Hail Poetry!

September or October, eh??

http://www.burrenpage.com/

Well whaddya know! That page is familiar...I'm sure I've seen it.

I just created an 'Irish Trip' folder in my favorites and tucked the Burrenpage into it.

Piff,


Do you know this James Wright poem? I thought you would like it.


A Blessing


Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
(James Wright)

Poetry,more than any other form of lanquage, comes from the inner depths of the soul.

Hi Palehorse -- <big smile> Yes, poetry can be wonderful. We like it! We like it a lot. Which Labyrinth do you guide?

Jjorge, thank you! That's a fabulous poem and thrilling to read. I had a friend who talked about a similar experience stopping in the midwest and finding two friendly ponies. (In fact, I checked to see if it could possibly have been written by him, but no.) My good black mare is a wild creature. Like these ponies she adores people coming into her pasture and accepts being hugged as only her due. Like them, soon after she has visitors she'll be happily cropping grass nearby. A friendly sort of being at home.

What do you think the poet means when he says he'll begin to blossom if he steps out of his body? I like the image, but then I see him rooting himself as a tree. I don't think that's what he meant. He'll reach a culmination of his spirit? He'll join with the world around him? He'll become more than he was? I'm wondering if he uses this image in other poems and it is has a significance for him that I'm not quite seeing.

Piffka,

A good question. I don't really know. My best guess is it expresses his extreme joy at the contact, the connection with the two horses.

What I find enigmatic is a line ABOVE the one you cite, ie. when the poet says of the ponies:

"...there is no lonliness like theirs ..."

I was able to find only one volume of Dennis O'Driscoll's poetry (Exemplary Damages) on my recent trip to London. I'll post two or three poems from that volume over the next few days, starting with this one, which blew me away.


YEARS AFTER

And yet we managed fine.

We missed your baking for a time.
And yet were we not better off
without cream-hearted sponge cakes,
flaky, rhubarb-oozing pies?

Linoleum-tiled rooms could no longer
presume on your thorough-going scrub;
and yet we made up for our neglect,
laid hardwood timber floors.

Windows shimmered less often.
And yet we got around to
elbow-greasing them eventually.
Your daily sheet-and-blanket

rituals of bedmaking were more
than we could hope to emulate.
And yet the duvets we bought
brought us gradually to sleep.

Declan and Eithne (eleven
and nine respectively at the time)
had to survive without your packed
banana sandwiches, wooden spoon

deterrent, hugs, multivitamins.
And yet they both grew strong:
you have unmet grandchildren,
in-laws you never knew.

Yes, we managed fine, made
breakfasts and made love,
took on jobs and mortgages,
set ourselves up for life.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

Bree: That poem took my breath away. Thank you and please do post more.

lovely

thank you for that one bree.

Thanks, Bree. Please post some more and tell us, if you will, about your trip to London. (Curious readers want to know!)

"Years After" really tugs at the heartstrings... Mums don't want to be that well-forgotten! It also reminded me of the Millay poem, "Lament," which ends on a similar note...

Life must go on;
I forget just why.

Yes...we want more!

More poems...More on your trip!

Re: Hail Poetry!


I like atoms and molecules because they makeup the universe
and the universe is a nice place to be.
I wouldn't want to be without it for very long, anyways.

That's why I like poetry.

Poetry is everywhere, in everything, just like atoms and molecules,
and without such beauty and meaning wherever we look
I'm not sure I could actually be who I am without myself.

It would be hard to exist without a single experience, anyways.
And the moment something happens -- BAM! -- There's poetry.
What's not to love, if that's all there is?

I'm glad you all liked the O'Driscoll poem. I'll post more this evening, when I get home. I deliberately left the book at home when I went to the office today, so I wouldn't be tempted to spend the day posting poems from it.

I had a great time in London: I saw four plays (including a modern-dress production of Henry V which made some timely points), went to a choral concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, took in the Art Deco show at the V&A, went on a walking tour of churches designed by Christopher Wren, and, of course, spent a lot of time in various London bookstores. I'm already trying to figure out how soon I can go back.

bree,

Wow, sounds like you had a great time.

Your trip sounds great, Bree. BTW, I just saw in my A.M. mail that your Avatar will be the cover page of the 2004 TV Guide Norman Rockwell calendar.

Grandparents by Stephen Spender

Incredible to realize they've gone:
Matthew - Maro - their children - our grandchildren -
Saskia - Cosima - in the Renault
Festooned as for a wedding, with pink hands
Waving from windows blown farewells.
Matthew's parting smile above the wheel
Disappears down our lane - his face
Torn from a coloured postcard of our garden.
We go back to the house where Yesterday
Still scatters through the rooms the wreckage
Of cardboard boxes, toys, torn silver paper.
Our room that seemed to bulge with voices
And walls bounced off by Matthew's clarinet's
Billowing notes - relapsed to silence. We ourselves
Though ancient, not yet ghosts, feel two-dimensional
- Cardboard cut-outs of grandparents
With one soul, like some flower plucked at a picnic
A century ago - pressed between pages
Of an ancient tome - absorbing ink each side -
One chapter's ending and the next's beginning.

Bree -- Sounds like a fine time. Can you recommend the place where you stayed? How many books did you bring home???

CodeBorg -- What an interesting way of thinking about poetry... like atoms & molecules? Hmm. I've chatted with people who don't like poetry, who think it is too cryptic ("Why can't they just say what they mean?"), too flowery or, as Craven said, "Drivel.'

As to your comparison, I think of letters, words and phrases as the atoms & molecules. To me, each poem is as individual as a person or animal, though made up of lots of atoms. For each I respond in different ways at different times. There are some that are initially interesting, some that remain fascinating, some that I love and cannot be without. To paraphase a friend of mine, "There are basically two kinds of poems, ones that I like and ones that I haven't met yet." Of course, he was talking about people and added that there are some stinkers, but for him, not many.

Do you have any poems you love and cannot be without, or poems that have recently moved you? I'd love to see.

RaggedyAggie -- Wow. I had to read that several times to "get" it. Oh, I don't want to be a 2-D cardboard cut-out! I hate goodbyes. It used to be that whenever I'd leave certain places I'd have a catch in my throat. But I think, for these people, they stay behind with a catch in their throats. Wonderful images -- lingering notes from his clarinet, rooms bulging with voices, pressed between pages. I love the line, "his face, torn from a coloured postcard of our garden."

Thanks.

RaggedyAggie

Very nice though a little sad...poignant.
(there's that word again that often pops into mind about poems I like)

I just emailed it to a Friend I used to work with. (late sixties, retired)

He and his wife ADORE their children and grandchildren. The description in the poem reminded me instantly of them.

Raggedy -- I loved the poem. And thanks for the tip about the Norman Rockwell calendar.

Piffka -- I can very much recommend the place where I stayed in London. It's the Basil Street Hotel, in Knightsbridge (just down the street from Harrod's). It's a bit pricey, but in my opinion it's worth it because the service is so good. For example: when I arrived at 8:30 a.m., my room was ready for me to check into. When I expressed delighted surprise about not having to wander the streets for hours until the room was ready, the desk clerk told me they had "held the room over" for me from the previous day, because they knew I'd be arriving early. (The cynical side of me says that it's easy to do this when tourism is down and the hotel probably isn't fully booked, but I appreciated it anyway.) Amazingly, I came home with only five new books.