Archive for the Poetry Category

Spring – Edna St Vincent Millay

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on April 15, 2015 by telescoper

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

by Edna St Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

Praise, by R.S. Thomas

Posted in Poetry, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , on March 29, 2015 by telescoper

Today is Palm Sunday, the start of what Christians call “Holy Week”, which culiminates in Easter. It’s also the birthday of the great Welsh poet R.S. Thomas, who was born on this day in 1913. Thomas spent much of his life as an Anglican priest. I’m not a Christian but I am drawn to the religious verse of R.S. Thomas not only for its directness and lack of artifice but also the honesty with which he addresses the problems his faith sets him. There are many atheists who think religion is some kind of soft option for those who can’t cope with life in an unfriendly universe, but reading R.S. Thomas, whose faith was neither cosy nor comfortable, led me to realise that is very far from the case. I recommend him as an antidote to the simple-minded antagonism of people like Richard Dawkins. There are questions that science alone will never answer, so we should respect people who search for a truth we ourselves cannot understand.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

I will be offline for the Easter holiday so I thought I’d post a poem that I find appropriate to the time of yea. You can read it as Praise for God, or for Nature, or for both. I don’t think it matters.

I praise you because
you are artist and scientist
in one. When I am somewhat
fearful of your power,
your ability to work miracles
with a set-square, I hear
you murmuring to yourself
in a notation Beethoven
dreamed of but never achieved.
You run off your scales of
rain water and sea water, play
the chords of the morning
and evening light, sculpture
with shadow, join together leaf
by leaf, when spring
comes, the stanzas of
an immense poem. You speak
all languages and none,
answering our most complex
prayers with the simplicity
of a flower, confronting
us, when we would domesticate you
to our uses, with the rioting
viruses under our lens.

Misty

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on March 23, 2015 by telescoper

How I love

The darkwave music
Of a sun’s eclipse
You can’t see for cloud

The saxophonist playing ‘Misty’
In the High Street outside Barclays

Accompanied by mating-calls
Sparked off
In a Jaguar alarm

The way you’re always there
Where I’m thinking

Or several beats ahead.

by Ruth Padel

A Solar Eclipse

Posted in Poetry, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , on March 17, 2015 by telescoper

In that great journey of the stars through space
    About the mighty, all-directing Sun,
    The pallid, faithful Moon, has been the one
Companion of the Earth. Her tender face,
Pale with the swift, keen purpose of that race,
    Which at Time’s natal hour was first begun,
    Shines ever on her lover as they run
And lights his orbit with her silvery smile.

Sometimes such passionate love doth in her rise,
    Down from her beaten path she softly slips,
And with her mantle veils the Sun’s bold eyes,
    Then in the gloaming finds her lover’s lips.
While far and near the men our world call wise
    See only that the Sun is in eclipse.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)

To His Coy Mistress

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on March 10, 2015 by telescoper

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
A hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

by Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

A Poem for St David’s Day

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

It’s St David’s Day today, so

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus!

As as become traditional on this blog I am going to mark the occasion by posting a poem the great Welsh poet, R.S. Thomas. This is called Welsh Testament.

All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter?
I spoke a tongue that was passed on
To me in the place I happened to be,
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the year.
My word for heaven was not yours.
The word for hell had a sharp edge
Put on it by the hand of the wind
Honing, honing with a shrill sound
Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr
Knew was armour against the rain’s
Missiles. What was descent from him?

Even God had a Welsh name:
He spoke to him in the old language;
He was to have a peculiar care
For the Welsh people. History showed us
He was too big to be nailed to the wall
Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him
Between the boards of a black book.

Yet men sought us despite this.
My high cheek-bones, my length of skull
Drew them as to a rare portrait
By a dead master. I saw them stare
From their long cars, as I passed knee-deep
In ewes and wethers. I saw them stand
By the thorn hedges, watching me string
The far flocks on a shrill whistle.
And always there was their eyes; strong
Pressure on me: You are Welsh, they said;
Speak to us so; keep your fields free
Of the smell of petrol, the loud roar
Of hot tractors; we must have peace
And quietness.

Is a museum
Peace? I asked. Am I the keeper
Of the heart’s relics, blowing the dust
In my own eyes? I am a man;
I never wanted the drab role
Life assigned me, an actor playing
To the past’s audience upon a stage
Of earth and stone; the absurd label
Of birth, of race hanging askew
About my shoulders. I was in prison
Until you came; your voice was a key
Turning in the enormous lock
Of hopelessness. Did the door open
To let me out or yourselves in?

The Fitful Alternations of the Rain

Posted in Poetry with tags , on February 20, 2015 by telescoper

The fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

 

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