Archive for the Poetry Category

The Small Window

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on July 28, 2015 by telescoper

In Wales there are jewels
To gather, but with the eye
Only. A hill lights up
Suddenly; a field trembles
With colour and goes out
In its turn; in one day
You can witness the extent
Of the spectrum and grow rich
With looking. Have a care;
The wealth is for the few
And chosen. Those who crowd
A small window dirty it
With their breathing, though sublime
And inexhaustible the view.

by R.S. Thomas (1913-2000)

Verity

Posted in Cricket, Poetry with tags , , , on July 23, 2015 by telescoper

Something rather different from my usual poetry postings. This poem was written in memory of celebrated cricketer Hedley Verity, who was wounded in action in Caserta, Sicily and taken prisoner; he later died of his wounds in a Prisoner-of-War camp at the age of 38. It was a tragic end to a life that had given so much to the world of cricket.

The following is a brief account of his playing career taken from the website where I found the poem. You can find a longer biography here.

Verity was born in 1905 within sight of Headingley Cricket Ground. It seems strange to think that Verity was originally turned down by Yorkshire at trials in 1926, but he was eventually given a chance by the county in 1930 and, of course, became a fixture until the start of the war. He was the natural successor to that other great Yorkshire left-arm spinner, Wilfred Rhodes, whose career drew to a close in 1930 after an amazing 883 games for the county. Verity was never going to get close – Hitler saw to that – but he did turn out for Yorkshire 278 times and in that time he produced some remarkable bowling analyses.

In 1931 he took ten for 36 off 18.4 overs against Warwickshire at Leeds, but incredibly he bettered these figures the following season by taking ten for ten in 19.4 overs against Nottinghamshire, also at Headingley. They remain the county’s best bowling figures for an innings while Verity’s 17 for 91 against Essex at Leyton in 1933 remain Yorkshire’s best bowling in a match. Verity claimed nine wickets in an innings seven times for Yorkshire. He took 100 wickets in a season nine times and took 200 wickets in three consecutive seasons between 1935-37. He ended with 1,956 first-class wickets at an average of 14.9, took five wickets in an innings 164 times and ten wickets in a match 54 times. On 1 September, 1939, in the last first-class match before war was declared, he took seven for nine at Hove against Sussex.

The year after he first appeared for Yorkshire, Verity made his England debut against New Zealand at The Oval, finishing the game with four wickets. After that summer he was ignored until 1932/33, the Bodyline Series, in which he took 11 wickets, including Bradman twice. By the time his career was over, Verity had dismissed Bradman ten times, a figure matched only by Grimmett. As with his domestic career, Verity’s international performances threw up some astonishing bowling figures. He took eight for 43 and finished with match figures of 15 for 104 against Australia at Lord’s in 1934. His stamina was demonstrated during the 1938-39 tour of South Africa when he bowled 95.6 eight-ball overs in an innings at Durban, taking four for 184. By the time war arrived, Verity had taken 144 wickets at an average of 24.37.

During the war he was a captain in the Green Howards. He sustained his wounds in the battle of Catania in Sicily and died on 31 July, 1943. His grave is at Caserta Military Cemetery, some 16 miles from Naples.

Ironically, the poet, Drummond Allison, was also killed in action during World War 2.

The ruth and truth you taught have come full-circle
On that fell island all whose history lies,
Far now from Bramhall Lane and far from Scarborough
You recollect how foolish are the wise.

On this great ground more marvellous than Lord’s
– Time takes more spin than nineteen thirty four –
You face at last that vast that Bradman-shaming
Batsman whose cuts obey no natural law.

Run up again, as gravely smile as ever,
Veer without fear your left unlucky arm
In His so dark direction, but no length
However lovely can disturb the harm
That is His style, defer the winning drive
Or shake the crowd from their uproarious calm.

by Drummond Allison (1921-1943).

Awaiting The Barbarians

Posted in Finance, Poetry, Politics with tags , , , , , on July 13, 2015 by telescoper

— Why are we come together in the market place?
 
            Barbarians are expected here to-day.
 
— Why in the Senate-house this inactivity —
why sit the Senators and do not legislate?
 
            Because barbarians are to come to-day
            What laws should they make now — the Senators?
            Presently the barbarians will make laws.
 
— Why has our Emperor risen close upon the sun —
why is he waiting there, by the main city-gates,
seated upon the throne, — august, wearing the crown?
 
            Because barbarians are to come to-day
            And so the Emperor in person waits
            to greet their leader. He has even prepared
            a title-deed, on skin of Pergamus,
            in favour of this leader. It confers
            high rank on the barbarian, many names.
 
— Why do our consuls and the praetors go about
in scarlet togas fretted with embroidery;
why are they wearing bracelets rife with amethysts,
and rings magnificent with glowing emeralds;
why are they holding those invaluable staffs
inlaid so cunningly with silver and with gold?
 
            Because barbarians are to come to-day;
            and the barbarians marvel at such things.
 
— Why come not, as they use, our able orators
to hold forth in their rhetoric, to have their say?
 
            Because barbarians are to come to-day;
            and the barbarians have no taste for words.
 
— Why this confusion all at once, and nervousness:
(how serious of a sudden the faces have become):
why are the streets and meeting-places emptying,
and all the people lost in thought as they turn home?
 
            Because the daylight fails, and the night comes,
            but the barbarians come not. And there be
            who from the frontier have arrived and said
            there are no barbarians any longer.

And now what shall become of us without barbarians?
These people were in sooth some sort of settlement.

by C.P. Cavafy (1863-1933); posted on the occasion of the all-night negotiations between the EU and Greece over a bailout deal.

I know I am but summer to your heart

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on July 1, 2015 by telescoper

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

The Sunlight on the Garden

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on June 21, 2015 by telescoper

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

by Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

Lines Composed on the Occasion of the Death of Sir Christopher Lee

Posted in Film, Poetry with tags on June 11, 2015 by telescoper

So. Farewell
Then Christopher Lee.
You starred in many
Hammer Horror films.

Dracula, for example.
Keith’s mum says
You were sexy
In that.

But sadly now you
Are no longer
Undead.

I think there
Was also
A film in
Which you played
Alan Whicker,

But I may be wrong
On that
One.

Oh, and you were in
Lord of the Rings,
too. As
Ian McKellen.

     by P. Coles (aged 52)

Sailing to Byzantium

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on June 7, 2015 by telescoper

 I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect. 

II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium. 

III
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity. 

IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

by William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

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