Category: poetry

Images odious or pure

This odious slander pains my heart
Commodious, strangled ,sore  we part.
Invented words and meanings seen
Where my heart has never been.

When evil is conceived to spite
In the darkness with no light
I’d like to tell you,save your breath
The vision ‘s created by your wrath.

Children fear those faces seen
In flowered  wallpaper and in dreams
Some see monsters,some see elves
All conceived by their own  self.

If imagined demons writhe
In the corners of the mind
Hard indeed to be secure,
To wrest from fantasy its power.

And to feel that others lie
When  your image they defy.
Yet to  a mountain, lions are nought
A gazelle in fear is caught.

Images  odious  or  pure
Must be  shared by  human viewers
Like awakening from a dream
We realise   we need not scream.

Though sometimes Pollyana’s ways
Must to anxious fear give way.
Life is good and life is bad
Double vision is not sad

 

 

Together we can play the music

You play on the clarinet;

I play my old cello.

Your music is poignant;

My music is mellow.

I can’t play from your music;

You can’t play from mine.

I have longer fingers.

You have bigger hands.

You play some from memories

which I don’t understand.

I play from my own history,

You compose your own.

You have tortured feelings,

which I have rarely known.

Would you play my music?

Then it must be transposed;

but we can’t transpose our feelings,

Unless we are s first hown

By some blessed vision

From the dark unknown.

I love the music that you play.

I know well you love mine.

But can we play together

In some meaningful design?

Transposing keys and feelings

Is an arduous lifetime task;

Much easier to play pretend

and never,never ask.

I cannot share your lifetime hurts

and you cannot share mine.

Is it easier to share happiness

and supremely holy wine?

Oh,play your poignant music for me

with your meditative art.

I shall listen with my ears.

I shall listen with my heart.

Then I shall respond to you;

My instrument is here.

I am playing quite new music,

I feel you drawing near.

Together we are moved to play

A completely new design.

I seem to know your feelings

And I can hear that you feel mine.

Together we now make a work

For torment’s sweet relief;

Though this music is so tragic,

Its design has brought me peace.

Play on,play on,for now I know

I begin to understand,

without more words or gestures,

but those from your curved hands.

Fish nudge me with big grins and teeth white

I’m in deep now,never been this deep before
The world’s hollow like a shell and I’m out its door.
In so deep, the ocean has its own startled floor.
I’m down,down.down.never been so dark , so more

I can’t rightly tell how I got where I am
I think I had an accident,fell over, then I swam.
Sometimes it’s a loss, be times it’s a man.
I guess I only do it cos I know some folk can.

I don’t know if the joy is worth the pain
Would I choose to relive if, I was born again?
The deep joy is the amazing gain.
But the sorrow is  damn sad, let’s admit it plain.

I’m in deep and it’s over my head
What was I thinking of,when I fell  out of that bed?
I look up and  the sea’s so  turquoise like  that mist   is red
When we get good and mad and wish some loon was dead.

At first, it was all just black,black pain
But from the bottom of the  well, I looked up with awed love again.
That’s when I recalled,feelings are deep and sane
Joy is much greater when we’re in the deep,deep zone.

I dunno if I’m  ever comin’ out.
We can’t control it,ain’t that what life’s all about?
I’ll never love with innocence again,nor not feel doubt.
But I’m no teapot and the devil ain’t got my spout.

I’m swimming and the ocean’s so   mysteriously bright
Down here we don’t have no day nor no night
Fish nudge me with  big grins  and teeth white
Sea flowers fondle me and whisper,turn off that light

Why write poetry?

https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/one-true-thing/201401/jane-hirshfield-why-write-poetry

Jane Hirshfield: Why Write Poetry? Jane Hirshfield is the author of seven books of poetry, including most recently Come, Thief, and the classic collection of essays, Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry. Who better to ask: Why write poetry? Here are her in-depth, thought provoking answers to this two-part question:

Jennifer Haupt: Why do you write poems, and why would anyone want to write a poem?

Source:

Jane Hirshfield:

One reason to write a poem is to flush from the deep thickets of the self some thought, feeling, comprehension, question, music, you didn’t know was in you, or in the world. Other forms of writing—scientific papers, political analysis, most journalism—attempt to capture and comprehend something known. Poetry is a release of something previously unknown into the visible. You write to invite that, to make of yourself a gathering of the unexpected and, with luck, of the unexpectable.Poetry magnetizes both depth and the possible. It offers widening of aperture and increase of reach. We live so often in a damped-down condition, obscured from ourselves and others. The sequesters are social—convention, politeness—and personal: timidity, self-fear or self-blindness, fatigue. To step into a poem is to agree to risk. Writing takes down all protections, to see what steps forward. Poetry is a trick of language-legerdemain, in which the writer is both magician and audience. You reach your hand into the hat and surprise yourself with rabbit or memory, with odd verb or slant rhyme or the flashing scarf of an image. This is true for discovering some newness of the emotions, and also true of ideas. Poems foment revolutions of being. Whatever the old order was, a poem will change it.

When young people ask writing advice, I sometimes say, “Open the window a few inches more than is comfortable.” As with all offered advice, the words are tuned first to my own ear and own life.

Read more by clicking the top link

Except for changing angles of sunlight

It’s autumn. yet it feels like summer bright
Despite the earlier ending of the day
Too soon comes starlight and deep   night
It’s autumn yet   it feels like summer bright
Except   for changing angles of sunlight
No more long  evening hours for children’s  play
It’s autumn yet it feels like summer bright
Despite the earlier,   gentler end of  day

Your absence has so distanced us in grief.

Image

I try to feel through dark and distant space
To where you dwell in a so called “heavenly” place.
And you are far from those of us, who care.
Our hearts are dulled with loving thoughts not shared
Your absence has so distanced us in grief.
We can neither share our loss, nor gain relief.
I stare into the spangled sky at night
I see a space  devoid of  any light.
I feel into the edges of my soul
I sense,somewhere, a partially dismembered whole.
Would new technology ever aid my view,
As I search around for some tiny trace of you?
How can  you choose to svanish in the night,
And never ,from then on, be in my sight?
I wish that I’d been there when you went off,
Then I could have  told you how I love.d
Shall I never hear again your gentle tenor voice
Enchanting me once more with your  sweet choice?
Shall I never  find the laces from your shoes,
Floating gently back to earth through these  elm trees?
I see more flocks of gracious geese flash by.
Are those your fingers tracing lines right through the sky?
Can you  see these same  geese from up above?
But you’re on the other side, too far  away
I look at all that’s near,as I’m still here.
I know now you’re too far away ,too far away, too far away ,my dear.
I know now that you’re too far away,oh dear.
How can I learn to live with love, not with fear,
As I go on ,now, down these coming  empty years?
So sad that you’re not near,not here,not here,my dear,my dear.
Shall I sometimes, in the night pretend,pretend,pretend,pretend,pretend,pretend  you  are
Oh,that heaven were not  so agonisingly .so wickedly too  far
So we  slide down the escape chute of the years,
Like children clutching close our teddy bears?
And we cross the ghost filled plains of  ancient wars
Which cover most of Europe with their scars.
How can I compare  my losing one I love
When screaming poppies  haunt  below , above?
When bones  of Jews tortured  to their  ground
Make the guilt of  Europe ever,ever  bind
When gypsies ,gays and  women big with child
Died unimagined deaths in a Europe  so defiled

Wild Geese

 

Leaves  fly off so suddenly
Small birds float on the wind
Like boats astride a choppy sea.
Their swaying soothes my mind.

Wild geese fly past at dusk again,
They head towards the North.
The holly berries glow in sun,
Nature  gives all birth.

I gaze intently at the sky,
The clouds hang dark and low.
If I  were  too a mere wild goose
I’d know which way to go

But I am left with only words
To find my destination.
Yet words do carry down to us
The wisdom  of   lost generations

We use old words in unique ways.
We structure them to form
A new design not seen before
A new sentence is born

I send my words with love to you
I hope you safely catch them.
Give me answers from your heart
And I’ll do my best to match them

Beautiful colours embraced in the sky

  All that morning in  the bright  sun
 The leaves unfolded   one by  one
The birds sang sweet songs in the holly tree
I felt they were doing it just for me. 

                         

In the evening as clouds rolled by
Beautiful colours  embraced in the sky
I stopped my tasks and chores to see
A whole new world created just for me

 As night came down with her navy blue sky
Outside my window ,I looked up high
I saw the shape of the pale glowing moon
And blackbirds were singing their heart-rending tunes                        

                               

   As I looked up past the holly tree
  I knew the  whole world was created for me
And if you  take a long look up too
Remember the  whole world was created for you

Immense and silent is my empty heart

Inside me  is a gap where love once dwelt
Immense and silent ,swallowing all my hopes
A sorrow unacquainted aaks for help
To direct me how  to live, not merely cope.

I feel that  gripping  hand upon my heart
A sorrow in the belly’s pit beside
As he died my anguish made its start
Its   heavy desperation  pierced my side

While he lived I dwelled inside his shade
Protected  and   much loved I did not know
That every tree must fall  into  its glade
Destroying those who live there with its blows

Unprotected from the intense sun
I’ll burn  to ash  and  join my loved one

Words rise up like geese at dawn

Source
 

Words rise up like geese at dawn

When with pale sun new day is born

The words approach and dance in line

The choice of words is mine

Words spelled here by sense and sound

In clause and sentence weave around.

Which tempting words shall I now use

And which shall I refuse?

The fire lights up inside my heart

So now my writing hand can start

I sit down at my desk and say

“This is the way I spend my day.

With words I sing and play!”

So you are gone

So you are gone  who once declared your love
For that phantasm conjured in your mind
For onto me you brought down from above
A torment bitter and   sharp words unkind
.Used to  friendship from within your books
You did not understand that I was real
Irritation grew  the more you looked
You threw your poisoned  arrows  at my heel.
What once you loved then you began to hate
If not ideal ,intolerable I must be
And then you cursed me with this  sorry fate
Our child was born and him you’ll never see.
Premature and born in desert grey.
I carried him alone from death’s dark way.

The Fall spread across the world

When you struck me,I vibrated like a kettle drum
then as smaller percussions and repercussions
echoing from all the glassy surfaces
creating a balletic geometry of sound tracks
in space and time.

When you knocked me down,
I fell against her and her and her;
we were like a row of skittles
and we all went down with the lifeboat;
the infinite chain of being is.

When you hit me,the Fall spread across the world
Now there is no Vertical
All is undivine and graceless.
By the Rod it’s ruled

When you left me,I left myself,the world,the rocks,dry land
I weighed down sank to the ocean bed
with coral eyes
gazing.

When you struck my mind
I became an instrument of a foreign power
Singing a song I didn’t kmow.

When the glass was smashed
the splinters flew into all our hearts.
You didn’t know what we couldn’t see.

I lay on barren ground and gave birth
To my own Creator in the desert.

Focus is sharp when we hunt.

When a  child’s born ,she usually cries

As the stimulation of birth  has its price.

Yet we must leave mother’s womb

Then create  a cocoon

Where our psyche a world may devize.

 

Metaphors spring up like  spring flowers.

Similes enchant by the hour.

How rich our own minds  may be

When we perceive all we see.

For relaxed eyes  don’t  enjoy being  narrowed.

 

Focus is sharp when we hunt.

Yet maintained it can too often stunt.

We need a  broad view,

As the owls always knew.

If only we saw back and front!

Butterflies can light upon a rose

Butterflies and the clock

Butterflies can light upon a rose
And sparrows miss the prickly holly leaf
So thorns deter most larger, useless foes
Bring safety to small birds instead of grief

The butterfly is symbol of the power
That weakness has in entering Sacred ground.
A butterfly can fly through hail stormed bowers
Their wings send waves across the world by sound.

A cat too has its claws as well as fur
Yet cats do have a a modicum of choice.
For those of us for whom they have a care
Claws are held ; miaows or purrs are voiced.

Am I a holly tree or fragrant rose?
Am I the cat who may unsheath her claws?

Different points of view

IMG_0074 The old red wall is dressed in stems of wood

In wintertime, we see the ancient bricks.
But in the springtime come the flower buds.
And we see no more of Jack Frost and his tricks.

Which vision is the true one,we may ask
Just as with the faces we each show.
Is there any virtue in that task
For reality’s impossible to know.

Each perspective gives a vision new.
The more we see ,the more we realise.
Other cultures have a different view.
Argument is futile and unwise.

As when and where we stand gives us our view.
I  must perceive quite differently from you

And learn the feeling Arts

Shall we cling to grudges from the past.
Distorting vision;injuring our hearts?
Shall we   loosen that tight grip at last?
Shall we cling to grudges from the past,
When grace is waiting  for all us  poor outcasts?
Soon enough we sinners shall depart
Shall we cling to grudges from the past,
With derision ;injuring our hearts?

Shall we   choose to hold our wounded heart
Yet not retaliate  and hurt this friend or foe?
For  indulged anger grows and  war can  start
Shall we   choose to hold our wounded heart
Contain our rage and  learn the feeling Arts?
For all of us have   traversed Arctic  snow
Shall we   choose to hold our wounded heart
Yet not retaliate  and hurt this once   loved foe?

Trying to glimpse another through their veil.

I embraced  the ambiguity like a bride
Who fears  disclosing that her face is fake
And while we’re on the subject, I take pride
In stealing water colours  from the lake

Ambiguous  in intentions we don’t know
We send out signals full of first class news
If this rebounds  an artist might then show
Our vision rests  upon our point of view

Seventeen types of clarity are mine
Fifteen from my  mind and two from pride
From this glass I make a view divine
Though Sunday someone said they thought I lied.

Ambiguously ,we hover by the scales
Trying to glimpse another through their veil.

But now it is what McCall Smith calls “late”

Sometimes when bereft  I’d love a snail
Though it might wet my bed with silvery trails
Would  snails be lonely  living in my house?
Shall I be but fit to  love some  louse?

I  hugged a rowan tree  and now it’s dead
The council said they’ll give me oak instead
It stood upon the pavement by the gate
But now it is what McCall Smith calls “late”

I  wonder  if self massage is the   thing
Some perfumed lotion stolen on the wing.
I    stroked my arms with Cream E45
Now they say I’m not allowed to drive!

I was sad but now I am at peace
All I needed was a plate of eggs and grease.

As I ran off and thousands were in chase

I can’t buy any clothes for I’ve no space
Yet in the autumn women like new coats
I wonder should I transform my pale face
And wear a golden necklace for its grace
Though it might prick a lover in embrace
At least it would sort out  the men  from goats
As I ran off and thousands were in chase

On the road to Dent

On the road to Dent there was a pool
A river in the dale had made a loop
So out your clothes and into it you lept
While  tame sheep  wandered  round me in a group
Eating ginger biscuits as they trooped.
On the road to Dent there  is a pool
To pass it by,you’d have to be a fool

When we feel

I do not wish to feel this sadness now
But who decides,who chooses what we feel?
If I were strong I might use a  large plough
To knock my feelings level  when they grow
Bur  that is not allowed by God and co.
Yet who denies his  measuring  the real?
I do not wish to feel this sadness now
Think, who derides,who cackles when we feel?

We wished to see the flowers when in full bloom

We ‘d  hoped to see the rose gardens in June
But on the 1st he died and travelled on
We  both enjoyed   the roses in  full  bloom

We used the dark to see the stars and moon
But by the 1st  I found that he was gone
We hoped to see the rose gardens in June

As  I tell,  dark death arrived  too soon
And  took away  the  life of   a  dear man
We  wished to see the  flowers when in full bloom

As he  lay,I sang  to him the psalms
I  knew before the doctor’s he was going.
We meant to see the rose gardens in June

Then  there with me he  re-encountered calm
I had not gone there with a plan
We  longed to see the  flowers  enchanting blooms

May was cold and bitter with alarm
That was when he fell , yet rose again
We  hoped to see the rose gardens in June
We    loved the  scent of roses in their time

We feel our love absurd

 

Art though my own and may I now love thee?
Art though my own and shall I  thy wife be?
As waiting long  lays waste to love and joy
Art though mine,  or with me do’st thou toy?

O treat me not like  stuff disposable
O treat me not  as one intolerable.
For if  thou touch then thou hast made a claim.
And from  the heart, to lose is to be maimed.

For  women are not like  to sheep or goats
We have hearts to feel what thou hast wrought
And if  thou come to steal then  thou’rt a  thief.
One of many , causing women grief.

Do not touch with hand or with sweet words
For  if thou  lie, we feel our love  absurd

I thanked him for being so intensely unkind.

I went to the doctor, he said I’d pre-flu.
I said “My dear doctor, what shall I do?”
Next time I went, he said “It’s pre- shock.”
And then I had pre measles,pre mumps and pre-pox
I ran to the doctor,he said ” You’re pre-well”
I said “Are you sure it’s not just a pre-quel?”
Next time I turned up,he’d gone out for a walk
It’s hard for a doctor who wants to pre-talk.
I went to the optician, who said I’m pre-blind
I thanked him for being so intensely unkind.
I went back to the doctor,and these words I said
“I’m pre -blind, pre-deaf,pre-ill and pre-dead!

In proud confusion

When red sun  drops and  cooling night  rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and our vision
Ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

Courage for the  delicate   seems thin
We  wrestle  with  our horrid indecision
When   sun  drops deep and   night   rolls  softly in

But now , new stricken by   a dread of sin
Who shall doubt  the soul’s   derision?
Our  ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

When  we sleep we’re entertained within
Dark dreams squander all   illusion
When  deep sun  drops and   gentle night  rolls in

In reverie we’re loved  and  so our hearts open
Then  fancy turns to full communion
While ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

And so  it was that our own life began
When sperm leaped up in  proud confusion.
When  deep sun  dropped and  a   new night  rolled in
When  ancient  hearts cried  “Day  shall come again”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smoke all day and make sure that they’re tipped

Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped
New thoughts  help us  leap from out  the rut
Exercise  and kiss your  own red  lips

Smoke all day and make sure  your cigs  are tipped
Drink some whiskey,beer and grow  a gut
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped

Beat your walls and bedclothes with a whip
Move out now and buy  a hermit’s hut
Exercise ,why! Kiss  your lover’s lips

Walk ten miles and  write a thousand quips
Decorate your place with  smokey soot
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped

Go to port and snap the line of ships
Keep your chin up,even make it jut!
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped
Exercise   and kiss    a thousand lips!

Horatius at the bridge

Without boasting [!] I  will reveal I got a bag of sweets for writing a  long  compostion on this when ~I was 6 years old and in the Infants’ School

Bliss Carman, et al., eds.  The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VII. Descriptive: Narrative.  1904.
Narrative Poems: II. Rome
Horatius at the Bridge
Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800–1859)
LARS PORSENA of Clusium,
  By the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
  Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it,         5
  And named a trysting-day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
  To summon his array.
East and west and south and north         10
  The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
  Have heard the trumpet’s blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan
  Who lingers in his home,         15
When Porsena of Clusium
  Is on the march for Rome!
The horsemen and the footmen
  Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place,         20
  From many a fruitful plain,
From many a lonely hamlet,
  Which, hid by beech and pine,
Like an eagle’s nest hangs on the crest
  Of purple Apennine:         25
From lordly Volaterræ,
  Where scowls the far-famed hold
Piled by the hands of giants
  For godlike kings of old;
From sea-girt Populonia,         30
  Whose sentinels descry
Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops
  Fringing the southern sky;
From the proud mart of Pisæ,
  Queen of the western waves,         35
Where ride Massilia’s triremes,
  Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
From where sweet Clanis wanders
  Through corn and vines and flowers,
From where Cortona lifts to heaven         40
  Her diadem of towers.
Tall are the oaks whose acorns
  Drop in dark Auser’s rill;
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
  Of the Ciminian hill;         45
Beyond all streams, Clitumnus
  Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves
  The great Volsinian mere.
But now no stroke of woodman         50
  Is heard by Auser’s rill;
No hunter tracks the stag’s green path
  Up the Ciminian hill;
Unwatched along Clitumnus
  Grazes the milk-white steer;         55
Unharmed the water-fowl may dip
  In the Volsinian mere.
The harvests of Arretium,
  This year, old men shall reap;
This year, young boys in Umbro         60
  Shall plunge the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna,
  This year, the must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing girls
  Whose sires have marched to Rome.         65
There be thirty chosen prophets,
  The wisest of the land,
Who always by Lars Porsena
  Both morn and evening stand.
Evening and morn the Thirty         70
  Have turned the verses o’er,
Traced from the right on linen white
  By mighty seers of yore;
And with one voice the Thirty
  Have their glad answer given:         75
“Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena,—
  Go forth, beloved of Heaven!
Go, and return in glory
  To Clusium’s royal dome,
And hang round Nurscia’s altars         80
  The golden shields of Rome!”
And now hath every city
  Sent up her tale of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand,
  The horse are thousands ten.         85
Before the gates of Sutrium
  Is met the great array;
A proud man was Lars Porsena
  Upon the trysting-day.
For all the Etruscan armies         90
  Were ranged beneath his eye,
And many a banished Roman,
  And many a stout ally;
And with a mighty following,
  To join the muster, came         95
The Tusculan Mamilius,
  Prince of the Latian name.
But by the yellow Tiber
  Was tumult and affright;
From all the spacious champaign         100
  To Rome men took their flight.
A mile around the city
  The throng stopped up the ways;
A fearful sight it was to see
  Through two long nights and days.         105
For aged folk on crutches,
  And women great with child,
And mothers, sobbing over babes
  That clung to them and smiled,
And sick men borne in litters         110
  High on the necks of slaves,
And troops of sunburned husbandmen
  With reaping-hooks and staves,
And droves of mules and asses
  Laden with skins of wine,         115
And endless flocks of goats and sheep,
  And endless herds of kine,
And endless trains of wagons,
  That creaked beneath the weight
Of corn-sacks and of household goods,         120
  Choked every roaring gate.
Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
  Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages
  Red in the midnight sky.         125
The Fathers of the City,
  They sat all night and day,
For every hour some horseman came
  With tidings of dismay.
To eastward and to westward         130
  Have spread the Tuscan bands,
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote
  In Crustumerium stands.
Verbenna down to Ostia
  Hath wasted all the plain;         135
Astur hath stormed Janiculum,
  And the stout guards are slain.
I wis, in all the Senate
  There was no heart so bold
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,         140
  When that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Consul,
  Up rose the Fathers all;
In haste they girded up their gowns,
  And hied them to the wall.         145
They held a council, standing
  Before the River-gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,
  For musing or debate.
Out spake the Consul roundly:         150
  “The bridge must straight go down;
For, since Janiculum is lost,
  Naught else can save the town.”
Just then a scout came flying,
  All wild with haste and fear:         155
“To arms! to arms! Sir Consul,—
  Lars Porsena is here.”
On the low hills to westward
  The Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust         160
  Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer fast and nearer
  Doth the red whirlwind come;
And louder still, and still more loud,
From underneath that rolling cloud,         165
Is heard the trumpets’ war-note proud,
  The trampling and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly
  Now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,         170
In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright,
  The long array of spears.
And plainly and more plainly,
  Above that glimmering line,         175
Now might ye see the banners
  Of twelve fair cities shine;
But the banner of proud Clusium
  Was highest of them all,—
The terror of the Umbrian,         180
  The terror of the Gaul.
And plainly and more plainly
  Now might the burghers know,
By port and vest, by horse and crest,
  Each warlike Lucumo:         185
There Cilnius of Arretium
  On his fleet roan was seen;
And Astur of the fourfold shield,
Girt with the brand none else may wield;
Tolumnius with the belt of gold,         190
And dark Verbenna from the hold
  By reedy Thrasymene.
Fast by the royal standard,
  O’erlooking all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium         195
  Sat in his ivory car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
  Prince of the Latian name;
And by the left false Sextus,
  That wrought the deed of shame.         200
But when the face of Sextus
  Was seen among the foes,
A yell that rent the firmament
  From all the town arose.
On the house-tops was no woman         205
  But spat towards him and hissed,
No child but screamed out curses,
  And shook its little fist.
But the Consul’s brow was sad,
  And the Consul’s speech was low,         210
And darkly looked he at the wall,
  And darkly at the foe;
“Their van will be upon us
  Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,         215
  What hope to save the town?”
Then out spake brave Horatius,
  The Captain of the gate:
“To every man upon this earth
  Death cometh soon or late.         220
And how can man die better
  Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
  And the temples of his gods,
“And for the tender mother         225
  Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
  His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens
  Who feed the eternal flame,—         230
To save them from false Sextus
  That wrought the deed of shame?
“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
  With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,         235
  Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
  May well be stopped by three:
Now who will stand on either hand,
  And keep the bridge with me?”         240
Then out spake Spurius Lartius,—
  A Ramnian proud was he:
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
  And keep the bridge with thee.”
And out spake strong Herminius,—         245
  Of Titian blood was he:
“I will abide on thy left side,
  And keep the bridge with thee.”
“Horatius,” quoth the Consul,
  “As thou sayest so let it be,”         250
And straight against that great array
  Went forth the dauntless three.
For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
  Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,         255
  In the brave days of old.
Then none was for a party—
  Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
  And the poor man loved the great;         260
Then lands were fairly portioned!
  Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers
  In the brave days of old.
Now Roman is to Roman         265
  More hateful than a foe,
And the tribunes beard the high,
  And the fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,
  In battle we wax cold;         270
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
  In the brave days of old.
Now while the three were tightening
  Their harness on their backs,
The Consul was the foremost man         275
  To take in hand an axe;
And fathers, mixed with commons,
  Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,
  And loosed the props below.         280
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
  Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
  Of a broad sea of gold.         285
Four hundred trumpets sounded
  A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head,         290
  Where stood the dauntless three.
The three stood calm and silent,
  And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
  From all the vanguard rose;         295
And forth three chiefs came spurring
  Before that deep array;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
And lifted high their shields, and flew
  To win the narrow way.         300
Aunus, from green Tifernum,
  Lord of the Hill of Vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
  Sicken in Ilva’s mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium         305
  Vassal in peace and war,
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
From that gray crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Nequinum lowers
  O’er the pale waves of Nar.         310
Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
  Into the stream beneath;
Herminius struck at Seius,
  And clove him to the teeth;
At Picus brave Horatius         315
  Darted one fiery thrust,
And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms
  Clashed in the bloody dust.
Then Ocnus of Falerii
  Rushed on the Roman three;         320
And Lausulus of Urgo,
  The rover of the sea;
And Aruns of Volsinium,
  Who slew the great wild boar,—
The great wild boar that had his den         325
Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen,
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
  Along Albinia’s shore.
Herminius smote down Aruns;
  Lartius laid Ocnus low;         330
Right to the heart of Lausulus
  Horatius sent a blow:
“Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate!
  No more, aghast and pale,
From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark         335
The track of thy destroying bark;
No more Campania’s hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns, when they spy
  Thy thrice-accursèd sail!”
But now no sound of laughter         340
  Was heard among the foes;
A wild and wrathful clamor
  From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears’ length from the entrance,
  Halted that mighty mass,         345
And for a space no man came forth
  To win the narrow pass.
But, hark! the cry is Astur:
  And lo! the ranks divide;
And the great lord of Luna         350
  Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
  Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand
  Which none but he can wield.         355
He smiled on those bold Romans,
  A smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
  And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litter         360
  Stand savagely at bay;
But will ye dare to follow,
  If Astur clears the way?”
Then, whirling up his broadsword
  With both hands to the height,         365
He rushed against Horatius,
  And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
  Right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;         370
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh.
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
  To see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius
  He leaned one breathing-space,         375
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds,
  Sprang right at Astur’s face.
Through teeth and skull and helmet
  So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a handbreadth out         380
  Behind the Tuscan’s head.
And the great lord of Luna
  Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Avernus
  A thunder-smitten oak.         385
Far o’er the crashing forest
  The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low
  Gaze on the blasted head.
On Astur’s throat Horatius         390
  Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,
  Ere he wrenched out the steel.
And “See,” he cried, “the welcome,
  Fair guests, that waits you here!         395
What noble Lucumo comes next
  To taste our Roman cheer?”
But at his haughty challenge
  A sullen murmur ran,
Mingled with wrath and shame and dread,         400
  Along that glittering van.
There lacked not men of prowess,
  Nor men of lordly race,
For all Etruria’s noblest
  Were round the fatal place.         405
But all Etruria’s noblest
  Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
  In the path the dauntless three;
And from the ghastly entrance,         410
  Where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank,—like boys who, unaware,
Ranging the woods to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear         415
  Lies amidst bones and blood.
Was none who would be foremost
  To lead such dire attack;
But those behind cried “Forward!”
  And those before cried “Back!”         420
And backward now and forward
  Wavers the deep array;
And on the tossing sea of steel
To and fro the standards reel,
And the victorious trumpet-peal         425
  Dies fitfully away.
Yet one man for one moment
  Strode out before the crowd;
Well known was he to all the three,
  And they gave him greeting loud:         430
“Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
  Now welcome to thy home!
Why dost thou stay, and turn away?
  Here lies the road to Rome.”
Thrice looked he at the city;         435
  Thrice looked he at the dead:
And thrice came on in fury,
  And thrice turned back in dread;
And, white with fear and hatred,
  Scowled at the narrow way         440
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
  The bravest Tuscans lay.
But meanwhile axe and lever
  Have manfully been plied:
And now the bridge hangs tottering         445
  Above the boiling tide.
“Come back, come back, Horatius!”
  Loud cried the Fathers all,—
“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
  Back, ere the ruin fall!”         450
Back darted Spurius Lartius,—
  Herminius darted back;
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
  They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,         455
  And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
  They would have crossed once more;
But with a crash like thunder
  Fell every loosened beam,         460
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
  Lay right athwart the stream;
And a long shout of triumph
  Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops         465
  Was splashed the yellow foam.
And like a horse unbroken,
  When first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard,
  And tossed his tawny mane,         470
And burst the curb, and bounded,
  Rejoicing to be free;
And whirling down, in fierce career,
Battlement and plank and pier,
  Rushed headlong to the sea.         475
Alone stood brave Horatius,
  But constant still in mind,—
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
  And the broad flood behind.
“Down with him!” cried false Sextus,         480
  With a smile on his pale face;
“Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena,
  “Now yield thee to our grace!”
Round turned he, as not deigning
  Those craven ranks to see;         485
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
  To Sextus naught spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus
  The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river         490
  That rolls by the towers of Rome:
“O Tiber! Father Tiber!
  To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,
  Take thou in charge this day!”         495
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed
  The good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back,
  Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow         500
  Was heard from either bank,
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
  Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges         505
  They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
  Could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current,         510
  Swollen high by months of rain;
And fast his blood was flowing,
  And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
  And spent with changing blows;         515
And oft they thought him sinking,
  But still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer.
  In such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood         520
  Safe to the landing-place;
But his limbs were borne up bravely
  By the brave heart within,
And our good Father Tiber
  Bare bravely up his chin.         525
“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus,—
  “Will not the villain drown?
But for this stay, ere close of day
  We should have sacked the town!”
“Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena,         530
  “And bring him safe to shore;
For such a gallant feat of arms
  Was never seen before.”
And now he feels the bottom;
  Now on dry earth he stands;         535
Now round him throng the Fathers
  To press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping,
  And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-gate,         540
  Borne by the joyous crowd.
They gave him of the corn-land,
  That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen
  Could plough from morn till night;         545
And they made a molten image,
  And set it up on high,—
And there it stands unto this day
  To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium,         550
  Plain for all folk to see,—
Horatius in his harness,
  Halting upon one knee;
And underneath is written,
  In letters all of gold,         555
How valiantly he kept the bridge
  In the brave days of old.
And still his name sounds stirring
  Unto the men of Rome,
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them         560
  To charge the Volscian home;
And wives still pray to Juno
  For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
  In the brave days of old.         565
And in the nights of winter,
  When the cold north-winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
  Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage         570
  Roars loud the tempest’s din,
And the good logs of Algidus
  Roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is opened,
  And the largest lamp is lit;         575
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
  And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
  Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,         580
  And the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armor,
  And trims his helmet’s plume;
When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
  Goes flashing through the loom;         585
With weeping and with laughter
  Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
  In the brave days of old.

When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves

Of all the seasons, I love most the Fall
When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves
They love to  toast themselves in summer sun
And want no shelter from the Western wind.
While squirrels   hide their  nuts and batten down
For winter on this  European isle.

For  those who wish there is the Shopping Mall
Where they forget  thin nature now bereaved.
For children  playing ball is joy and fun,
With grazed  legs and knees forever skinned
Meanwhile the rich put on their evening gowns
And after dinner, dance  and woo a  while.

But many like myself  desire the call
Of  knotted hedge  and bent aslant small trees
Of damp long grass and hares wild on the hunt
For  winter   madness  makes all  beasts grow  thin
We in  old wool coats   will crouch and frown
In camera,  waiting with our hearts docile.

Yet,there is a threat in    hearing, Fall
As if our forebears could  have lived quite free
Unclothed and loving,   dreams  of human’   haunt
As if we could wind back the reel and  film again.
Knowing this impossible we’re drawn
To  fall ourselves and sleep  and never smile.

The world itself is dance,  it is a Ball
If we lose our thoughts  and merry be
Give ourselves what we most truly want
This world was made for us to span and scan
Every plant for you  and me is grown
And so we smile and smile on Europe’s  isle

The cheque book

I got a  cheque book  after you had died
With only my name  printed on the page
I  lost this new one even though I tried
To keep apart from life, my grief and rage .

I do not like that statements  come to me
They emphasis what I’d like to forget
There is no “us,”  it’s sadly” I “not “we”
These little signs, emotions  sad beget

Though I hate arithmetic and rules
I always  cooked  the finance and the meal
You didn’t want to suffer as at school
Mostly   you left me to do  these deals

I rarely use a  paper cheque today
I find  impersonal,nameless ways to pay

Can we break the rules of grammar in poetry?

good_luck_sign

 

Breaking Grammar Rules in Poetry Writing

 

Quote:As the poetry canon grows beyond measure, poets increasingly reach for creative devices to make their work stand out.

Toying with grammar rules is one such device, but it is not something that can be approached carelessly. If you choose to forgo the rules because you don’t know them rather than as a creative technique, your lack of knowledge will show and the poem will present as amateurish. Of course, that’s true for all types of writing: learn the rules, and only after you have learned them, go ahead and break them.

I salute anyone who breaks the rules in the interest of art and great poetry writing just as much as I admire poets who craft meter and verse within the confines of grammar. So for this language-loving poet, either way is the right way. Walk the tight rope or jump from it and see if you can fly.