Music1 min ago
not waving but drowning
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by stevie smith is one of my favourite poems ever what is yours and why ?
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That's really lovely - never heard of it before.
My favourite is The Finding by Rupert Brooke, mainly because of it's amazing imagery.
http://europeanhistory.about.com/library/weekl y/blbrookefinding.htm
My favourite is The Finding by Rupert Brooke, mainly because of it's amazing imagery.
http://europeanhistory.about.com/library/weekl y/blbrookefinding.htm
The Toys
Coventry Patmore
My little Son, who look�d from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey�d,
I struck him, and dismiss�d
With hard words and unkiss�d,
�His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken�d eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein�d stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray�d
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with tranc�d breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou�lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
�I will be sorry for their childishness.�
Coventry Patmore
My little Son, who look�d from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey�d,
I struck him, and dismiss�d
With hard words and unkiss�d,
�His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken�d eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein�d stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray�d
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with tranc�d breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou�lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
�I will be sorry for their childishness.�
My favorite poem is "Brown and Agile Child" by the Chilean Nobel Prize winner, Pablo Neruda.
First encountered it as a poem on liner notes of "The Pretender" album by American singer Jackson Browne in 1976. This translation is from Spanish by Kenneth Rexroth. Over 30 years it has always stayed with me.
The first line is a contradiction of what this poem represents; the beauty of youth and childhood especially. Awesome. This would be my own valediction to Life.
Brown and Agile Child
Brown and agile child, the sun which forms the fruit
And ripens the grain and twists the seaweed
Has made your happy body and your luminous eyes
And given your mouth the smile of water.
A black and anguished sun is entangled in the twigs
Of your black mane when you hold out your arms.
You play in the sun as in a tidal river
And it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.
Brown and agile child, nothing draws me to you,
Everything pulls away from me here in the noon.
You are the delirious youth of bee,
The drunkedness of the wave, the power of the heat.
My somber heart seeks you always
I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice.
Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure
Like the wheatfiled, the sun, the poppy, and the water.
Pablo Neruda
First encountered it as a poem on liner notes of "The Pretender" album by American singer Jackson Browne in 1976. This translation is from Spanish by Kenneth Rexroth. Over 30 years it has always stayed with me.
The first line is a contradiction of what this poem represents; the beauty of youth and childhood especially. Awesome. This would be my own valediction to Life.
Brown and Agile Child
Brown and agile child, the sun which forms the fruit
And ripens the grain and twists the seaweed
Has made your happy body and your luminous eyes
And given your mouth the smile of water.
A black and anguished sun is entangled in the twigs
Of your black mane when you hold out your arms.
You play in the sun as in a tidal river
And it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.
Brown and agile child, nothing draws me to you,
Everything pulls away from me here in the noon.
You are the delirious youth of bee,
The drunkedness of the wave, the power of the heat.
My somber heart seeks you always
I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice.
Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure
Like the wheatfiled, the sun, the poppy, and the water.
Pablo Neruda
here is Mrs Smith reading it including an fluff
http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/poetry/outloud/smith .shtml
As for my favourite poem, it's like when you are asked for a favourite book or film or music, it will depend on my mood. Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott" I normally like independant of mood as well as Leisure by William Henry Davies
http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/poetry/outloud/smith .shtml
As for my favourite poem, it's like when you are asked for a favourite book or film or music, it will depend on my mood. Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott" I normally like independant of mood as well as Leisure by William Henry Davies
My favourite poem is 'The Road Less Taken' by Robert Frost. That final three lines:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I,
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I read it at my son's wedding in Amsterdam last year, because it is particularly poignant for him. He had been offered a job in the South Tower of the World Trade Centre and was on the verge of taking it when he met the beautiful Dutch girl he married last September. So instead he stayed in Holland and learned Dutch - and started a whole new life.
The road less travelled by - and it probably saved his life.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I,
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I read it at my son's wedding in Amsterdam last year, because it is particularly poignant for him. He had been offered a job in the South Tower of the World Trade Centre and was on the verge of taking it when he met the beautiful Dutch girl he married last September. So instead he stayed in Holland and learned Dutch - and started a whole new life.
The road less travelled by - and it probably saved his life.
Favourite poem ? Impossible to say, as there
are hundreds which come to mind. But 90%
of them are by Rudyard Kipling. Among these
I would vote for:
The Islanders
Sestina of the Tramp Royal
Cleared
If
The Way Through the Woods
The Mary Gloster
Gunga Din
The English Way
Road to Mandalay
The Ladies
The Benefactors
High on my list would be Browning's
'Any Wife to any Husband'
and H.Belloc's 'Tarantella'
-but I go back to Kipling for the creme de la
creme, virtually daily.
are hundreds which come to mind. But 90%
of them are by Rudyard Kipling. Among these
I would vote for:
The Islanders
Sestina of the Tramp Royal
Cleared
If
The Way Through the Woods
The Mary Gloster
Gunga Din
The English Way
Road to Mandalay
The Ladies
The Benefactors
High on my list would be Browning's
'Any Wife to any Husband'
and H.Belloc's 'Tarantella'
-but I go back to Kipling for the creme de la
creme, virtually daily.
Hello red, You have good tate, do you like this one,I find it very moving. xx
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Kipling's interesting, he seems to constantly provoke charges of racism but is tricky to pin down. Even poems like "White man's burden" have a slight feeling of irony to them.
I still prefer "what if" to "if"
http://www.ceeol.com/aspx/getdocument.aspx?log id=5&id=E62A43A4-214C-4019-A4AE-96F7BF11E98A
Personally, and I know it's unfashionably middle-class, but I do have a fondness for the wit of Betcheman.
"...Ah, more than church or school or hall,
The village inn's the heart of all."
So spake the brewer's P.R.O.,
A man who really ought to know,
For he is paid for saying so..."
I still prefer "what if" to "if"
http://www.ceeol.com/aspx/getdocument.aspx?log id=5&id=E62A43A4-214C-4019-A4AE-96F7BF11E98A
Personally, and I know it's unfashionably middle-class, but I do have a fondness for the wit of Betcheman.
"...Ah, more than church or school or hall,
The village inn's the heart of all."
So spake the brewer's P.R.O.,
A man who really ought to know,
For he is paid for saying so..."
This one - the house I grew up in had an orchard and every single line of this poem evokes a memory so clear it makes me 10 again.
Robert Frost "After Apple-Picking"
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Robert Frost "After Apple-Picking"
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
I love this poem.
Warning
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandlas, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Jenny Joseph
Warning
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandlas, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Jenny Joseph
There is a good representation of Robert Frost here. His first famed book was "North of Boston" in 1914...a full 47 years before he read his own poem "The Gift Outright" from memory at the inauguration of John F Kennedy as American President. Alastair Cooke wrote a great essay from the States on that event.
I love most everything that Robert Frost has written (Stopping by Woods On A Snowy Evening is a favourite) but the poem I find most moving is "Death of the Hired Man" (Hand?).
I love most everything that Robert Frost has written (Stopping by Woods On A Snowy Evening is a favourite) but the poem I find most moving is "Death of the Hired Man" (Hand?).
I like this anonymous (poss. Mary Frye) one which I chose to have read at my granny's funeral...
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 glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
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 glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
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