Friday, May 22, 2009

May (for Marian)... by Kerry Hardy

I haven't posted a poem for ages, because I decided that some I thought I liked, I had gone off - I'm such a fickle creature at times !! However, this I really do love - especially when I read it at the start of summer - I can smell the balm in the air !

The bless├Ęd stretch and ease of it –
heart’s ease. The hills blue. All the flowering weeds
bursting open. Balm in the air. The birdsong
bouncing back out of the sky. The cattle
lain down in the meadow, forgetting to feed.
The horses swishing their tails.
The yellow flare of furze on the near hill.
And the first cream splatters of blossom
high on the thorns where the day rests longest.

All hardship, hunger, treachery of winter forgotten.
This unfounded conviction: forgiveness, hope.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

An Irish Airman Forsees His Death ... by W.B. Yeats

Sad this one..and could apply it to any soldiers and any war. (P.S. I seem to like a lot of sad poems, not sure why - I am not sad !!)


I KNOW that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Stop All the Clocks ... by W.H. Auden

This became really well known when the movie 'Four Weddings & a Funeral' came out, where it was recited at a funeral in a poignant moment in an otherwise average movie (although KST was funny !). I liked it then and I like it now - those last two stanzas are so sad.


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.