We walk to the ward from the badly parked car
With your grandma taking four short steps to our two.
We have brought her here to die, and we know it.
You check her towel, soap and family trinkets,
pare her nails, parcel her in the tough blankets
and she sinks down into her incontinence.
It is time, John.In their pasty bloodless smiles
in their slacked chests, their stunned brains and their baldness,
and in us John, we are almost these monsters.
You're shattered. You give me the keys and I drive
through the twighlight zone, past the famous station
to your house, to numb ourselves with alcohol.
Inside, we feel the terror of dusk begin.
Outside, we watch the evening falling again,
and we let it happen. We can say nothing.
Sometimes the sun spangles and we feel alive.
One thing we have to get, John, out of this life.
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two
Wow, Raggedy: I have one of those, too! How long have you been keeping a collection? I have met S.A. many times: one of the good things about him is that he can assume so many identities, so his poetry is always very varied...
That poem is harrowing indeed. It has happened to me. The worst thing, though, was when my great-grandmother said, over the phone, 'you'll soon be old enough to come over to Ireland and visit me.' Those were the last words she ever uttered to me, and she died soon. I was not even bought a ticket to see her before being put to rest, but that is life, I suppose.
She kept her songs, they kept so little space,
The covers pleased her:
One bleached from lying in a sunny place,
One marked in circles by a vase of water,
One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her,
And coloured, by her daughter -
So they had waited, till, in widowhood
She found them, looking for something else, and stood
Relearning how each frank submissive chord
Had ushered in
Word after sprawling hyphenated word,
And the unfailing sense of being young
Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein
That hidden freshness sung,
That certainty of time laid up in store
As when she played them first. But, even more,
The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love,
Broke out, to show
Its bright incipience sailing above,
Still promising to solve, and satisfy,
And set unchangeably in order. So
To pile them back, to cry,
Was hard, without lamely admitting how
It had not done so then, and could not now.
And now I'll add that Philip Larkin poem.
How wonderful that you met Simon Armitage.
With the exception of "Pocket" books of verses and several poems I jotted down in a notebook while in my teens (which I can't find), I didn't really begin a "collection" until I came to A2K. There have been several poetry threads here and I copied my favorites to my Microsoft Works. Oh, and I bought two Elizabeth Spires poetry books and Linda Pastan, Stephen Spender and Sarah Teasdale within the past two years.
It was while I was checking out an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem on the net, that I came across "Savage Beauty" .
It's a wonderful idea, Raggedy; I do not think that there is such a thing as a surfeit of poetry. I do something similar; I enter poems into my log whenever one takes my fancy, and I also do a thought from Shakespeare every day... it's just force of habit, I guess. I have been putting more and more into it since becoming active over here; it is amazing what one can come across.
What is your favourite, would you say, of those poetry books that you bought recently?
Oh, if you would take all but one away from me, I'd keep "Now the Green Blade Rises", poems of Elizabeth Spires. When Bree posted "My Mother's Doll" and "Now the Green Blade Rises", I felt as if Elizabeth Spires had written the poems just for me. There are many poets I enjoy, but Spires was a surprise package. There are so many poems posted on A2K that are new and exciting to me, but I have a soft spot for Spires - perhaps, too, because she renewed my interest in poetry.
This poem, Marina, by TS Eliot, is told from the perspective of Pericles in the Shakespeare play of the same name.
Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?
What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
O my daughter.
Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the humming-bird, meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death
Are become insubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place
What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger --
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.
Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.
wow you are really good
wow you are really good . with the poems and stuff in new to this one just thougth i would throw that in the mix whats the deal with the pm just a bunch of pepole runing around i don't get it what is that for lol sorry didn't know where to go to ask.
I remember it, even if you don't
I always will
I hold the memory in my heart still
Maybe I should forget but I can't
You left me with a love that grew
All along I guess I knew
I was just another one to you.
Now mixed up thoughts fill my head
It's too late to straighten them out
Cause I never thought someone like you
would ever come about.
What do you expect me to do
At night your kiss still haunts me through
I was just another one to you.
I would give anything to hear your voice
Calling the name that's mine
But you'll move on and so will I at some point in time.
You used me now I know it's true
Your out of my life I'll start anew
I was just another one to you.
Standing in the pouring rain
Old feelings coming out
Knowing nothing would be the same
And yet I know what its about,
Couldn't stop the pain from coming
As my tears began to fall
Running out of places to hide
Standing hurt and lost above all,
Hearing voices mumble and stutter
The saddened lonely cries
Trying to get away from them as they mutter
But I'm held bound by unseen ties,
Shaking with greater fear
At what I have to see
As the rain fell down making things unclear
Just wanting my captors to let me be,
I just want to get away
Leave the dangerous feelings behind
To forget the voices and what they had to say
Before I lost my mind,
When I opened my clenched shut eyes
To find I wasn't where I thought I was
I kept on blinking a thousand tries
I'll never understand what my mind does,
To find myself in an empty room
With nothing but my presence within it
To find my self in no danger or doom
It must have been some lost spirit
by Rachel Duran
So many can read a line and smile
One they didnt visit for awhile-
Of hours- perhaps, passed with a friend
A long, long day you had wished would not end.
So many can drive to an appointed place
Just to plant a kiss on a loved ones face
No matter the cost of the fuel or the car
No matter the distance, however far
The wonder exists in the absence of locks
No fences to stop you, no guards and no clocks.
Lively conversation, proud of their goals and gains
Keeps you smiling broadly- as memory explains
And I, yet, I go nowhere. Remember few good things.
The scent of childhood hardship With its pain and hunger,
clings.
Im longing for humility, for meek accepting grace
Trying hard to get through days without a tearful face
I pray a prayer most every day, The Lord will let me go
To breathe my last and let all them put on a final show.
I hope it is not wrong to long, to go away from here
In death, perhaps my life would be remembered as more dear.
Inside the moments of my days, since July 7, dark
Betrayal and deception jumped on my memory bark
No peace, no gladness, nor is there any time alone
Id rather die than be possessed by evils own clone.
Dont spend your tears, or sit, or weep, because I sleep
The time is better used to lift a fellow from the deep
Turn not away, but try everyday- to see what you can change.
Be not nonchalant, while suffering lingers, add your range.
It has become a truly sad day when, in fact there is no way
A man can build himself a wall, where no one sees over it, so tall.
He'd linger in his space awhile, contemplations, with a smile
To be alone-- that quiet time. If you're connected, you know-- Prime!
Not finding any of that here; nor a prospect even near
I think I'll look another path and pray I do not incur wrath.
There's a saying when a gal plays craps
"Oh 7 come 11, and I will win may-haps"!
And when I do, my gambling is through
I sadly feel SURE it's fine with all of you.
OK... 7 come 11
. Those are amazing poems that you mentioned...
