Tag: poem

Sun shines sideways

It’s Autumn weather, geese fly by,

Autumn rust,red,gold,so gay

Drystone walls edging fields,

Apples gathered,holly berries

Flash so brightly

Look like flowers

Sun shines sideways,shadows long

Of trees appear.I dwell among

Woods of gentle beeches sing

Swaying with the sideward wind.

See their roots, all intertwined.

Feel their geometry in the mind.

Look up now into the sky,

See the V formation high.

My heart is moved by patterned dance

In this peace, God’s own silence.

My mind widens like the sky

And in this moment I would die,

So I could stay with this still vision

Of geese set out on autumn mission.

Snails in rain pools slither near

My feet upon the terrace here

And look,upon their whorled backs

All the sense of life is packed.

And yet so easily Life’s destroyed,

When blind foot foot steps into the void

The skylark

Freed from her trap
Bird soared into air,and hovered
And floated, resting;
And flew higher, singing as she flew,
And higher again,
Till there was only her song,
Left in the silence,
Trembling.

Up on the wide,stump topped hill,
I felt the lark inside my heart
And heard her singing.
And flying up with her,
I saw gold sun and silver moon,
Moors of heather ,and sheep grazing
Green hills,
And shimmering lakes,
Clouds ,sun and sky in watery mirrors.
And sang ,and dipped,and dropped,
And curled
Up the blue
Bright heaven, and rested
On the wind.
All that day
I was a lark singing.

I shall always have a vision of
A bird
That flew upwards,
Rejoicing and free
Into a deep blue sky, and high
And higher
Beyond high
Into a place, beyond eye even,
But music still sending.

I wish I were back on that heathery moor,
With the nibbling sheep and the bees sweetly humming,
Hearing again
The poignant song
Of the skylark,
A prisoner,freed by a magician,
From her trap,
So happy to be free,
So wonderful to see.
Do it again,
For me,

Silence and music

trees swirl

I didn’t hear you coming,
then you were by my side.
Happiness fills me.
Standing in the garden
looking at red leaves,
I hold your hand gently,
and share the sweetness
of these green leaves,
the distant doves cooing,
the sun dipping to the horizon.
Life is good.
We hear together
the music
of this silence

A white petal

May Sunday again;
Hailstones rush sideways,
striking the windows
with small fierce blows.
In the gaps between
two white butterflies zig zag
like motorized wild flowers;
One colour,two forms. I see now
two aspects of Nature:
hard,destructive,stern;
frail and delicate.
Both are coloured the same white.
Hard to tell sometimes which we are seeing
But we can all distinguish between a gentle touch
and a bitter blow.
As the day dips into night my heart falls too.
In these dreams I look for the lost
in the snowy steppes and the ices of the heart.
A white petal falls.
Cherry trees bloom again

Russia in love.

TRUE LOVE ..Advice for young women

Cathedral

 

 

I love men ,but not the toffs,

Nor the ones with smokers coughs.

I would like an artist most

Especially if he loves buttered toast.

 

I love men,do men love me?

There’s only one sure way to see.

Do your best to put them off,

Wear flat shoes and never laugh.

 

Study Wittgenstein and Kant.

Study all that’s difficult.

Parse Quantum Theory as a hobby.

Learn long words from the dictionary.

 

Dance with Riemann,flirt with Joyce.

Read Ullyses in you Rolls Royce.

Enjoy some chess and trigonometry.

Weigh down your mind with Solid Geometry.

 

Look around and see who’s left.

That’s the one who loves you best.

Once you have married and set up home,

You can free your mind to roam.

 

Throw away your library,

Let your senses all run free.

Wear bright clothes and have some fun.

Your adult life has just begun.

See through …

I have read this quote many times in other people’s books  and writing,But I never saw the whole verse before.It is in Goodreads which is an excellent website.You can see which books people read and see reviews too.I have often pondered about seeing “with the eyes” or “though the eyes” and even now I am unsure what it means but it seems important to me.So when I came upon it I copied it and share it with you

 

William Blake > Quotes > Quotable Quote

William Blake

“This life’s dim windows of the soul
Distorts the heavens from pole to pole
And leads you to believe a lie
When you see with, not through, the eye.”

A poem by George Herbert about windows [ The Poetry Foundation,link below]

The Windows

By George Herbert

Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?
    He is a brittle crazy glass;
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
    This glorious and transcendent place,
    To be a window, through thy grace.
But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,
    Making thy life to shine within
The holy preachers, then the light and glory
    More reverend grows, and more doth win;
    Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.
Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one
    When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and awe; but speech alone
    Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
    And in the ear, not conscience, ring.

What is Poetry? | Poetry blog and a poem

What is Poetry? | Poetry blog.

I might say that a poem

is the equivalent in words

of this beautiful picture

but I might be wrong

I might say that a poem is like  like a kiss

I might say that a poem is  like a flower

I might say that a poem is like  a tree full of blossom

But after due consideration .I concluded

it’s better to write you  a poem

And for you to write me a poem.

And afterwards for us to talk  amidst the flowers

Underneath a  tree in summer.

Then we will know what  it’s all about

If you can see what I mean.

A vision in words

Words with vision

I think you know what I  mean

You see

This is true

I

On either side of the window

Who is more lonely… the person inside the window  who can’t get out

or the person outside who can’t get in?

So near,yet they cannot touch.

The tragedy of glass which permits vision but not touch.

What is there to do?

Watercolor love

Like watercolor pictures left out in the rain
Our colors have mingled,yet the originals still remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colors blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colors intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor picture painted by the rain,
We may go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain

A twig

Dreaming is the commentary by God

On a  life of which I am a part

but my life does not belong to me

I am a twig  or a leaf in a forest

yet I  receive the feel of the whole tree

that’s inspiring  but not awesome,please

 

Gus the Theatre Cat by T.S.Eliot from Poetry Index (Link under the green rectangle)

 

Page Back

Poems Index

Gus – The Theatre Cat a poem by T S Eliot


Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That’s such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat’s very shabby, he’s thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats–
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn’t the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree–
He has acted with Irving, he’s acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.

“I have played,” so he says, “every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I’d extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I’d a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
And I once understudied Dick Whittington’s Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.”

Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger–could do it again–
Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: “Now then kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop.”
And he’ll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
“Well, the Theatre’s certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there’s nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.”

 
Gus – The Theatre Cat ( poem) – T S Eliot

A poem can paint a thousand images in your mind’s eye. If you enjoyed this poem and appreciated the lyrics of Gus – The Theatre Cat by T S Eliot you will find even more poem lyrics by this famous author, together with their biography and picture, by simply clicking on the Poem Index link below ! 

Page Back

Poems Index

Elected Silence by G.M.Hopkins

CONTENTS · BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD from Bartleby/com

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89).  Poems.  1918.
 
3. The Habit of Perfection
 
 
ELECTED Silence, sing to me
And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
Pipe me to pastures still and be
The music that I care to hear.
 
Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb:         5
It is the shut, the curfew sent
From there where all surrenders come
Which only makes you eloquent.
 
Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark
And find the uncreated light:         10
This ruck and reel which you remark
Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.
 
Palate, the hutch of tasty lust,
Desire not to be rinsed with wine:
The can must be so sweet, the crust         15
So fresh that come in fasts divine!
 
Nostrils, your careless breath that spend
Upon the stir and keep of pride,
What relish shall the censers send
Along the sanctuary side!         20
 
O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet
That want the yield of plushy sward,
But you shall walk the golden street
And you unhouse and house the Lord.
 
And, Poverty, be thou the bride         25
And now the marriage feast begun,
And lily-coloured clothes provide
Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.

A favorite poem:As Kingfishers catch fire by G.M.Hopkins

By  Gerard Manley Hopkins

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.
I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

Source: Gerard Manley Hopkins: Poems and Prose (Penguin Classics, 1985)

I want to go to bed

I want to go to bed

but someone’s standing on my head!

I don’t know what matters most

the butter or the toast.

I have looked into  your mirror

Was it cracked across in error?

I want to go to sleep

I have counted all those sheep.

My dreams are very bland.

Swiftly flows the sand.

I wake at 6 am,

My soul cries out just then.

I like to drink espresso

and  recall sweet summer colors.

I want to go to bed

But my palms have both been read

Sleep knits us together

So we won’t get married ever

My heart is made of leather

to protects me in bad weather

And all the summer through the water saunter

The word “saunter” makes me think of this poem..

Isle of man

photo by Shamu 28

http://youtu.be/2I4R_-KwzsU

This is Auden reading his poem,Island which talks of clouds sauntering through the harbour water.

I think he’s gone crazy

I love you and you love me!
Believer!
Where on earth should I be?
Whenever.
I blocked cookies all my life
If you want one,ask the wife.
I eat spam, and google then,
I begin all over again.
whatever.
I ban websites for a living
But my wife is very forgiving,
Men ever!
I eat splogs and gurgle blogs
Then I cut up all the logs.
Whenever.
I’ve been married fourteen times,
They divorce me for my rhymes,
Whatever.
I eat cookies if I can,
If I can’t I get them banned,
Forever!
I’m the God of Monster Space,
I’ll destroy this human race,
Moreover.
If you meet me you won’t know
‘Cos I look like old so and so,
Whoever.
But I am mad and I’ll get you
I eat up this human zoo;
Together.
Whenever.
Can’t forgive,erhhhh.

No comments please,we’re British.

The bird has flown

If I go I won’t tell you.
I’ll just disappear one day.
Like when a cigarette ,which seemed so long,
suddenly has become smaller
and you never noticed it
because you were talking
about the meaning of life
while life was somewhere else
blown away with your smoke
into the sky
and then dispersed
never quite visible again
but still floating on the breeze
hoping to be caught
in a butterfly net
but unable to communicate
except by flying.
If I go it will not be today
but it will be an ordinary day
no one will realise
that it’s that day
that the bird flies
from her nest
to go to a new place
only seeing the deserted nest
he realises,
my bird has flown

Beloved world

Let your lips meet gently
the top one resting against the lower
touching with tenderness
your own  skin to skin.
Forefinger  propped on chin,
I let the others dangle,
like leaves on a branch;
how softly gravity  tugs them downwards.
Let heart beat quietly,slowly
as  the blood circulates carrying  its music ,
a river,following the path of least resistance.
How the blood vessels receive willingly this flow,
touching it kindly as with tiny  open fingers,
helping and being helped.
How the hair on the head floats
on the breeze,like tentacles of an octopus
waving goodbye.
Top  eyelid loves the lower one;
as we blink they touch
like lovers kissing swiftly
behind a tree.
and how the light comes in
we see a world.
Mine may not be yours,
but the blink of my eyelid
sends waves through the air,
so we’re all touching and being touched,
lips kissing each other,
kiss all living creatures.
skin to skin
air to air.
And inside us,the rich darkness
of creative night
transforms  in turn
these touches
into dreams.

Why I gave up reading

I used to enjoy library books
I read both day and night.
Then when I looked around me

I saw a horrid sight.

The house was filled with dust and dirt.
The sink was full of pots.
My hair was dirty and my face
Had broken out in spots.

So now I feel the need to clean
And polish all the brass.
I wash my hair  ‘most every night.
Oh,what a clever lass.

My husband likes my new approach
As he had felt ignored.
He toiled all day long  cooking books
and wished to be restored.

I wash him with my  best rose soap.
I dry him with my towel.
And then we have a discussion
On, whether Y’s a vowel.

We go to bed and kiss and hug.
We recall  bad times we  late endured.
And then we dream of pie and mash

Until our ills are cured.