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I just saw this previously unpublished Laurie Lee poem in an email from Penguin books, thought I'd share it, because I think it's beautiful:
Ah Well
Ah well, I think, even the chestnuts are breaking, there is a soft down upon the cry of birds, and they slip covertly, with intent gentleness, among the bushes; life is full in the green ear and brilliant with chance, what of the mere grain blown out and forgotten, rotting or ripening in a shroud of grass?
Khalil Gibran on what it means to be a lifelong QPR supporter...
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
The grass is always greener.
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National Poetry Day on 09:43 - Oct 4 with 1398 views
Think I might have posted this before, but sure have another blast at it. It's 'Chaura Panchashika', Kashmiri in origin, thousands of years old. I first came across it in Steinbeck's 'Cannery Row'. Fifty verses, so just a taster.
“Even now She is art-magically present to my soul, And that one word of strange heart’s ease, goodbye. That in the night, in loth moving to go, And bending over to a golden mouth, I said softly to the turned away Tenderly tired hair of this king’s daughter.
Even now, I mind our going, full of bewilderment As who should walk from sleep into great light, Along the running of the winter river, A dying sun on the cool hurrying tide. No more by green rushes delayed in dalliance, With a clear purpose in his flower flecked length Informed, to reach Nirvana and the sea.
Even now I love long black eyes that caress like silk, Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes, Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close It seems another beautiful look of hers. I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth, And curving hair, subtle as a smoke, And light fingers, and laughter of green gems.
Even now I remember that you made answer very softly, We being one soul, your hand on my hair, The burning memory rounding your near lips: I have seen the priestesses of Rati make love at moon fall And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep.”
"The opposite of love, after all, is not hate, but indifference."
National Poetry Day on 09:30 - Oct 4 by Esox_Lucius
Khalil Gibran on what it means to be a lifelong QPR supporter...
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
That's unreal, Esox.
Thanks.
"The opposite of love, after all, is not hate, but indifference."
There was a young footballer called Chair*, Who had such very dark hair. His dribbling was jinky, His stature? Well, dinky, But man, did he play with some flair.
*Indulge me, I know he doesn't pronounce it like that 😉
Moving swiftly on, here's some *real* poetry:
The Destruction of Sennacherib
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
—Lord Byron
"Things had started becoming increasingly desperate at Loftus Road but QPR have been handed a massive lifeline and the place has absolutely erupted. it's carnage. It's bedlam. It's 1-1."
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National Poetry Day on 14:39 - Oct 4 with 1075 views
The last few lines of Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” Spoken to his crew urging them to join him in one last glorious voyage of discovery. A rallying cry for those of us of “advanced years”.
“Though much is taken, much abides;and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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National Poetry Day on 16:37 - Oct 4 with 987 views
Just realised there’s a part of that poem I quoted before that I like even more than the bit I put down; I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and ever when I move. How dull it is to pause,to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And to this grey spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star Beyond the utmost bounds of human thought.
[Post edited 4 Oct 17:55]
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National Poetry Day on 18:13 - Oct 4 with 928 views
As we are talking about kids poems...you know that scene in The Shawshank Redemption where Morgan Freeman's character says to the parole board “So you go on and stamp your form sonny and stop wasting my time because to tell you the truth, I don't give a shit”? Well, one year every student in my sons school had to write a poem and to put it politely, he wasn't best pleased. As he stared out the window desperately trying to think of what to write, he eventually thought, fcuk it, I'll just write what I am thinking.
At this point I should add that he went to a French school near Barcelona (stay with me) and he didn't particularly like French let alone poetry. If you can understand French, it scans better as it loses a bit in translation but this is what he wrote...
Obligé d'écrire ce poème Obligé d'être moi-même Obligé d'essayer Obligé de continuer
Je ne suis pas un poète C'est ennuyeux Donc je vais être honnête Je suis paresseux
On attend beaucoup de moi Mais ce n'est pas un tournoi Alors pourquoi s'acharner Mon esprit est dispersé
Acune chance Acune idée Pas de confiance C'est obligé
Should I be worried? Too late now, this was six years ago.
And like the parole board, the poetry boffins loved it!. He had an all expenses paid trip to Paris to pick up an award for coming third in the 'rest of the world' (schools outside of France) category and it's now in a book on his shelf....never wrote another poem, obviously.
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National Poetry Day on 18:47 - Oct 4 with 904 views
I've really appreciated everyone's contribution to this thread (well, nearly everyone's), because I think poetry is essential, and it used to be so highly valued, but now it has become almost a niche literary form....
And of course we could carry on posting favourite poems, like Frankie Friday, and maybe those of you who love poetry would keep on adding more... So in that spirit, here's one many of you will recognise, with its lovely Irish lilt...
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
By William Butler Yeats
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 honey-bee, 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.
As a pacifist these lyrics have always spoken loudly to me.
When I was a young man I carried my pack And I lived the free life of a rover From the murrays green basin to the dusty outback I waltzed my matilda all over Then in nineteen fifteen my country said son It's time to stop rambling 'cause there's work to be Done So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun And they sent me away to the war And the band played Waltzing Matilda As we sailed away from the quay And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the Cheers We sailed off to Gallipoli How well I remember that terrible day When the blood stained the sand and the water And how in that hell that they called suvla bay We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well He showered us with bullets, he rained us with Shells And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell Nearly blew us right back to Australia But the band played waltzing Matilda As we stopped to bury our slain And we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs Then it started all over again Now those who were living did their best to survive In that mad world of blood, death and fire And for seven long weeks I kept myself alive While the corpses around me piled higher Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit And when I woke up in my hospital bed And saw what it had done, Christ I wished I was Dead Never knew there were worse things than dying And no more I'll go waltzing Matilda To the green bushes so far and near For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs No more waltzing Matilda for me So they collected the cripples, the wounded and Maimed And they shipped us back home to Australia The legless, the armless, the blind and insane Those proud wounded heroes of suvla And as our ship pulled into circular quay I looked at the place where me legs used to be And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me To grieve and to mourn and to pity And the band played Waltzing Matilda As they carried us down the gangway But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared And they turned all their faces away And now every April I sit on my porch And I watch the parade pass before me I see my old comrades, how proudly they march Reliving the or their dreams of past glory i see the old men, all twisted and torn The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war And the young people ask me, "what are they Marching for?" And I ask myself the same question And the band plays Waltzing Matilda And the old men still answer to the call But year after year their numbers get fewer Some day no one will march there at all Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda Who'll go a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
The grass is always greener.
3
National Poetry Day on 20:58 - Oct 4 with 779 views
Esox's post reminded me of this extraordinary war poem The Parable of the Old Man and the Young by Wilfred Owen
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, and builded parapets and trenches there, And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him. Behold, A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
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National Poetry Day on 22:41 - Oct 4 with 715 views
National Poetry Day on 23:27 - Oct 4 by Paddyhoops
The great Derek and Clive .
Wilkins Poem
There once was a player named Ray, Whose skills on the field would display. With a pass so precise, He was always so nice, Super Ray led the game his own way!
Macca Poem
There once was a defender named Macca, Whose tackles were sharp as an attacker. With a grin on his face, He’d control every space, And leave forwards flat on their back-a!
In defense, he was tough as a rock, Giving strikers a real nasty shock. With a header so strong, He’d send the ball long, And the fans would all cheer round the clock.
His teammates would laugh and they’d cheer, For Macca, their leader so dear. With his wit and his charm, He’d keep them from harm, And his legend would grow year by year!
Holloway the Mad Man
There once was a manager named Holloway, Whose antics were wild every match day. With a quip and a jest, He’d outshine all the rest, In the West, he was known for his wordplay.
His tactics were often quite bold, With stories and jokes he’d unfold. He’d dance on the touchline, And shout, “This team’s mine!” Leaving fans in fits, truth be told.
With passion and fire in his eyes, He’d lead with a spirit that flies. Though his methods were mad, The results weren’t half bad, And his legend continued to rise!
Jimmy Dunne scores again
There once was a hero named Dunne, Whose volleys were second to none. Against Birmingham’s crew, He’d score not one, but two, With last-minute strikes just for fun!
Each week, he’d line up the shot, And with power, he’d give it a lot. The crowd would all cheer, As the ball disappeared, Into the net, like a rocket it got!
Birmingham’s defense would despair, As Jimmy’s volleys flew through the air. With a grin and a wink, He’d make their hearts sink, Leaving them pulling out their hair!
Esox's post reminded me of this extraordinary war poem The Parable of the Old Man and the Young by Wilfred Owen
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, and builded parapets and trenches there, And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him. Behold, A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
National Poetry Day on 20:47 - Oct 3 by colinallcars
Matthew Arnold's Oxford Elegy is wonderful and too long for me to put on here. It was set to music by Vaughn Williams. It's been recorded four times and I have all four. One is American with the narrator putting on an English accent which is weird but possibly my favourite.
Might not be putting on. The 'upper class' American accent was heavily influenced by their British contemporaries right up until the 1960's. You'll still meet the older New Englander who sounds mid Atlantic.
National Poetry Day on 20:51 - Oct 4 by Esox_Lucius
As a pacifist these lyrics have always spoken loudly to me.
When I was a young man I carried my pack And I lived the free life of a rover From the murrays green basin to the dusty outback I waltzed my matilda all over Then in nineteen fifteen my country said son It's time to stop rambling 'cause there's work to be Done So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun And they sent me away to the war And the band played Waltzing Matilda As we sailed away from the quay And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the Cheers We sailed off to Gallipoli How well I remember that terrible day When the blood stained the sand and the water And how in that hell that they called suvla bay We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well He showered us with bullets, he rained us with Shells And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell Nearly blew us right back to Australia But the band played waltzing Matilda As we stopped to bury our slain And we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs Then it started all over again Now those who were living did their best to survive In that mad world of blood, death and fire And for seven long weeks I kept myself alive While the corpses around me piled higher Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit And when I woke up in my hospital bed And saw what it had done, Christ I wished I was Dead Never knew there were worse things than dying And no more I'll go waltzing Matilda To the green bushes so far and near For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs No more waltzing Matilda for me So they collected the cripples, the wounded and Maimed And they shipped us back home to Australia The legless, the armless, the blind and insane Those proud wounded heroes of suvla And as our ship pulled into circular quay I looked at the place where me legs used to be And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me To grieve and to mourn and to pity And the band played Waltzing Matilda As they carried us down the gangway But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared And they turned all their faces away And now every April I sit on my porch And I watch the parade pass before me I see my old comrades, how proudly they march Reliving the or their dreams of past glory i see the old men, all twisted and torn The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war And the young people ask me, "what are they Marching for?" And I ask myself the same question And the band plays Waltzing Matilda And the old men still answer to the call But year after year their numbers get fewer Some day no one will march there at all Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda Who'll go a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
When I was a little boy my Mother used to cry when this song was played on the record player sung by the Dubliners and Ronnie Drew its so incredibly powerful and sad at the same time Fast forward in the blink of an eye 50 years or so and I was painting my basement being helped by my 14 year old daughter (helped is a term used loosely of course . I had the Pogues playing on my Spotify playlist and Waltzing Mathilda came on and by the end of it she was crying her eyes out thinking about the soldiers dying and being badly injured .It was so unexpected I started tearing up myself thinking of lifes journey and how she will get on after I am gone probably like my Mother was thinking all those years ago.
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