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Claire

Poetic Wanderings

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Why do you rush through the field in trains

Guessing so much and so much.

Why do you flash through the flowery meads

Fat-head poet that nobody reads;

And why do you know such a frightful lot

About people in gloves as such ?

 

And how the devil can you be sure,

Guessing so much and so much,

How do you know but what someone who loves

Always to see me in nice white gloves

At the end of the field you are rushing by -

Is waiting for his Old Dutch ?

 

The Fat White Woman Speaks - G. K. Chesterton (in answer to Frances Cornford).

 

Bit of a cheat, the link, but after the discussion earlier I felt this just had to go in.

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'Remember Me' by Christina Rossetti

 

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.

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oh megustaleer and elf star you are making me so sad ..... you're first world war poetry was brilliant - a lot of it was new to me so thank you. To lighten things up

 

'Ode to a Motorway Attendant

 

I wanted your soft verges

but

You gave me the hard shoulder'

 

.......Dammit - forgotten the author -know it was one of the Mersey poets

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'A Fuzzy Fellow Without Feet', by Emily Dickinson

 

A fuzzy fellow, without feet,

Yet doth exceeding run!

Of velvet, is his Countenance,

And his Complexion, dun!

 

Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!

Sometime, upon a bough,

From which he doth descend in plush

Upon the Passer-by!

 

All this in summer.

But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,

He taketh Damask Residence --

And struts in sewing silk!

 

Then, finer than a Lady,

Emerges in the spring!

A Feather on each shoulder,

You'd scarce recognize him!

 

By men, yclept Caterpillar!

By me! But who am I,

To tell the pretty secret

Of the Butterfly

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oh megustaleer and elf star you are making me so sad ..... you're first world war poetry was brilliant - a lot of it was new to me so thank you. To lighten things up

 

'Ode to a Motorway Attendant

 

I wanted your soft verges

but

You gave me the hard shoulder'

 

.......Dammit - forgotten the author -know it was one of the Mersey poets

 

It was the late Adrian Henri - poem was in Lucie-Smith's 'The Liverpool Scene', and in Penguin Modern Poets 10 'The Mersey Sound', but left out of the revised version of that volume.

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(This is in response to the previous poem about the butterfly) ;)

 

 

The Summer flower,Is to the Summer sweet,

Though to itself it only live and die,

But, if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity,

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds,

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

 

William Shakespeare- Sonnet :94

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I don't know if this qualifies, as it is actually classed as a nursery rhyme. It is therefore by 'Anon'

 

A Man Of Words

 

A man of words and not of deeds

Is like a garden full of weeds

And when the weeds begin to grow

It's like a garden full of snow

And when the snow begins to fall

It's like a bird upon the wall

And when the bird away does fly

It's like an eagle in the sky

And when the sky begins to roar

It's like a lion at the door

And when the door begins to crack

It's like a stick across your back

And when your back begins to smart

It's like a penknife in your heart

And when your heart begins to bleed

You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.

 

This used to be my party piece, back in the days when children did party pieces to impress relatives, and what is more, I can still recite it!

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Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover

Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers,

From those brown hills, have melted into spring:

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,

While the world's tide is bearing me along;

Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven,

No second morn has ever shone for me;

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,

All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,

And even Despair was powerless to destroy;

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,

Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion--

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten

Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?

(Remembrance).

 

Emily Bronte

 

I didn't know the caterpillar poem so thanks for that. Its been wonderful hunting through for half remembered lines and rediscovering old friends. I think I need some new books tho!!

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The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall

The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat;

The slender hairs cast shadows, through but small,

And bees have stings, although they be not great;

Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;

And love is love, in beggars and in kings.

 

<A HREF="http://www.poetropical.co.uk/15.html">"The lowest trees have tops" - Sir Edward Dyer</A>

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The Clod and the Pebble

 

Love seeketh not Itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care;

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.

 

So sang a little Clod of Clay,

Trodden with the cattle's feet:

But a pebble of the brook,

Warbled out these metres meet.

 

Love seeketh only Self to please,

To bind another to Its delight:

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.

 

-- William Blake

 

Another one I didnt know but it made me thinkof this

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Old Meg she was a Gipsy,

And liv'd upon the Moors:

Her bed it was the brown heath turf,

And her house was out of doors.

 

Her apples were swart blackberries,

Her currants pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,

Her book a churchyard tomb.

 

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,

Her Sisters larchen trees--

Alone with her great family

She liv'd as she did please.

 

The first Three verses of 'Meg Merrilies' by John Keats

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Blackberry Picking

 

Late August, given heavy rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet

Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for

Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger

Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.

Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills

We trekked and picked until the cans were full

Until the tinkling bottom had been covered

With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned

Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered

With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.

But when the bath was filled we found a fur,

A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.

The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush

The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.

I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair

That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.

Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

 

Seamus Heaney

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(poss. Henry VIII of England, 1500's.)

 

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.

For I have loved you well and long,

Delighting in your company.

 

Chorus:

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight,

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my lady greensleeves.

 

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,

Oh, why did you so enrapture me?

Now I remain in a world apart

But my heart remains in captivity.

 

chorus

 

I have been ready at your hand,

To grant whatever you would crave,

I have both wagered life and land,

Your love and good-will for to have.

 

chorus

 

If you intend thus to disdain,

It does the more enrapture me,

And even so, I still remain

A lover in captivity.

 

chorus

 

My men were clothed all in green,

And they did ever wait on thee;

All this was gallant to be seen,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

 

chorus

 

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,

but still thou hadst it readily.

Thy music still to play and sing;

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

 

chorus

 

Well, I will pray to God on high,

that thou my constancy mayst see,

And that yet once before I die,

Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.

 

chorus

 

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,

To God I pray to prosper thee,

For I am still thy lover true,

Come once again and love me.

 

chorus

 

I know we think of this as a song but it is in "The Nation's Favourite Love Poems" with several more verses.

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SONNET 58

 

That god forbid that made me first your slave,

I should in thought control your times of pleasure,

Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,

Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!

O, let me suffer, being at your beck,

The imprison'd absence of your liberty;*

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each cheque,

Without accusing you of injury.

Be where you list, your charter is so strong

That you yourself may privilege your time

To what you will; to you it doth belong

Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;

Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

 

Shakespeare

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It was the late Adrian Henri - poem was in Lucie-Smith's 'The Liverpool Scene', and in Penguin Modern Poets 10 'The Mersey Sound', but left out of the revised version of that volume.

 

Thank you

 

and a very appropriate poem for now .............

 

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

 

The Daffodills - Wordsworth

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Here's a few more to add to the bunch!

 

 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

 

 

First verse of 'To Daffodils' by Robert Herrick.

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Do not stand at my grave and weep,I am not there, I do not sleep.

 

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glint on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

 

When you wake in the morning hush,

I am the swift, uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there, I do not sleep.

(Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there, I did not die!

Mary Frye (1932)

 

 

I do not know if the name on this is correct I have always seen it as Anon. Does anybody know? I admit I googled it and cut and pasted from the first site it was on!

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I always thought this was written by an anonymous soldier or one that died and the poem later arrived with his family...I'm not too sure.

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Ah well its a sad day when you learn nothing. Although I did like the soldier story. In my anthology it says the poem was left in an envelope by Steven Cummins for his parents,he was killed in Northern Ireland.Various origins are suggested but at that time it was left as anonymous.My book was published in 1996.

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Everyone Sang

 

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;

And I was filled with such delight

As prisoned birds must find in freedom

Winging wildly across the white

Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight.

 

 

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;

And beauty came like the setting sun:

My heart was shaken with tears; and horror

Drifted away . . . O, but Everyone

Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

 

April 1919

Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sorry to disappoint you over 'Do Not Stand', Elfstar.

 

I don't have it in my anthologies, so can only go on the Googled versions!

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I'm not disappointed really, just the sad old romantic in me like the anonymity. it somehow made it more poignant,

 

 

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that 's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

 

 

Byron

 

And strangely I had the impression that this was written for a boy..,,although I have also seen it as a tribute to his cousin, Mrs Wilmot

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High Flight (An Airman's Ecstasy)

 

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of --Wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air...

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark or even eagle flew --

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

 

John Gillespie Magee

 

This to me just expresses the joy and exhilaration of the young aerobatics pilots in the first half of the last century, throwing their fragile aircraft around the skies.

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The sky is deep, the sky is dark,

The light of stars is so damn stark,

When I look up I fill with fear,

If all we have is what lies here,

this lonely world, This troubled place,

The cold dead stars and empty space.

 

I see no reason to persevere,

no reason to laugh or shed a tear,

no reason to sleep or ever to wake,

no promises to keep, and none to make,

 

And so at night, I still raise my eyes

to study the clear but mysterious skies

that arch above us as cold as stone,

Are you there God?

Or are we alone?

 

This is from the 'Book of Counted Sorrows' I cant remember which author always had an extract from this as a preface to his books. I have a feeling that it may have been Dean Koontz. This must have struck a chord with me at the time as I have copied this into the inner cover of one of my poetry books! and came across it purely by chance.

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