Tag: poem

Silver words

BLUE TREES

After silence

Words fell from my lips.

I was a god

I created everything.

I spoke and each word

Was a new world.

Words fell from my lips like a silver stream of beauty.

I was a god.

We were all gods.

We created worlds.

Words touch the secret core

At the heart of the other,

Or they violate it.

“Too many words” hits me like a bullet.

I need silence

And one word,

To call me into being.

God breathed

And the world breathed.

Speaking is like breathing,

But is more than breathing.

Words sail out

Like boats crossing the sea

On a breeze of breath.

A word from a man came at me.

Like an arrow,and pierced me

With sharp sorrow.

Only a few have the true voice,

The voice that does not harm

WORDS RISE UP

Poetry

The highest calling of the mind

Is to choose the words that free or bind.

Without choice words  in true design

Human beings will be quite blind

 
York Minster,home of sacred song and word
 

 

After writing about maps I began to write about words.Words are very powerful in any kind of society but more so in a highly literate one.Words can be sacred or mundane.They can be loving or heartbreaking.And in English we have so many of them because English was developed from several other languages….Anglo-Saxon,French,Latin,Greek,Celtic…..so more than one word for some things.Here in this poem I compare words to birds [ geese ] flocking into the sky like words flock into our minds

 

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!

WORDS STROKE MY MIND

 

A peaceful place to meditate
A peaceful place to meditate

WORDS STROKE MY MIND

Here I talk about words as if they had a physical existence and can stroke my mind and  give me pleasure like a cat can get from gentle stroking.I treat words as if they are real things which they are when spoken out loud.And someone’s voice can soothe you if they speak mellifluously.

 

Words mark the page and stroke my mind,

And sentences are words combined,

So,many brushstrokes make a shape,

And round my mind the sentence drapes.

 

Words from farthest realms of mind

Are drawn to me by this design.

And,look, they brighten in the sun

The picture forms,my work is done

Riemann’s cat

Two whole worlds.
One small cut.
One little chink.
Hard to find.
Very,very hard.
One small place
Where a very little cat
Could slip right through
The geometrician ‘s cut.
Cat could slip right through.
Just,slip straight through.
Joining it’s own reflection
On the opposite side.
The mirror’s other side.

And if I caught that tail,
If I caught her little tail,
She could pull me through,
She could pull me through,
So she and I too
We’d be on the other side,
The wrong way round,
On the opposite side.

So when you looked in,
If you looked in,
You would see me there,
Looking out at you,
From the opposite side.
From the opposite side.
And the cat beside
Looking very small,
Very,very small;
But very,very real.
How do you think you’d feel,
If I was looking out,
Staring at you
From the opposite side?

I can’t get back.
I can’t find Riemann’s cat
and without that pussy cat
I can’t find Riemann’s cut.
I think I’m in a trap.
I cannot find that cat.
So she can’t find the cut
To get me back,
She can’t bring me back
To where I was before.

Oh,how queer,
To have two of me in here.
I hope I’ll get on well
With my other self,
Behind the looking glass.
No one looking in,
But two are staring out.
From that other world.

I am looking out,
I’m looking out
To see if you are there.
One of you’s with me
That makes the total three.
Oh,dear me,
I should not have grabbed
Little pussy’s tail.
I didn’t really know
Where she meant to go.

“Wherever have you been?
Where do you think you’ve been
To get so filthy black,
And where’s your pussy cat?”
She never came back.
Never came back
From the opposite side.
Mummy thought I’d lied.
I don’t tell lies,
But I can see my cat
Staring out at me.
Staring out at me
From the other side.
From the opposite side
Of my looking glass.
My lovely looking glass
Has trapped my tiny cat
On the opposite side.
On the opposite side
On the other side

Enchantment

BLUE TREES

My old blue fountain pen allows

The ink across the page to flow

Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,

And words come in a rush.

Enchanting through the hand which writes,

Bewitched with art, beauty alights.

The script is like a music score

Through which you pass as through a door.

Imagination’s home.

As,mysteriously.to you, to me,

The spirits of our hearts are tamed,

By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.

They enter vision quite unplanned,

Like moths to flutter softly round

Fire joined heart and hand.

The pen slows down,the hand goes still

And just as dreams at daybreak will,

They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.

I almost caught that one

The museum of my heart

A poem about love,loss and memory.The title came into my mind like a shy animal from a forest.Then I had to construct the poem

I’ve got just one letter
written in your hand.
One small letter.
I understand,
One is as infinity
compared to having nought.
I’ll keep this letter
In the museum of my heart.
I’ve only got one photograph
and that is very old
but to me this photograph
is more valuable than gold.
Time has hastened by.
Is it now too late?
But may there be a second chance?
Let’s not accept love’s fate.
No matter how we falter,
No matter how we fail,
We can still forgive ourselves,
and rewrite this sad tale.
One more loving letter,
One more loving smile,
That will be sufficient
To rebirth a love grown frail.
For once this love was stronger;
Once this love was true;
Accept this invitation
To recreate our love anew.

Gathering the words to say it

Source: K
Source: K
Source: Kathryn

being a writer is like being a wordherder
words run about like lost sheep on the high moorlands
and I have to catch them and keep them safe
I need a trusty word dog to get them together
and keep them safe.

sometimes they have wandered far away
and I stand forlornly in the fields
then I hear the bark of my word dog
and down the hill a host of words are running towards me
looking pleased to see me.

so then I try to catch a few and shear off their wool
so I can knit a poem out of it all…
there are some wild,shy words
that so far have eluded me
maybe I need two trained and kindly word dogs not just one…

see the words are all running off to hide under a hedge till morning
goodbye words I love them all unconditionally
especially the wild ones
i too like the high hills and the distant blue of the far away edge of the landscape
the haze of summer and the purply moors
the wild blue and the sacred sky high blue
the earth and the heavens and the still something to discover yet.
if there’s an ordnance survey map of this world
I have not seen it yet and anyway
who could have made it?

Maps

Words structured make a map for me
Sentences enable me to see.
But there are maps of other kinds
And different maps suit different minds.

The artist with her skilled brushstrokes,
Her unique sense of the world evokes.
This goes straight to the heart,and tells
Of feelings’ deep, unfathomable wells.

The sweet, plain singing of the spheres
Moves those who hear to happy tears.
Yet notes are written on just five lines
From which can flow all music’s rhythms

There are so many different worlds,
Which all these maps to us unfurl.
The Art of Travel is to guess
Which Map will suit which World the best.

In memoriam

I look up our small street,
To see if you are coming.
I don’t know what time it is,
But I think I hear you humming.

You sang sweet songs for us,
And you could whistle well .
You wore an old tweed jacket
You loved us,I could tell.

I look out there each day,
But I can’t see your tall, thin shape.
I saved your Woodbine packet,
It made me feel some hope.

What does death’s door mean?
Where has Daddy gone?
When will be the welcome day,
When we hear his songs again?

I’ll sing like him all day,
I’ll dream of him all night.
I hope he won’t be angry,
If his cigarettes won’t light!

He can’t write his own songs now.
He went too far away , too soon.
I’ll write down what I think he sang,
And I’ll invent the tune.

I hear him singing now,
He dwells inside my heart.
And though I still can’t see his face,
I recognise his Art.

Aural love:be my now

I  kiss your  funny ears ; you kiss mine

I love Beethoven.you have qualms

I lick your ear;your licks  divine.

I love listening ,in your arms

 

I love music;you love song

I kissed your lips.you bit my tongue.

I love rightly;you love  wrong.

I’ll buy a guidebook to learn how to long.

 

 

I lick your whiskers;you shampoo my brow

i love Stravinsky.; i  love  you so.

I’ll be your sweetheart,I am unsure  how.

Since I’m in your arms . you must be my now.

 

 

The promised land

England’s green and pleasant Land

England's green and pleasant Land [from Jerusalem,by William Blake]

Note: This was a surprise to me when I was writing the last part .I will try to explain.At first I started off wanting to write a poem about nature,And evening falling as the sun set.However something else seemed to take over for the last few verses.I was especially surprised by the end….”.at last we have reached the promised land”

That is the best thing about writing poetry,that it can surprise the writer as much as if it were written by someone else.Also it is very absorbing so that the time seems to very quickly.Sometimes a serious poem has turned into a funny one and I laugh out loud.So it saves having to buy funny books….I can amuse myself.Writing  is even better than reading.

Just think of anything at all for the first line,then make a second line,then all of a sudden …you are off.Some days are better than others and you need an hour or two to do it.Or come  backto it later to edit it and knock into shape.It is a bit like sculpture,I imagine.

Joy sings out loud in golden light

Yet after day comes black of night.

New moon is rising by gray trees

This earth is where I want to be.

I want the day,I want the night

I want the darkI want the light.

I want to see and to be seen,

And not to lose myself in dreams.

The sun has set ,gray clouds turn black,

The day just gone will not come back.

I’ll rest in quiet reverie

Until the Reapers’s scythe takes me.

And then I drop and mix with dust,

And worms and beetles sate their lust.

I fall into ten thousand motes

And in sunlight ,dance music’s notes.

No more striving.no more ambition,

No more fighting,nor competition.

Every particle’s the same,

Without even a personal name.

And side by side,we all are one.

The lusts of life have been and gone.

We dwell with dirt and grain and sand

At last we’ve reached the Promised Land,

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

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

 

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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 ! 

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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)