Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rapparee Date: 28 Oct 07 - 11:04 AM There were two old maidens of Birmingham And this is the story concernin' 'em.... Just to refresh.... |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Azizi Date: 28 Oct 07 - 03:48 PM Paul Lawrence Dunbar showed wisdom as great as the wisdom of Churchill and a knowledge of Nature's laws as great as Emerson's knowledge when he wrote the autobiography of many individual sinners in these poetic and potent words: THIS IS THE PRICE I PAY {Paul Laurence Dunbar} This is the price I pay — Just for one riotous day — Years of regret and of grief, And sorrow without relief. Suffer it I will, my friend, Suffer it until the end, Until the grave shall give relief. Small was the thing I bought, Small was the thing at best, Small was the debt, I thought, But, 0 God! — the interest. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Azizi Date: 28 Oct 07 - 04:04 PM I learned "This Is The Price I Pay" as a youth. Here's how I thought the first part fot that poem went: This is the price I pay — for just one riotous day — Pay it I will till the end until the grave my friend... -snip- And I couldn't remember anything that came after that but the word "relief". I'm pleased to find this poem-if it is indeed the same one-and also pleased to know that its writer was Paul Laurence Dunbar {the religous website where I found this poem http://davidsisler.com/payday02.htm attributed it to Paul Lawrence Dunbar-I suppose he and Paul Laurence are one and the same. But I still like "my" version of the beginning part of this poem. Maybe that's because I've lived with it so long. Can anyone else share the words to a poem that he or she thought were the real words until learning differently? |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Azizi Date: 28 Oct 07 - 04:05 PM fot = of |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: kendall Date: 28 Oct 07 - 04:33 PM I mentioned Richard Cory to an old friend today, and he figures he knows what Mr. Cory's problem was. He was gay. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Peace Date: 28 Oct 07 - 04:38 PM Nothing wrong with being happy . . . . |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Jack Blandiver Date: 28 Oct 07 - 04:54 PM Wandering along St Annes Square the other day I noticed I was walking over verses from my all time favourite poem illustrated in ceramic blocks set into the pavement. Here it is: maggie and milly and molly and may - by e e cummings maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach(to play one day) and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and milly befriended a stranded star whose rays five languid fingers were; and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone. For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in the sea * I first read this on the cover of the Incus LP 'Balance' (Frank Perry, Phil Wachsmann, Ian Brighton and Radu Mafatti if memory serves me right!) at some point on 1976 & it's been with me ever since. I'm sure I've still got the album somewhere too (gifted to my brother by Frank Perry himself) but since our move to Lytham St Annes a month ago my beloved stash of vinyl now resides in storage for future reference! |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rapparee Date: 28 Oct 07 - 04:55 PM In addition to destroying old folk songs (and even new ones), my family also works over poems. For example, my brother Ted once recited "Richard Cory" like this "Whenever Richard Cory went to town, We on the sidewalk looked at him." and returned to his chair, performance over. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Emma B Date: 29 Oct 07 - 12:52 PM For John O'L I found this translation of Salvatore Quasimodo's "In a Distant City" translated by Jack Bevan Not from the sky, but steeply down from foliage onto the lawn of pale alga in the northern garden, suddenly a raven hopped. Not a symbol, in the summer curved over with rainbows and rains, but a real raven like an acrobat on the trapeze at Tivoli. Fragile, image of cunning entering our day that ended with merry-go-rounds and paddle-boat wheels and sailors' shanties and the wail of a ship leaving, opening furious foam wings, or of harbour women's tears The hour struck on Europe's farthest shore, insistent, craving for innocence. The raven was still a happy omen, like others when I tested my mind in every one of its bounds and shapes, restraining a cry to probe the still world and marvelling that I too could cry out. Game, perhaps, anticipation or violence: but for a little irony all is lost, and the light strikes fear more than the shade. Were you awaiting my word, or one unknown to you? Then the raven turned, lifted its claws swift from the grass and melted in the air of your green eye. For a little irony all is lost. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Rowan Date: 30 Oct 07 - 12:11 AM While I think that the thread has produced some wonderful posts from its location "below the line" I'm wondering whether it ought, really, to be located above the line. Just my curiosity at work. poems that speak out to the heart or the mind's eye; do they sing as well? Cheers, Rowan |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: kendall Date: 30 Oct 07 - 08:06 AM Maybe they should be above the line. After all, they are songs without a tune. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: GUEST Date: 05 Dec 07 - 01:38 AM Poem: "Not Only The Eskimos" by Liesel Mueller, from Alive Together (Louisiana State University Press). Not Only The Eskimos We have only one noun but as many different kinds: the grainy snow of the Puritans and snow of soft, fat flakes, guerrilla snow, which comes in the night and changes the world by morning, rabbinical snow, a permanent skullcap on the highest mountains, snow that blows in like the Lone Ranger, riding hard from out of the West, surreal snow in the Dakotas, when you can't find your house, your street, though you are not in a dream or a science-fiction movie, snow that tastes good to the sun when it licks black tree limbs, leaving us only one white stripe, a replica of a skunk, unbelievable snows: the blizzard that strikes on the tenth of April, the false snow before Indian summer, the Big Snow on Mozart's birthday, when Chicago became the Elysian fields and strangers spoke to each other, paper snow, cut and taped to the inside of grade-school windows, in an old tale, the snow that covers a nest of strawberries, small hearts, ripe and sweet, the special snow that goes with Christmas, whether it falls or not, the Russian snow we remember along with the warmth and smell of our furs, though we have never traveled to Russia or worn furs, Villon's snows of yesteryear, lost with ladies gone out like matches, the snow in Joyce's "The Dead," the silent, secret snow in a story by Conrad Aiken, which is the snow of first love, the snowfall between the child and the spacewoman on TV, snow as idea of whiteness, as in snowdrop, snow goose, snowball bush, the snow that puts stars in your hair, and your hair, which has turned to snow, the snow Elinor Wylie walked in in velvet shoes, the snow before her footprints and the snow after, the snow in the back of our heads, whiter than white, which has to do with childhood again each year. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Georgiansilver Date: 05 Dec 07 - 03:01 AM My personal favourite is John Masefields 'Cargoes' which is descriptive of three different ships in different parts of the world and the cargoes they carry....see for yourself. Cargoes. Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnemon and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rail, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: topical tom Date: 05 Dec 07 - 01:19 PM I memorized this poem in a small, one-room country school many moons ago. I know that its rhythm and rhyme scheme are extremely simple but it still touches me: Trees by Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth's flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Uncle_DaveO Date: 05 Dec 07 - 02:17 PM The Banjo by Robert Winner There is some demon turning me into an old man, Living like a tapeworm in my gut, Turning me into a snowman Of cleaned-up fingernails and shaving cream, While somewhere in the life I forgot to live An old rapscallion banjo sleeps with dust. I'd like to take that banjo to my job And sit cross-legged, strum and strum And wake those rigid people into dancing. Those white men so white their smiles are water. Those camouflaged men who cruise Around each other like soft battleships. I'd like them to remember their bare feet, The bite of dust and sun down country roads, The face they forgot to desire, Now carved and wrinkled like a peach pit. All of them nailed to their careers like handles on boxes. There is some other game for me. Another reality could walk in any time and become boss, Shouting: Dance! Dance! Dance! Dance through the partitions! Dance through the stairwells, envelopes, telephones! Dave Oesterreich |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Uncle_DaveO Date: 05 Dec 07 - 02:26 PM The Grain of Sound A banjo maker in the mountains, when looking out for wood to carve an instrument, will walk among the trees and knock on trunks. He'll hit the bark and listen for a note. A hickory makes the brightest sound; the poplar has a mellow ease. But only straightest grain will keep the purity of tone, the sought- for depth that makes the licks sparkle. A banjo has a shining shiver. Its twangs will glitter like the light on splashing water. But the face of banjo is a drum of hide of cow, or cat, or even skunk. The hide will magnify the note, the sad of honest pain, the chill blood song, lament, confession, haunt, as tree will sing again from root and vein and sap and twig in wind and cat will moan as hand plucks nerve, picks bone and cell and gut and pricks the heart as blood will answer blood and love begins to knock along the grain. -- Robert Morgan Dave Oesterreich |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Beer Date: 05 Dec 07 - 02:28 PM Canadian school system I guess. Had to memorize that one as well Tom. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: maeve Date: 05 Dec 07 - 06:12 PM Thanks for those last 2 banjo poems, Dave. I love 'em both! maeve |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Donuel Date: 06 Dec 07 - 01:14 PM What is divine love how does it feel? Divine love feels like a maybe. Trust is more concrete. Let me count the ways in pictures that don't retreat from year zero AD. A disputed temple seat started the great melee. Outside the temple they meet. His arrest was no surprise A jeering crowd was on their feet Hateful words did fly. Three denials spelled defeat. The crowd then multiplied and watched the show complete. While Crucified he never cried. A spear released a bloody wheeze. Some thought the man had died. Still breathing God was regaled The crowd still wanted a view of the man that was nailed. His face was red and blue. Some were thrilled that he failed. There was nothing left to do. It was a trial, not an attack. His mom with the help of a few carried the body now slack. Now he can't be king of the Jews. The Romans were matter of fact. "He started it, what could we do." The man didn't die, he came back with an enlightened world view. Like the crowd that viewed this act... that's how much he trusts you. Like love enforced by contract. Saving the savior is not what we do. Saving the savior is not what we do. If its a matter of trust How do I trust thee ? Let me count the ways in pictures that don't retreat from a jr. high school daze. A disputed school bus seat started the whole melee. Out the bus door they meet. Shoving was no surprise A school crowd, on their feet Fists began to fly. Three hits spelled defeat. The crowd then multiplied and watched the blows repeat. Passed out, the boy never cried. The bully still pounded meat. Some thought the small boy died. Still hitting, the skull finally cracked Yet still more wanted a view of the boy that was whacked. His face was red and blue All were thrilled, thats a fact No one wondered what to do. Twas a fair fight, not attack. A bus driver who had a few moved the body that was slack. They said the boy was a Jew. The bully was matter of fact. "He started it, what could I do." The boy didn't die, he came back with an enlightened world view. Like the crowd this did attract... thats how much I trust. thats exactly how much I trust. That only one employee stopped what others enjoyed with glee. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Donuel Date: 06 Dec 07 - 01:24 PM Some creatures build fences for their defences like the great Blubberasore and Wincess while others use anti attitude glue by squirting green bile in excess. What is anti attitude glue? it makes thier attitude stick to you too. Its gooey and burns and aches like the flu. If you get any onya here's what you should do. Shower for hours and treat yourself nice get plenty of bed rest and eat plenty of rice. Look in the mirror and see just who you are then imagine the best you can be by far. When you encounter the monsters of Tude Pour on thier heads gobs of grey gratitude. They will fall mute, won't know what to do They'll roll their eyes up to cast expursions on you But by then you're long gone while they sit and stew. Run past the Jerkclerks and Midmanajerks too like the Schnorfel, Gnarful, Gratchen and Chu they appear to tread water by standing on you. All of their status is nothing but flatus and the worst they can do is make you feel blue. Beware of the Bigbozzs they can be treacherous They can be angry and ruthless but really are lecherous. Out of their clutches is a land far away A place for things you want to do where your best ideas grow where your love wants to stay It is the Land of Iknowhatodo. With a map you could go there today. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: kendall Date: 08 Mar 08 - 12:29 PM At length the wary Roebuck started, Lept, as if to meet the arrow, Dead he lay there in the forest Beat his timid heart no longer. (Longfellow) Those lines get to me every time. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: John on the Sunset Coast Date: 08 Mar 08 - 07:13 PM Song of Hiawatha. The form and meter of that poem is in the style of the Finnish epic, The Kalavala. I think Longfellow is unfairly neglected today. He also, I believe, produced the first American translation of Dante's works. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Jim Dixon Date: 17 Jan 09 - 02:50 PM Benjamin Franklin, as a young man, wrote this as his own epitaph. I don't know whether it was actually used: of Benjamin Franklin, Printer, (Like the cover of an old book, Its contents torn out, And stript of its lettering and gilding,) Lies here, food for worms. But the work shall not be lost, For it will, as he believed, appear once more, In a new and more elegant edition, Revised and corrected by THE AUTHOR. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Lizzie Cornish 1 Date: 17 Jan 09 - 03:34 PM "There once was a bear who lived in a cave Whose greatest love was honey He had tuppence a week which he never could save So he never had any money I bought him a money box, big and round In which to keep his money He saved and saved 'til he got a pound Then spent it.......all on honey!" Anon It was my favourite poem when I was a little girl, and every time I read it, I giggled at the thought of that bear covered in sticky honey with not a penny to his name, but a big, fat, warm tummy.. I was very easily pleased. :0) lol |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Amos Date: 17 Jan 09 - 03:51 PM Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle But Gregory's wood and one bare hill Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind, Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed; And for an hour I have walked and prayed Because of the great gloom that is in my mind. I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, And under the arches of the bridge, and scream In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come, Dancing to a frenzied drum, Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. May she be granted beauty and yet not Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught, Or hers before a looking-glass, for such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend. Helen being chosen found life flat and dull And later had much trouble from a fool, While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray, Being fatherless could have her way Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man. It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone. In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned By those that are not entirely beautiful; Yet many, that have played the fool For beauty's very self, has charm made wise, And many a poor man that has roved, Loved and thought himself beloved, From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. May she become a flourishing hidden tree That all her thoughts may like the linnet be, And have no business but dispensing round Their magnanimities of sound, Nor but in merriment begin a chase, Nor but in merriment a quarrel. O may she live like some green laurel Rooted in one dear perpetual place. My mind, because the minds that I have loved, The sort of beauty that I have approved, Prosper but little, has dried up of late, Yet knows that to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief. If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf. An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind? Considering that, all hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will; She can, though every face should scowl And every windy quarter howl Or every bellows burst, be happy still. And may her bridegroom bring her to a house Where all's accustomed, ceremonious; For arrogance and hatred are the wares Peddled in the thoroughfares. How but in custom and in ceremony Are innocence and beauty born? Ceremony's a name for the rich horn, And custom for the spreading laurel tree. (A Prayer for my Daughter -- W.B. Yeats) |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: akenaton Date: 17 Jan 09 - 04:02 PM HIGH AND LOW He stumbled home from Clifden fair With drunken song, and cheeks aglow. Yet there was something in his air That told of kingship long ago. I sighed -- and inly cried With grief that one so high should fall so low. He snatched a flower and sniffed its scent, And waved it toward the sunset sky. Some old sweet rapture through him went And kindled in his bloodshot eye. I turned -- and inly burned With joy that one so low should rise so high. -- James H. Cousins (born 1873) |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Nick Date: 17 Jan 09 - 09:34 PM REMEMBER by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Lizzie Cornish 1 Date: 18 Jan 09 - 05:28 AM I am calling to you from afar Calling to you since the very beginning of days Calling to you across millennia For aeons of time Calling, calling Since always It is part of your being, my voice But it comes to you faintly And you only hear it sometimes "I don't know" you may say But somewhere you know "I can't hear" you say "What is it and where?" But somewhere you hear and deep down you know For I am that in you which has been always I am that in you which will never end Even if you say "Who is calling?" Even if you think "Who is that?" Where will you run? Just tell me Can you run away from yourself? For I am the only one for you There is no other Your promise, your reward am I alone Your punishment, your longing And your goal. (Author unknown) |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: VirginiaTam Date: 18 Jan 09 - 01:08 PM Anne Hathaway by Carol Ann Duffy from The World's Wife 'Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed ...' (from Shakespeare's will) The bed we loved in was a spinning world of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas where we would dive for pearls. My lover's words were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme to his, now echo, assonance; his touch a verb dancing in the centre of a noun. Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed a page beneath his writer's hands. Romance and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste. In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on, dribbling their prose. My living laughing love - I hold him in the casket of my widow's head as he held me upon that next best bed. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Jean(eanjay) Date: 30 Apr 09 - 05:38 AM I've been thinking about my father today and it reminded me about a poem by Rudyard Kipling, Gunga Din. If we watched that film once ................ |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Amergin Date: 30 Apr 09 - 11:37 PM This shows the grief of a father over his lost child.... My Boy Jack Rudyard Kipling "HAVE you news of my boy Jack? " Not this tide. "When d'you think that he'll come back?" Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. "Has any one else had word of him?" Not this tide. For what is sunk will hardly swim, Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. "Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?" None this tide, Nor any tide, Except he did not shame his kind--- Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide. Then hold your head up all the more, This tide, And every tide; Because he was the son you bore, And gave to that wind blowing and that tide. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: frogprince Date: 01 May 09 - 01:10 PM "Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be." Shel Silverstein |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Jean(eanjay) Date: 21 Jan 12 - 08:18 AM It's difficult coming back to a thread after so long. I have scrolled down all the posts to try to make sure that I don't post something that is already here. "Phenomenal Woman" written by Maya Angelou, who is a truly remarkable woman, was posted earlier. I haven't found a poem by Maya Angelou that I do not like; they all speak to me. The way she recites her poems makes you want to listen again and again. I intend now to read some of the books she has written. Here she is reciting Still I Rise. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: GUEST,kendall Date: 21 Jan 12 - 01:06 PM The Loch Archre by John Masefield. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: kendall Date: 02 Nov 13 - 08:02 AM A thing of beauty is a joy forever; Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness. (Keats) |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Andrez Date: 02 Nov 13 - 08:05 AM Colours When your face appeared over my crumpled life at first I understood only the poverty of what I have. Then its particular light on woods, on rivers, on the sea, became my beginning in the coloured world in which I had not yet had my beginning. I am so frightened, I am so frightened, of the unexpected sunrise finishing, of revelations and tears and the excitement finishing. I don't fight it, my love is this fear, I nourish it who can nourish nothing, love's slipshod watchman. Fear hems me in. I am conscious that these minutes are short and that the colours in my eyes will vanish when your face sets. Written, Yevtushenko, recorded Joan Baez Baptism Translated By Robin Milner-Gulland And Peter Levi Cheers, Andrez |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Jim Carroll Date: 02 Nov 13 - 01:33 PM We used this in themed feature evenings of songs and poetry - usually 'Crime and Criminals', but it works elsewhere. We presented it starting with the children's version of The Cruel Mother - Weela, Weela, Wila, followed by the Adult set, (usually Mrs Costello's version), then the poem, which is a MacColl rewrite of the Brecht original. Pat (Mackenzie) is a superb reader and I have seen audience members in tears after the set. Jim Carroll CONCERNING THE INFANTICIDE, MARIE FARRER by Bertolt Brecht Marie Farrer, born in April, No marks, a minor, rachitic, both parents dead, Allegedly up to now without police record, Committed infanticide, it is said, As follows: in her second month, she says, With the aid of a barmaid, she did her best To get rid of her child with two douches, Allegedly painful but without success. But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, For man needs help from every creature born. She then paid out, she says, what was agreed And continued to lace herself up tight. She also drank liquor with pepper mixed in it Which purged her but did not cure her plight. Her body distressed her as she washed the dishes, It was swollen now quite visibly. She herself says, for she was still a child, She prayed to Mary most earnestly. But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, For man needs help from every creature born. Her prayers, it seemed, helped her not at all. She longed for help. Her trouble made her falter and faint at early Mass. Often drops of sweat Broke out in anguish as she knelt at the altar. Yet until her time came upon her She still kept secret her condition. For no one would believe such a thing could happen, That she, so unenticing, had yielded to temptation. But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, For man needs help from every creature born. And, on that day, she says, when it was dawn, As she washed the stairs, it seemed a nail Was driven into her belly. She was wrung with pain. But still she secretly endured her travail. All day long while hanging out the laundry, She wracked her brains until she got it through her head She had to bear the child, and her heart was heavy. But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, It was very late when she went to bed. She was sent for again as soon as she lay down. Snow had fallen and she had to go downstairs. It went on till eleven. It was a long day. Only at night did she have time to bear. And so, she says, she gave birth to a son. The son she bore was just like all the others. She was unlike the others but for this There is no reason to despise this mother, You to, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, For man needs help from every creature born. With her last strength, she says, because Her room had now grown icy cold, she then Dragged herself to the latrine and there Gave birth as best she could (not knowing when) But toward morning. She says she was already Quite distracted and could barely hold The child for snow came into the latrine And her fingers were half numb with cold. But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, For man needs help from every creature born. Between the latrine and her room, she says, Not earlier, the child began to cry until It drove her mad so that, she says, She did not cease to beat it with her fists Blindly for some time till it was still. And then she took the body to her bed And kept it with her there all through the night. When morning came she hid it in the shed. But you, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, For man needs help from every creature born. Marie Farrer, born in April, An unmarried mother, convicted, died in The Meissen penitentiary. She brings home to you all men's sin. You, who bear pleasantly between clean sheets And give the name "blessed" to your womb's weight, Must not damn the weakness of the outcast, For her sin was black but her pain was great. Therefore, I beg you, check your wrath and scorn, For man needs help from every creature born. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: The Sandman Date: 13 Sep 21 - 03:27 AM The importance of being Important I know a man Who loves to hear himself roar Because he believes a man becomes a Man Not through subtlety but through force That a man becomes interesting When he’s seen and heard So he moves heaven and earth To be seen and to be heard The importance of being important Is the core value in his life The pillar of his existence The creed that defines his strive The struggle of man to become Man And to be the center of the earth A life defined by importance To be seen and to be heard Oscar Wilde |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Senoufou Date: 13 Sep 21 - 03:51 AM Tewkesbury Road by John Masefield. My mother used to recite this to me when I was very small (She knew many poems by heart) and the last line used to bring tears to her eyes (and mine!) : "The dear, wild cry of the birds" |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Steve Shaw Date: 13 Sep 21 - 06:36 AM This one by Dannie Abse: They held up a stone. I said, ‘Stone.’ Smiling they said, ‘Stone.’ They showed me a tree. I said, ‘Tree.’ Smiling they said, ‘Tree.’ They shed a man’s blood. I said, ‘Blood.’ Smiling they said, ‘Paint.’ They shed a man’s blood. I said, ‘Blood.’ Smiling they said, ‘Paint.’ |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Steve Shaw Date: 13 Sep 21 - 06:43 AM And I love this verse: They cut me down and I leapt up high; I am the life that'll never die. I'll live in you if you'll live in me: I am the lord of the dance, said he. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Steve Shaw Date: 13 Sep 21 - 07:00 AM One more, from Henry Reed, a British WW2 poet. If you google it you can listen to him reading it, with a friend reading the ripostes at the ends of the verses: I. NAMING OF PARTS To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day, To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And to-day we have naming of parts. This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got. The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger. And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring. They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For to-day we have naming of parts. |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Stilly River Sage Date: 13 Sep 21 - 11:25 AM Thank you for reviving this old chestnut of a thread - and I have to laugh when I skim over the list of posters and see one (before the lower area was off limits to guests) one posted by GUEST, Edgar A. That sing-song twaddle serves to show how wonderful the rest of the poems are. :) This one has occurred to me frequently in recent years, especially because one line is taken out of context and essentially turned on it's head: Mending Wall By Robert Frost Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: ‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’ We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: ‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ In particular, the section where the narrator's reasoning for not having a wall are stated, the neighbor comes back with the memorized response, without thought: We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ Too often politicians and pundits only remember the five words that are the least logical part of the poem. They weren't paying attention in class (or if they ever read the whole thing.) Off of my soap box. :) |
Subject: RE: BS: Poems that speak to you. From: Donuel Date: 14 Sep 21 - 08:59 AM tis bettern' Slouch-About Curse |