sharp clear night
in Sauchiehall Street.
In the background two drivers
keep their eyes on the road.

Edwin Morgan

At the television set

Take care if you kiss me,
you know it doesn´t die.
The lamplight reaches out, draws it
blandly - all of it - into fixity,
troops of blue shadows like the soundless gunfight,
yellow shadows like your cheek by the lamp
where you lie watching, half watching
between the yellow and the blue.
I half see you, half know you.
Take care if you turn now to face me.
For even in this room we are moving out through stars
and forms that never let us back, your hand
lying lightly on my thigh and my hand on your shoulder
are transfixed only there, not here.

What can you bear that would last
like a rock through cancer and white hair?

Yet it is not easy
to take stock of miseries
when the soft light flickers
along our arms in the stillness
where decisions are made.
You have to look at me,
and then it´s time that falls
talking slowly to sleep.

Edwin Morgan

One Cigarette

No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker's tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.
tell me how good it is / to wake from a bad dream / and have someone there and I will tell you / how butterfly wings stay dry in the rain
--
stolen wine social

User avatar
crystalball
Posts: 5197
Joined: Fri Sep 28, 2007 6:04 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/felters
Location: That London
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by crystalball » Wed Aug 18, 2010 5:23 pm

I'd almost forgotten about Edwin Morgan. 'At the television set' is so lovely. Thanks for posting them.

User avatar
stolenwine
Posts: 2071
Joined: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:27 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/stolenwine/
Location: giddy london
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by stolenwine » Wed Aug 18, 2010 5:32 pm

i didn't even know he existed until a few weeks ago when my friend sent me a collection of his poems. i've been reading through it and it's so brilliant! maybe we should have a recommend a poet thread or something...i haven't sat down and read poems for pleasure in ages (well, until i got this book anyway!)
tell me how good it is / to wake from a bad dream / and have someone there and I will tell you / how butterfly wings stay dry in the rain
--
stolen wine social

islandhopper
Posts: 3441
Joined: Sun Sep 30, 2007 12:44 am
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/mi-fhein
Location: I belong to Glasgow

Re: poems we like

Post by islandhopper » Wed Aug 18, 2010 7:22 pm

I'm afraid I mostly know of Edwin Morgan through Idlewild! I really like the song In Remote Part/Scottish Fiction though and Edwin recites his Scottish Fiction section over the end of it.

It isn't in the mirror
It isn't on the page
It's a red-hearted vibration
Pushing through the walls
Of dark imagination
Finding no equation
There's a Red Road rage
But it's not road rage
It's asylum seekers engulfed by a grudge
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction

It isn't in the castle
It isn't in the mist
It's a calling of the waters
As they break to show
The new Black Death
With reactors aglow
Do you think your security
Can keep you in purity
You will not shake us off above or below
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction

It's even better with him reading it obviously. He's got a wonderful voice.

Here it is actually


islandhopper
Posts: 3441
Joined: Sun Sep 30, 2007 12:44 am
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/mi-fhein
Location: I belong to Glasgow

Re: poems we like

Post by islandhopper » Thu Aug 19, 2010 4:43 pm

Strangely, and of course very sadly, Edwin Morgan has just passed away.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-g ... t-11025826

User avatar
cutestsneeze
Posts: 6
Joined: Tue Jul 27, 2010 3:40 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/

Re: poems we like

Post by cutestsneeze » Tue Aug 24, 2010 6:06 pm

I was really sad when I read about that.. :( he lived in a nursing home near where i live i think. i was across in edinburgh the other day and alasdair gray was there for the book festival doing a theatre thing and book signing, which i couldn't stay for. anyway, when i got back to glasgow i had this really sad, weird feeling, knowing he wasn't in glasgow too! it's sort of the same with edwin morgan really. he's one of the writers who made me want to do a degree in scottish literature and move here, and the way i see and think about the city is completely bound up in their words. i always think of 'the starlings in george square' whenever i walk through it. i love how funny but mournful it is.

but, ninety! and still poetically active! he was so ace.

I really love this photo of him from the fifties:

Image

'When you go' by edwin morgan

When you go,
if you go,
And I should want to die,
there's nothing I'd be saved by
more than the time
you fell asleep in my arms
in a trust so gentle
I let the darkening room
drink up the evening, till
rest, or the new rain
lightly roused you awake.
I asked if you heard the rain in your dream
and half dreaming still you only said, I love you.

User avatar
stolenwine
Posts: 2071
Joined: Fri Sep 28, 2007 7:27 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/stolenwine/
Location: giddy london
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by stolenwine » Tue Aug 24, 2010 6:10 pm

oh my god, that is a beautiful poem. i've got a lump in my throat (maybe i'm just feel extra emotional though)
cutestsneeze wrote: 'When you go' by edwin morgan

When you go,
if you go,
And I should want to die,
there's nothing I'd be saved by
more than the time
you fell asleep in my arms
in a trust so gentle
I let the darkening room
drink up the evening, till
rest, or the new rain
lightly roused you awake.
I asked if you heard the rain in your dream
and half dreaming still you only said, I love you.
tell me how good it is / to wake from a bad dream / and have someone there and I will tell you / how butterfly wings stay dry in the rain
--
stolen wine social

Murray

Re: poems we like

Post by Murray » Tue Aug 24, 2010 6:33 pm

stolenwine wrote:oh my god, that is a beautiful poem. i've got a lump in my throat (maybe i'm just feel extra emotional though)
I think it's just wonderfully written. I'm stuck at work still but just read it and had to head off to the vending machine to hide the prickles in my eyes and the waver in my voice.

I know next to nothing about poetry, but that's beautiful.

User avatar
cutestsneeze
Posts: 6
Joined: Tue Jul 27, 2010 3:40 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/

Re: poems we like

Post by cutestsneeze » Wed Oct 13, 2010 12:22 pm

The Whitsun Weddings

That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river's level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles inland,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn't notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what's happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
Yes, from cafés
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;
The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say
I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
- An Odeon went past, a cooling tower, And
someone running up to bowl - and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Travelling coincidence; and what it held
stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.

-Philip Larkin

User avatar
humblebee
Posts: 10540
Joined: Sun Sep 30, 2007 4:33 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/atomicbeatboy
Location: Sheffields
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by humblebee » Thu Apr 07, 2011 2:36 pm

I'm loving this. Set in a grotty bit of my hometown. It's the Guardian poem of the week - read more about it here if you like.



Showing Me

Both bicycle tyre tree and variegated
plastic bag tree are native to Nunsthorpe.
'Hello? Can I show you something?'
Can't be for me. A clear young voice
for someone else. I carry on wringing
the thread of the bolt that holds the filter
in place. Gothick vandalism, stray dogs,
drugs, 2,000 watt halogen security lights.
'Hello? Can I show you something?'

Easing my head from the bonnet I am
accosted by a girl aged 7 or 8
wearing a white calf-length T-shirt hemmed
with purple flowers, eager to show me
something. Conscious of the perils of accepting
favours from strange children, however angel-
like, I make a sort of non-committal sound.

Smartly she places a ball on the ground,
not quite football size, ringed with
a protruding rim in rainbow plastic. One foot
either side of this miniature Saturn
she begins to bounce. Careful, that's right.

And then, with a rope uncoiled from nowhere,
to skip, the rope slapping the footpath mid-
bounce. Sweet and supple inside
her too big, too white t-shirt she bounces
high, leaps higher with delight, hair flying,
arms turning, legs springing, showing me.

Happy that I've been shown, she winds down
cautiously to finish with a little hop.
'Lovely,' I tell her. 'You are clever.'
Suddenly shy, she smiles, hastily coils
her skipping rope and runs off with Saturn,
the dancing planet, tucked under her arm.

The air filter is no freer than before,
but the bolt is painfully de-threading itself.
High crime, low income Nunsthorpe,
the home of the five-lever lock and a fearless
innocence. With one last wrenching twist
the filter comes away, clogged with dust
and grime from better, more desirable places.

Sam Gardiner

User avatar
tryanother
Posts: 43
Joined: Tue May 03, 2011 11:49 am
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/
Location: Bowness,Cumbria,England

Re: poems we like

Post by tryanother » Sun May 15, 2011 2:33 pm

part of sun and flesh by arthur rimbaud

"The vast heaven is open! the mysteries lie dead
Before erect Man, who folds his strong arms
Among the vast splendour of abundant Nature!
He sings... and the woods sing, the river murmurs
A song full of happiness which rises towards the light!...
- it is Redemption! it is love! it is love!..."

and

" Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul. "

Word's to live by,Invictius by William Henley
Sadness hurts, but that's ok
Get back up and cry again
Fall asleep in outer space,
but wake up at your parents' place

User avatar
crystalball
Posts: 5197
Joined: Fri Sep 28, 2007 6:04 pm
Last.fm: http://www.last.fm/user/felters
Location: That London
Contact:

Re: poems we like

Post by crystalball » Mon Jul 04, 2011 4:42 pm

Have we ever had Robert Lowell on here? He wrote this for his daughter:

Harriet

Spring moved to summer - the rude cold rain
hurries the ambitious, flowers and youth;
our flash-tones crackle for an hour, and then
we too follow nature, imperceptibly
change our mouse-brown to white lion's mane,
thin white fading to a freckled, knuckled skull,
bronzed by decay, by many, many suns....
Child of ten, three-quarters animal,
three years from Juliet, half Juliet,
already ripened for the night on stage -
beautiful petals, what shall we hope for,
knowing one choice not two is all you're given,
health beyond the measure, dangerous
to yourself, more dangerous to others?

knowing one choice not two is all you're given, eh. *dies*

User avatar
linus
Posts: 2490
Joined: Thu Mar 31, 2011 5:55 pm

Re: poems we like

Post by linus » Fri Sep 16, 2011 6:42 pm

I've been reading 'Teenage: The Creation of Youth 1875-1945' by Jon Savage and a section of the book is on the First World War and Arthur Graeme West is referred to and this poem in particular:

God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men

God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men,
Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
As soon as you are in them, nurtured up
By the salt of your corruption, and the tears
Of mothers, local vicars, college deans,
And flanked by prefaces and photographs
From all you minor poet friends — the fools —
Who paint their sentimental elegies
Where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share
The dead’s brief immortality
Oh Christ!
To think that one could spread the ductile wax
Of his fluid youth to Oxford’s glowing fires
And take her seal so ill! Hark how one chants —
“Oh happy to have lived these epic days” —
“These epic days”! And he’d been to France,
And seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead
In the periscope, hung in the rusting wire:
Choked by their sickley fœtor, day and night
Blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths,
Proved all that muddy brown monotony,
Where blood’s the only coloured thing. Perhaps
Had seen a man killed, a sentry shot at night,
Hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing-step,
His neck against the back slope of the trench,
And the rest doubled up between, his head
Smashed like an egg-shell, and the warm grey brain
Spattered all bloody on the parados:
Had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend,
Shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes — gone!
Yet still God’s in His heaven, all is right
In the best possible of worlds. The woe,
Even His scaled eyes must see, is partial, only
A seeming woe, we cannot understand.
God loves us, God looks down on this out strife
And smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times
And calls some warriors home. We do not die,
God would not let us, He is too “intense,”
Too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows He
Because a grass-blade dies. How rare life is!
On earth, the love and fellowship of men,
Men sternly banded: banded for what end?
Banded to maim and kill their fellow men —
For even Huns are men. In heaven above
A genial umpire, a good judge of sport,
Won’t let us hurt each other! Let’s rejoice
God keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold.
Ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems,
Large as a mustard-seed) — we trust and trust,
Nothing can shake us! Ah, how good God is
To suffer us to be born just now, when youth
That else would rust, can slake his blade in gore,
Where very God Himself does seem to walk
The bloody fields of Flanders He so loves!

Post Reply

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 8 guests