tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62573081343513217062024-02-08T07:42:50.873-08:00Poems I love .....picked up from various sources and at various times of life....these are poems or songs that have spoken to me in some way or other! I LOVE poetry !!Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-62312132656294327682011-06-18T13:24:00.000-07:002011-06-18T13:24:21.531-07:00Break, Break, Break.....By Alfred, Lord TennysonA sad poem, recently read at the funeral of somebody who was very much loved by us and who was taken much too early<br />
*************************<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Break, break, break, </em><br />
<em>On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! </em><br />
<em>And I would that my tongue could utter </em><br />
<em>The thoughts that arise in me. </em><br />
<br />
<em>O, well for the fisherman's boy, </em><br />
<em>That he shouts with his sister at play! </em><br />
<em>O, well for the sailor lad, </em><br />
<em>That he sings in his boat on the bay! </em><br />
<br />
<em>And the stately ships go on </em><br />
<em>To their haven under the hill; </em><br />
<em>But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, </em><br />
<em>And the sound of a voice that is still! </em><br />
<br />
<em>Break, break, break </em><br />
<em>At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! </em><br />
<em>But the tender grace of a day that is dead </em><br />
<em>Will never come back to me. </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-92155287305102793282010-08-16T06:00:00.000-07:002010-08-16T06:02:45.752-07:00As I Walked Out One Evening...by W H AudenI came across this poem years ago and the line about loving until 'China and Africa meet' always stayed with me. I went hunting recently to find the full poem and read it over a few times. It appears nonsensical at times but it's another reminder about wasting life 'in headaches and in worry'. I love parts of this poem, so hence it's here!<br />
<br />
***********************************************<br />
<br />
<em>As I walked out one evening,</em><br />
<em>Walking down Bristol Street,</em><br />
<em>The crowds upon the pavement</em><br />
<em>Were fields of harvest wheat.</em><br />
<br />
<em>And down by the brimming river</em><br />
<em>I heard a lover sing</em><br />
<em>Under an arch of the railway:</em><br />
<em>'Love has no ending.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you</em><br />
<em>Till China and Africa meet,</em><br />
<em>And the river jumps over the mountain</em><br />
<em>And the salmon sing in the street,</em><br />
<br />
<em>'I'll love you till the ocean</em><br />
<em>Is folded and hung up to dry</em><br />
<em>And the seven stars go squawking</em><br />
<em>Like geese about the sky.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'The years shall run like rabbits,</em><br />
<em>For in my arms I hold</em><br />
<em>The Flower of the Ages,</em><br />
<em>And the first love of the world.'</em><br />
<br />
<em>But all the clocks in the city</em><br />
<em>Began to whirr and chime:</em><br />
<em>'O let not Time deceive you,</em><br />
<em>You cannot conquer Time.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'In the burrows of the Nightmare</em><br />
<em>Where Justice naked is,</em><br />
<em>Time watches from the shadow</em><br />
<em>And coughs when you would kiss.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'In headaches and in worry</em><br />
<em>Vaguely life leaks away,</em><br />
<em>And Time will have his fancy</em><br />
<em>To-morrow or to-day.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'Into many a green valley</em><br />
<em>Drifts the appalling snow;</em><br />
<em>Time breaks the threaded dances</em><br />
<em>And the diver's brilliant bow.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'O plunge your hands in water,</em><br />
<em>Plunge them in up to the wrist;</em><br />
<em>Stare, stare in the basin</em><br />
<em>And wonder what you've missed.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,</em><br />
<em>The desert sighs in the bed,</em><br />
<em>And the crack in the tea-cup opens</em><br />
<em>A lane to the land of the dead.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes</em><br />
<em>And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,</em><br />
<em>And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,</em><br />
<em>And Jill goes down on her back.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'O look, look in the mirror,</em><br />
<em>O look in your distress:</em><br />
<em>Life remains a blessing</em><br />
<em>Although you cannot bless.</em><br />
<br />
<em>'O stand, stand at the window</em><br />
<em>As the tears scald and start;</em><br />
<em>You shall love your crooked neighbour</em><br />
<em>With your crooked heart.'</em><br />
<br />
<em>It was late, late in the evening,</em><br />
<em>The lovers they were gone;</em><br />
<em>The clocks had ceased their chiming,</em><br />
<em>And the deep river ran on. </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-3549544945463379602010-01-23T10:06:00.000-08:002010-01-23T10:07:36.932-08:00If I had my life to live over ...by Nadine StairI encountered this in an advert in a magazine years ago, in a slightly different version, but found this full version when I googled to find the author who is listed as being aged 85. I can identify with it - being a person who often travels with wipes and hand sanitiser !!!!<br />
My favourite part is the bit about 'oh I've had my moments' - I would love to know what her moments were ... I bet they were pretty notable! She has given a useful gift to anyone who reads this - warning us not to wait until we're 85 to realise that life could be more relaxed and sillier, and walked through barefoot.<br />
<br />
*****************************************<br />
<em>If I had my life to live over,</em><br />
<em>I'd dare to make more mistakes next time.<br />
I'd relax, I would limber up.</em><br />
<em>I would be sillier than I have been this trip.</em><br />
<em>I would take fewer things seriously.</em><br />
<em>I would take more chances.</em><br />
<em>I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.</em><br />
<em>I would eat more ice cream and less beans.</em><br />
<em>I would perhaps have more actual troubles, </em><br />
<em>but I'd have fewer imaginary ones.</em><br />
<br />
<em>You see, I'm one of those people who live </em><br />
<em>sensibly and sanely hour after hour, </em><br />
<em>day after day.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Oh, I've had my moments,</em><br />
<em>And if I had it to do over again, </em><br />
<em>I'd have more of them.</em><br />
<em>In fact, I'd try to have nothing else.</em><br />
<em>Just moments, one after another,</em><br />
<em>instead of living so many years ahead of each day.</em><br />
<em>I've been one of those people who never goes anywhere </em><br />
<em>without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat</em><br />
<em>and a parachute.</em><br />
<em>If I had to do it again, I would travel lighter than I have.</em><br />
<br />
<em>If I had my life to live over,</em><br />
<em>I would start barefoot earlier in the spring</em><br />
<em>and stay that way later in the fall.</em><br />
<em>I would go to more dances.</em><br />
<em>I would ride more merry-go-rounds.</em><br />
<em>I would pick more daisies.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-36815939158212129522010-01-18T08:38:00.000-08:002010-01-18T08:57:00.008-08:00The Invitation......by OriahI found this in a shop in Lonsdale Quay in North Vancouver ten years ago, and it always stayed with me - a reminder of not to get too caught up in the things that don't always matter about the people we love. <br />
<br />
*************************************************<br />
<br />
<em>It doesn’t interest me to know what you do for a living.</em><br />
<em>I want to know what you ache for,</em><br />
<em>And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.</em><br />
<em>It doesn’t interest me how old you are.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,</em><br />
<em>For the adventure of being alive.</em><br />
<em>It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrows,</em><br />
<em>If you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become </em><br />
<em>shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,</em><br />
<em>Without moving to hide it, or fade it or fix it.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,</em><br />
<em>If you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you</em><br />
<em>to the tips of your fingers and toes</em><br />
<em>Without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, </em><br />
<em>to remember the limitations of being human.</em><br />
<em>It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to your self,</em><br />
<em>If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul,</em><br />
<em>If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it is not pretty, every day,</em><br />
<em>And if you can source your own life from its presence.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you can live with failure,</em><br />
<em>Yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake </em><br />
<em>and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”</em><br />
<em>It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair,</em><br />
<em>Weary and bruised to the bone,</em><br />
<em>And do what needs to be done for the children.</em><br />
<em>It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me</em><br />
<em>and not shrink back.</em><br />
<em>It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.</em><br />
<em>I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.</em><br />
<em>I want to know if you can be alone with yourself</em><br />
<em>And if you truly like the company you keep in empty moments.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-41865516478723213022009-05-22T13:59:00.000-07:002009-05-22T14:05:01.273-07:00May (for Marian)... by Kerry HardyI 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 !<br /><br />***************************************<br /><em>The blessèd stretch and ease of it – </em><br /><em>heart’s ease. The hills blue. All the flowering weeds </em><br /><em>bursting open. Balm in the air. The birdsong </em><br /><em>bouncing back out of the sky. The cattle </em><br /><em>lain down in the meadow, forgetting to feed. </em><br /><em>The horses swishing their tails. </em><br /><em>The yellow flare of furze on the near hill. </em><br /><em>And the first cream splatters of blossom </em><br /><em>high on the thorns where the day rests longest. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>All hardship, hunger, treachery of winter forgotten. </em><br /><em>This unfounded conviction: forgiveness, hope. </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-60485584962510244892009-05-05T14:18:00.000-07:002009-05-05T14:20:46.635-07:00An Irish Airman Forsees His Death ... by W.B. YeatsSad this one..and timeless...you 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 !!)<br /><br />***************************************<br /><br /><em>I KNOW that I shall meet my fate</em><br /><em>Somewhere among the clouds above;</em><br /><em>Those that I fight I do not hate,</em><br /><em>Those that I guard I do not love;</em><br /><em>My county is Kiltartan Cross,</em><br /><em>My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,</em><br /><em>No likely end could bring them loss</em><br /><em>Or leave them happier than before.</em><br /><em>Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,</em><br /><em>Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,</em><br /><em>A lonely impulse of delight</em><br /><em>Drove to this tumult in the clouds;</em><br /><em>I balanced all, brought all to mind,</em><br /><em>The years to come seemed waste of breath,</em><br /><em>A waste of breath the years behind</em><br /><em>In balance with this life, this death.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-27994445599417213622009-05-01T14:28:00.000-07:002009-05-01T14:32:22.380-07:00Stop All the Clocks ... by W.H. AudenThis 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.<br /><br />**************************************<br /><br /><em>Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,</em><br /><em>Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,</em><br /><em>Silence the pianos and with muffled drum</em><br /><em>Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead</em><br /><em>Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,</em><br /><em>Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,</em><br /><em>Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>He was my North, my South, my East and West,</em><br /><em>My working week and my Sunday rest,</em><br /><em>My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;</em><br /><em>I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;</em><br /><em>Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;</em><br /><em>Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.</em><br /><em>For nothing now can ever come to any good.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-46412518857195575402009-04-28T13:18:00.000-07:002009-05-01T14:33:08.355-07:00I See You Dancing, Father...by Brendan KennellyI love this because it reminds me of dancing with my daddy in the kitchen when I was young !<br /><br />***************************************<br /><br /><em>No sooner downstairs after the night's rest</em><br /><em>And in the door</em><br /><em>Than you started to dance a step</em><br /><em>In the middle of the kitchen floor.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>And as you danced</em><br /><em>You whistled</em><br /><em>You made your own music</em><br /><em>Always in tune with yourself.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Well, nearly always, anyway.</em><br /><em>You're buried now</em><br /><em>In Lislaughtin Abbey</em><br /><em>And whenever I think of you</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I go back beyond the old man</em><br /><em>Mind and body broken</em><br /><em>To find the unbroken man.</em><br /><em>It is the moment before the dance begins,</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Your lips are enjoying themselves</em><br /><em>Whistling an air</em><br /><em>Whatever happens or cannot happen</em><br /><em>In the time I have to spare</em><br /><em>I see you dancing, father.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-54962659418615343132009-04-24T15:12:00.000-07:002009-05-01T14:33:46.628-07:00Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye...by Leonard CohenOk so it's a song, but Leonard Cohen is listed as a 'Canadian poet, novelist, and singer-songwriter' on his website, so this could be either a poem or a song. I first encountered Leonard in 1996 (HOW did it take me so long?!) in Munich, in Wohn Heim St Elisabeth where it was the only english language music (only english anything for that matter!!) I had come across in weeks, maybe months. It was actually a vinyl called 'The Best Of' , I think it was owned by a girl called Anita -or she arrived into the common room with it anyway, and for that reason I have always recalled her name. I loved that album from the first time I heard it - each and every one of those songs spoke to me - and I couldn't believe I hadn't taken the time to listen to him before - I had HEARD of him - who hasn't?! So that was the start of the love affair with Leonard's music, and this song, 'Suzanne' and 'Marianne' are my favourites, but that changes because it is still one of my most well loved albums (I have it on CD now, I hope Anita still has her vinyl!).<br /><br />This is so simple yet so descriptive - I can see him in my head walking with her to the corner ........... and as a veteren of one of those long distance loves that had to say goodbye (luckily only for a while) this always touches me!<br /><br />****************************<br /><br /><em>I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,</em><br /><em>your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,</em><br /><em>yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,</em><br /><em>in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,</em><br /><em>but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,</em><br /><em>your eyes are soft with sorrow,</em><br /><em>Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,</em><br /><em>walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme</em><br /><em>you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,</em><br /><em>it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,</em><br /><em>but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,</em><br /><em>your eyes are soft with sorrow,</em><br /><em>Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,</em><br /><em>your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,</em><br /><em>yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,</em><br /><em>in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,</em><br /><em>but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,</em><br /><em>your eyes are soft with sorrow,</em><br /><em>Hey, that's no way to say goodbye. </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-86331017931893338172009-04-23T12:56:00.001-07:002009-04-23T13:01:42.528-07:00The Road Not Taken...by Robert FrostI recall having to learn this in school - something I never minded doing because I always found it easy. This one was easier than most, probably because it made total sense the first time I read it. I always wondered what exactly the difference was.<br /><br />******************************************<br />Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,<br />And sorry I could not travel both<br />And be one traveler, long I stood<br />And looked down one as far as I could<br />To where it bent in the undergrowth;<br /><br />Then took the other, as just as fair,<br />And having perhaps the better claim<br />Because it was grassy and wanted wear,<br />Though as for that the passing there<br />Had worn them really about the same,<br /><br />And both that morning equally lay<br />In leaves no step had trodden black.<br />Oh, I marked the first for another day!<br />Yet knowing how way leads on to way<br />I doubted if I should ever come back.<br /><br />I shall be telling this with a sigh<br />Somewhere ages and ages hence:<br />Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,<br />I took the one less traveled by,<br />And that has made all the difference.Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-67682607150318135462009-04-22T07:53:00.000-07:002009-04-22T08:01:01.484-07:00Digging ...by Seamus HeaneyAnother Heaney masterpiece - I think they put something in the water to make all Irish people love his work. He recently had his 70th birthday and one acid tongued newspaper reporter mentioned in an article that he got so much coverage that it seemed like everyone in the country had lived every minute of the 70 years with him! Anyway, this is a poem that reminds me of hearing stories from my parents about when they used to go turf cutting as children. It also reminds me that each generation has their own version of 'digging' - and it doesn't always have to be with the same implements.<br /><br />****************************************<br /><br /><em>Between my finger and my thumb</em><br /><em>The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Under my window a clean rasping sound</em><br /><em>When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:</em><br /><em>My father, digging. I look down</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds</em><br /><em>Bends low, comes up twenty years away</em><br /><em>Stooping in rhythm through potato drills</em><br /><em>Where he was digging.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft</em><br /><em>Against the inside knee was levered firmly.</em><br /><em>He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep</em><br /><em>To scatter new potatoes that we picked</em><br /><em>Loving their cool hardness in our hands.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>By God, the old man could handle a spade,</em><br /><em>Just like his old man.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>My grandfather could cut more turf in a day</em><br /><em>Than any other man on Toner's bog.</em><br /><em>Once I carried him milk in a bottle</em><br /><em>Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up</em><br /><em>To drink it, then fell to right away</em><br /><em>Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods</em><br /><em>Over his shoulder, digging down and down</em><br /><em>For the good turf. Digging.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap</em><br /><em>Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge</em><br /><em>Through living roots awaken in my head.</em><br /><em>But I've no spade to follow men like them.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Between my finger and my thumb</em><br /><em>The squat pen rests.</em><br /><em>I'll dig with it. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-3654122842620803012009-04-20T13:18:00.000-07:002009-04-20T13:20:54.485-07:00Candles ... by Constantine P Cavafy (translation by Rae Dalvern)A good reminder to make the best of the time you've got...<br /><br />***************************************<br /><br /><em>The days of the future stand in front of us</em><br /><em>Like a line of candles all alight----</em><br /><em>Golden and warm and lively little candles.</em><br /><em>The days that are past are left behind,</em><br /><em>A mournful row of candles that are out;</em><br /><em>The nearer ones are still smoking,</em><br /><em>Candles cold, and melted, candles bent.,</em><br /><em>I don’t want to see them; their shapes hurt me,</em><br /><em>It hurts me to remember the light of them at first.</em><br /><em>I look before me at my lighted candles,</em><br /><em>I don’t want to turn around and see with horror</em><br /><em>How quickly the dark line is lengthening,</em><br /><em>How quickly the candles multiply that have been put out. </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-1926092752696305282009-04-17T15:09:00.000-07:002009-04-17T15:15:31.025-07:00In Memory Of My Mother...by Patrick KavanaghI love this, despite the sadness, because it is so very Irish, from second Mass to the cattle !<br /><br />******************************************<br /><br /><em>I do not think of you lying in the wet clay</em><br /><em>Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see</em><br /><em>You walking down a lane among the poplars</em><br /><em>On your way to the station, or happily</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday -</em><br /><em>You meet me and you say:'</em><br /><em>Don't forget to see about the cattle - </em><br /><em>'Among your earthiest words the angels stray.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>And I think of you walking along a headland</em><br /><em>Of green oats in June,</em><br /><em>So full of repose, so rich with life -</em><br /><em>And I see us meeting at the end of a town</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>On a fair day by accident, after</em><br /><em>The bargains are all made and we can walk</em><br /><em>Together through the shops and stalls and markets</em><br /><em>Free in the oriental streets of thought.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>O you are not lying in the wet clay,</em><br /><em>For it is a harvest evening now and we</em><br /><em>Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-85441607029485692452009-04-15T03:34:00.000-07:002009-04-15T12:17:30.688-07:00The Mournes.... by Helen WaddellThis poet grew up near the Mourne Montains in Northern Ireland. This is one of my all time favourite poems - I love her description of the sea, the fact that she couldn't leave in spring, and the way she describes the winter in which she would consent to die. As someone who loves the bleakness of winter, I can smell the cold and the fog when I read this. I also am touched by the fact that there is someone she loves waiting for her, or so she hopes, and that she would go 'tonight' to take her favourite road and to be with whoever that someone was.<br /><br />***********************************<br /><br /><em>I shall not go to heaven when I die.</em><br /><em>But if they let me be</em><br /><em>I think I'll take a road I used to know</em><br /><em>That goes by Slieve-na-garagh and the sea.</em><br /><em>And all day breasting me the wind will blow,</em><br /><em>And I'll hear nothing but the peewit's cry</em><br /><em>And the sea talking in the caves below.</em><br /><em>I think it will be winter when I die</em><br /><em>(For no one from the North could die in spring)</em><br /><em>And all the heather will be dead and grey,</em><br /><em>And the bog-cotton will have blown away,</em><br /><em>And there will be no yellow on the wind.</em><br /><em>But I shall smell the peat,</em><br /><em>And when it's almost dark I'll set my feet</em><br /><em>Where a white track goes glimmering to the hills,</em><br /><em>And see, far up, a light--</em><br /><em>Would you think Heaven could be so small a thing</em><br /><em>As a lit window on the hills at night?--</em><br /><em>And come in stumbling from the gloom,</em><br /><em>Half-blind, into a firelit room.</em><br /><em>Turn, and see you,</em><br /><em>And there abide. </em><br /><br /><em>If it were true,</em><br /><em>And if I thought that they would let me be,</em><br /><em>I almost wish it were tonight I died. </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-73933430081325771252009-04-13T10:08:00.000-07:002009-04-15T03:44:46.821-07:00Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin...by Patrick KavanaghKavanagh is like Seamus Heaney to me, because he writes about ordinary things. This poem was written when he saw a canal-side seat dedicated to a lady. I have always loved the peom because it reminds me of when I used to live near that same canal myself - there was something really beautiful about a hazy summer evening by the canal, complete with traffic noise and passers by. It also strikes a chord in me about being commemorated or buried in a place that you love. Kavanagh got his wish, there is now a statue of him sitting beside the canal, very close to where I used to live, I always thought of this poem every time I saw him there !<br /><br />********************************************<br /><br /><br /><em>'Erected to the memory of Mrs. Dermot O'Brien'</em><br /><br /><em>O commemorate me where there is water,<br />Canal water, preferably, so stilly<br />Greeny at the heart of summer. Brother<br />Commemorate me thus beautifully<br />Where by a lock niagarously roars<br />The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence<br />Of mid-July. No one will speak in prose<br />Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands.<br />A swan goes by head low with many apologies,<br />Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges -<br />And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy<br />And other far-flung towns mythologies.<br />O commemorate me with no hero-courageous<br />Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.<br /></em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-15024303309572123942009-04-10T12:45:00.000-07:002009-04-15T03:44:12.526-07:00Prayer....by Carol Ann DuffyThis poem I discovered in an anthology in recent years. I find it a sad poem, yet I like it for all that.<br /><br />********************************************<br /><br /><em>Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer<br />utters itself. So, a woman will lift<br />her head from the sieve of her hands and stare<br />at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.<br /><br />Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth<br />enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;<br />then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth<br />in the distant Latin chanting of a train.<br /><br />Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales<br />console the lodger looking out across<br />a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls<br />a child's name as though they named their loss.<br /><br />Darkness outside.<br />Inside, the radio's prayer -Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-79865651048746984012009-04-09T13:40:00.000-07:002009-04-09T14:07:56.108-07:00The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock....by T.S. EliotI loved this poem from the first time I ever read it. I'm still not sure I 'get' it all, not fully anyway, but there are passages that I do get, and that spoke to me from day 1, and still speak to me. The imagery is pretty powerful in this poem in parts. Also there is something about the line "There will be time, there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet" that gets me every time.....also "Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse." It seems to have always fitted how I felt every time I read it ! It's so long though that I have only put some selected stanzas here. (Thanks goodness for copy and paste !)<br /><br />**************************************<br /><em>Let us go then, you and I,<br />When the evening is spread out against the sky<br />Like a patient etherised upon a table;<br />Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,<br />The muttering retreats<br />Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels<br />And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:<br />Streets that follow like a tedious argument<br />Of insidious intent<br />To lead you to an overwhelming question …<br />Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”<br />Let us go and make our visit.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>In the room the women come and go<br />Talking of Michelangelo.</em><br /><br /><em>The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,<br />The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes<br />Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,<br />Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,<br />Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,<br />Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,<br />And seeing that it was a soft October night,<br />Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>And indeed there will be time<br />For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,<br />Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;<br />There will be time, there will be time</em><br /><em>To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;<br />There will be time to murder and create,<br />And time for all the works and days of hands<br />That lift and drop a question on your plate;<br />Time for you and time for me,<br />And time yet for a hundred indecisions,<br />And for a hundred visions and revisions,<br />Before the taking of a toast and tea.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>In the room the women come and go</em><br /><em>Talking of Michelangelo.</em><br /><br /><em>And indeed there will be time<br />To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”<br />Time to turn back and descend the stair,<br />With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—<br /></em><a name="40"><em></em></a><em>[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]<br />My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,<br />My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—<br />[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]<br />Do I dare<br />Disturb the universe?<br />In a minute there is time<br />For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.</em><br /><br /><em>For I have known them all already, known them all:—<br />Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,<br />I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;<br />I know the voices dying with a dying fall<br />Beneath the music from a farther room.<br />So how should I presume?</em><br /><em>. . . . . </em><br /><br /><em>And would it have been worth it, after all,<br />After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,<br />Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,<br />Would it have been worth while,<br />To have bitten off the matter with a smile,<br />To have squeezed the universe into a ball<br />To roll it toward some overwhelming question,<br />To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,<br />Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—<br />If one, settling a pillow by her head,<br />Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.<br />That is not it, at all.”<br /></em><a name="98"></a><br /><em><br />And would it have been worth it, after all,<br />Would it have been worth while,<br />After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,<br />After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—<br />And this, and so much more?—<br />It is impossible to say just what I mean!<br />But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:<br />Would it have been worth while<br />If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,<br />And turning toward the window, should say:<br />“That is not it at all,<br />That is not what I meant, at all.” .....</em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-60258467064767636152009-04-08T13:10:00.000-07:002009-04-08T13:16:35.264-07:00He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven...by W.B. YeatsA lovely love poem, and again, more conventional than a lot of the poetry I like nowadays! I actually like it more for the vision it evokes of the night skies of my childhood, rather than it's romantic sentiments....however, it is still a rather beautiful love poem, full of hope and longing.<br /><br />******************************<br /><br /><em>Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,</em><a name="1"><em> </em></a><br /><em>Enwrought with golden and silver light,</em><a name="2"><em> </em></a><br /><em>The blue and the dim and the dark cloths<br />Of night and light and the half light,</em><a name="4"><em> </em></a><br /><em>I would spread the cloths under your feet:<br />But I, being poor, have only my dreams;<br />I have spread my dreams under your feet;</em><a name="7"><em> </em></a><br /><em>Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-88928315059871406052009-04-07T08:37:00.000-07:002009-04-07T08:44:59.797-07:00Upon Westminster Bridge....by William WordsworthThis was a poem first encountered in school, when my definition of poetry was different to what it is now. Wordsworth, despite his style being more formal than I like nowadays, is always a favourite because his descriptions always seem to strike a chord - in this, I can almost smell the early morning in any city. Despite the exclamation marks which irritate me slightly for some reason, I have always loved this poem the most (along with Tintern Abbey) among Wordsworth's works (try saying that at speed.....)<br /><br />*****************************************<br /><br /><em>Earth has not anything to show more fair: </em><br /><em>Dull would he be of soul who could pass by </em><br /><em>A sight so touching in its majesty: </em><br /><em>This City now doth, like a garment, wear</em><br /><em>The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, </em><br /><em>Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie </em><br /><em>Open unto the fields, and to the sky; </em><br /><em>All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. </em><br /><em>Never did sun more beautifully steep </em><br /><em>In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; </em><br /><em>Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! </em><br /><em>The river glideth at his own sweet will: </em><br /><em>Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; </em><br /><em>And all that mighty heart is lying still!</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-53581692732876011882009-04-06T06:12:00.000-07:002009-04-06T08:25:32.077-07:00Not Waving But Drowning...by Stevie SmithI have always loved this poem, right from it's first entry onto my radar - it's the sadness of the last line that gets me always. I'm sure everyone has had that feeling once in a while - 'I was much too far out all my life and not waving but drowning'.<br /><br />*********************************************<br /><br />Nobody heard him, the dead man,<br />But still he lay moaning:<br />I was much further out than you thought<br />And not waving but drowning.<br /><br />Poor chap, he always loved larking<br />and now he’s dead<br />It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,<br />They said.<br /><br />Oh, no no no, it was too cold always<br />(Still the dead one lay moaning)<br />I was much too far out all my life<br />and not waving but drowning.Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-19000483053373053002009-04-03T09:55:00.000-07:002009-04-06T08:26:03.389-07:00The Lake Isle of Innisfree...by W.B. YeatsNo matter how far you go, it's hard at times to beat WBY. This I love because it reminds me of where I grew up, a place where 'peace comes dropping slow', that I can always close my eyes and see, no matter how grey the pavement.<br /><br />******************************<br /><em>I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,</em><a name="1"><em> </em></a><br /><em>And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;<br />Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,<br />And live alone in the bee-loud glade.<br /></em><a name="4"><em> </em></a><br /><em>And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br />Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br />There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br />And evening full of the linnet's wings.<br /></em><a name="8"><em> </em></a><br /><em>I will arise and go now, for always night and day<br />I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br />While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,</em><br /><em>I hear it in the deep heart's core.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-45161919261590764832009-04-02T09:26:00.000-07:002009-04-06T09:17:36.679-07:00Beannacht....by John O'DonohueA beautiful blessing, originally written for the poet's mother, but applicable to anyone that we love. <br />*************************<br /><br /><em>On the day when </em><br /><em>the weight deadens </em><br /><em>on your shoulders</em><br /><em>and you stumble,</em><br /><em>may the clay dance</em><br /><em>to balance you.<br /><br />And when your eyes</em><br /><em>freeze behind</em><br /><em>the grey window</em><br /><em>and the ghost of loss</em><br /><em>gets in to you,</em><br /><em>may a flock of colours,</em><br /><em>indigo, red, green,</em><br /><em>and azure blue</em><br /><em>come to awaken in you</em><br /><em>a meadow of delight.<br /><br />When the canvas frays</em><br /><em>in the currach of thought</em><br /><em>and a stain of ocean</em><br /><em>blackens beneath you,</em><br /><em>may there come across the waters</em><br /><em>a path of yellow moonlight</em><br /><em>to bring you safely home.<br /><br />May the nourishment of the earth be yours,</em><br /><em>may the clarity of light be yours,</em><br /><em>may the fluency of the ocean be yours,</em><br /><em>may the protection of the ancestors be yours.</em><br /><br /><em>And so may a slow</em><br /><em>wind work these words</em><br /><em>of love around you,</em><br /><em>an invisible cloak</em><br /><em>to mind your life.<br /> </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-60469704234805512242009-04-01T07:22:00.000-07:002009-04-06T09:15:44.098-07:00On Growing Old ..... by Harry SecombeI don't really know much about Harry Secombe, but I had heard his name along the way and thought he was a singer and comedian only. However I stumbled across this poem in one of my several beloved anthologies and loved it immediately. There is something poignant about his wanting to 'clutch the present to my bosom and never let it go'. As we are all hurtling towards being 'old', thinking about all the things that have been or have never been is a sobering thing at times. The last line is the one that I love most - a reminder to us all that a life well lived has nothing to fear.<br /><br />**************************************<br /><br /><em>I want the mornings to last longer<br />and the twilight to linger.<br /><br />I want to clutch the present to my bosom<br />and never let it go.<br /><br />I resent the tyranny of the lock in the hall<br />nagging me to get on with the day.<br /><br />I am a time traveller<br />but a traveller who would rather walk<br />than fly.<br /><br />And yet:<br />there is a lot to be said for growing old.<br /><br />The major battles in life are over<br />though minor skirmishes may still occur.<br /><br />There is an armistice of the heart,<br />a truce with passion.<br /><br />Compromise becomes preferable to conflict<br />and old animosities blur with time.<br /><br />There is still one last hurdle to cross<br />and the joy of your life measures your<br />reluctance to approach it.<br /><br />But if you have lived your life with love<br />there will be nothing to fear<br />because a warm welcome will await you<br />on the other side.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-57882758170677746892009-03-30T11:44:00.000-07:002009-04-07T13:27:33.796-07:00Felicity in Turin....by Paul DurcanI love this poem the most for the line '<em>But with whom can you sleep</em> ?' - there are usually few people in the world that you can sit alone with and feel so comfortable that you can quite happily yawn away and then snooze ! It's like reading - there are few people that you can sit in silence with and just read, without feeling some need to make conversation at some stage - I am lucky to have a few of those people in my life !<br />I don't see this then as a poem of romantic love and disappointment which I guess it is, but a poem to remind us of those people that we can happily yawn with !<br /><br />**************************************<br /><br /><em>We met in the Valentino in Turin<br />And travelled through Italy by train,<br />Sleeping together.<br />I do not mean having sex.<br />I mean sleeping together.<br />Of which sexuality is,<br />And is not, a part.<br /><br />It is this sleeping together<br />That is sacred to me.<br />This yawning together.<br />You can have sex with anyone<br />But with whom can you sleep ?<br /><br />I hate you<br />Because having slept with me<br />You left me.</em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6257308134351321706.post-21757637421338504392009-03-28T07:03:00.000-07:002009-04-06T09:17:28.444-07:00Clearances (Sonnet 3) ..... by Seamus HeaneyA really touching sonnet from his series of eight, written about his mother. This one in particular has always touched me the most, probably because it reminds me of times I have peeled potatoes with my mother.<br /><br />************************************************<br /><br /><em>When all the others were away at Mass<br />I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.<br />They broke the silence let fall one by one<br />Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:<br />Cold comforts set between us, things to share<br />Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.<br />And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes<br />From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.<br /><br />So while the parish priest at her bedside<br />Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying<br />And some were responding and some crying<br />I remembered her head bent towards my head,<br />Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives-<br />Never closer the whole rest of our lives. </em>Winter Treehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15680710089487714937noreply@blogger.com5