POET'S LAIR - Page 3




 
--
POET'S LAIR
 
June 29th, 2007  
bulldogg
 
 
POET'S LAIR
Careful there stud... that's like reading from the Book of the Dead. All of Mao's poems have a political sub-text... but since we are talking poetry and China here is one about modern day China.

The Taxi Driver

Day light carves
Through hessian blinds,
Crisp in evolution.
The baying of horns,
The telling of tales
- drivers of rusted cattle.
Grills of dented iron teeth
- eyes caged in glass.
Wheels in constant revolution,
bear down on blackened grass.
Gaping mouths,
Open wounds,
His mission - seek abundance,
Yet turning
Spits displeasure out,
Through dust,
And sweat,
And gout.

Paul William Tait
http://www.poetry.com/Publications/d...23&BN=999&PN=1
June 29th, 2007  
Rob Henderson
 
 
Yes, I know. But at the literal level, it's a pretty cool short poem.



Time and Again


TIme and again, however well we know the landscape of love,
and the little church-yard with lamenting names,
and the frightfully silent ravine wherein all the others
end: time and again we go out two together,
under the old trees, lie down again and again
between the flowers, face to face with the sky.
Rainer Maria Rilke
1875-1926
June 29th, 2007  
Del Boy
 
Young Bojangles.


Susannah never cried for me
I ‘m not from Alabama
With a banjo, famously.
In fact I came from Liverpool
With a banjo on my knee.

All around the world I went
To Georgia and LA
Sang and danced
To heart’s content
And got drunk on the way.
I sang Hank Williams records
Bob Dylan records too
And I danced with
As many girls as I could
That’s what I did;
Wouldn’t you?

What a shame
I never learned
To play that banjo.

Not a note.
--
POET'S LAIR
June 30th, 2007  
Padre
 
 
Great verses above from everyone - I havn't read a bad one yet - although I am a bit of a Guy Fawkes sympathizer, but not of Mao.

I see there's a spiritual thread running in some places so here's an addition from a Church of England Minister, R. S. Thomas:

The Country Clergy

I see them working in old rectories
By the sun's light, by candlelight,
Venerable men, their black cloth
A little dusty, a little green
With holy mildew. And yet their skulls,
Ripening over so many prayers,
Toppled into the same grave
With oafs and yokels. They left no books,
Memorial to their lonely thought
In grey parishes; rather they wrote
On men's hearts and in the minds
Of young children sublime words
Too soon forgotten. God in his time
Or out of time will correct this.

and one of his more brooding samples....

The Dark Well

They see you as they see you,
A poor farmer with no name,
Ploughing cloudward, sowing the wind
With squalls of gulls at the day's end.
To me you are Prytherch, the man
Who more than all directed my slow
Charity where there was need.
There are two hungers, hunger for bread
And hunger of the uncouth soul
For the light's grace. I have seen both,
And chosen for an indulgent world's
Ear the story of one whose hands
Have bruised themselves on the locked doors
Of life; whose heart, fuller than mine
Of gulped tears, is the dark well
From which to draw, drop after drop,
The terrible poetry of his kind.
June 30th, 2007  
bulldogg
 
 
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-- Robert Frost

Keeping with the spiritual theme Padre.
June 30th, 2007  
Del Boy
 
Great stuff. I,m into contemporary poetry, here's one for Padre and his team:-


IS THERE ANYBODY HERE ?



is there anybody here


asked the stranger


knocking on heaven’s door


silence was the stern reply


until


his mobile phone


collected a text message



no room 4 h8 here


go 2


www.thebeatitudes.com.





July 3rd, 2007  
Del Boy
 
Bulldogg - Re Robert Frost -


Dymock poets

The Dymock poets were a literary group of the early 20th century, who made their home near the Gloucestershire village of Dymock in England. They were Robert Frost, Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, Edward Thomas, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, and John Drinkwater, some of whom lived near the village in the period between 1911 and 1914. They published their own quarterly, entitled 'New Numbers', containing poems such as Brooke's masterpiece, The Soldier. The First World War resulted in the break-up of the community.

Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, John Drinkwater and Wilfrid Wilson Gibson were contributors to Georgian Poetry. The poetry has fallen out of favour, but at the time was revolutionary, a rebellion against current poetic conventions. It used simple language, and took as its subjects ordinary events and people. Eddie Marsh, the artistic and literary patron, edited the five volumes of Georgian Poetry, and Harold Monro was their publisher.
John Drinkwater had close connections with the Birmingham Repertory Theatre in Station Street, which opened in 1913. He was its first manager, and wrote several plays for the company, mainly historical pieces and light comedies. The Old Rep. is now the home of the British Stage Company.
This poetry-related article is a stub. You can help Wikipedia by expanding it.





Are you familiar with this poetry circle pre WW1 in gloucestershire, my area really. Important group incl Brooke and Frost.
Wilfred Gibson was unpublished then, and late wrote in 'The Golden Room' - ...... in the lamplight
We talked and laughed, but for the most part listened,
While Robert frost kept on and on and on,
in his slow New England fashion, for our delight'....
July 3rd, 2007  
Del Boy
 
Bulldogg - Re Robert Frost -


Dymock poets

The Dymock poets were a literary group of the early 20th century, who made their home near the Gloucestershire village of Dymock in England. They were Robert Frost, Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, Edward Thomas, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, and John Drinkwater, some of whom lived near the village in the period between 1911 and 1914. They published their own quarterly, entitled 'New Numbers', containing poems such as Brooke's masterpiece, The Soldier. The First World War resulted in the break-up of the community.

Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, John Drinkwater and Wilfrid Wilson Gibson were contributors to Georgian Poetry. The poetry has fallen out of favour, but at the time was revolutionary, a rebellion against current poetic conventions. It used simple language, and took as its subjects ordinary events and people. Eddie Marsh, the artistic and literary patron, edited the five volumes of Georgian Poetry, and Harold Monro was their publisher.
John Drinkwater had close connections with the Birmingham Repertory Theatre in Station Street, which opened in 1913. He was its first manager, and wrote several plays for the company, mainly historical pieces and light comedies. The Old Rep. is now the home of the British Stage Company.






Are you familiar with this poetry circle pre WW1 in gloucestershire, my area really? Important group incl Brooke and Frost.
Wilfred Gibson was unpublished then, and later wrote in

'The Golden Room' -

...... in the lamplight
We talked and laughed, but for the most part listened,
While Robert frost kept on and on and on,
in his slow New England fashion, for our delight'....
July 3rd, 2007  
KJ
 
 
I don't know if God lives in a temple or church
in a synagogue, cathedral or mosque.
In my heart I feel - God's existence is real
by His love for the child that is lost

Mortars rain down on village and town;
assault troops then even the score.
Not many survive - one or two are alive
those wee orphans - the children of war

Again and again brave men
gather up those who remain;
taking them to the rear away from the fear
from the death, the suffering, the pain

From a bombed out shack, it's door burned black,
came a wailing, a loud crying sound
by a wall made of sod was a wee child of God
a miracle baby was found.

In the midst of the smoke, tough peacekeepers joke
whilst holding back tears, rage and fear.
And in the canteen, those things they have seen
are flashed back o'er pitchers of beer.

I can't say if God lives in a temple or church
in a synagogue, cathedral or mosque, but
He lives in the foxhole, the bunker, the trench
Good Shepherd to the child that is lost.

©Copyright 2002 by Billy Willbond
July 4th, 2007  
Del Boy
 
really like that Willbond poem. great.
 


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