THE OXEN

Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

"Now they are all on their knees,"

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve

"Come; see the oxen kneel

"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,"

I should go with him in the gloom

Hoping it might be so.

-o0o-

A NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION TO LEAVE DUNDEE
William Topaz McGonagall 1825-1902

Welcome! thrice welcome! to the year 1893,
For it is the year I intend to leave Dundee,
Owing to the treatment I receive,
Which does my heart sadly grieve.
Every morning when I go out
The ignorant rabble they do shout
‘There goes Mad McGonagall’
In derisive shouts as loud as they can bawl,
And lifts stones and snowballs, throws them at me;
And such actions are shameful to be heard in the city of Dundee.
And I’m ashamed, kind Christians, to confess
That from the Magistrates I can get no redress.
Therefore I have made up my mind in the year of 1893
To leave the ancient City of Dundee,
Because the citizens and me cannot agree.
The reason why? — because they disrespect me,
Which makes me feel rather discontent.
Therefore to leave them I am bent;
And I will make my arrangements without delay,
And leave Dundee some early day.

-o0o-

MY RESOLUTIONS
Robert Fisher

I will not throw the cat out the window
Or put a frog in my sister’s bed
I will not tie my brother’s shoelaces together
Nor jump from the roof of Dad’s shed
I shall remember my aunt’s next birthday
And tidy my room once a week
I’ll not moan at Mum’s cooking (Ugh! fish fingers again!)
Nor give her any more of my cheek.
I will not pick my nose if I can help it
I shall fold up my clothes, comb my hair,
I will say please and thank you (even when I don’t mean it)
And never spit or shout or even swear.
I shall write each day in my diary
Try my hardest to be helpful at school
I shall help old ladies cross roads (even if they don’t want to)
And when others are rude I’ll stay cool.
I’ll go to bed with the owls and be up with the larks
And close every door behind me
I shall squeeze from the bottom of every toothpaste tube
And stay where trouble can’t find me.
I shall start again, turn over a new leaf,
leave my bad old ways forever
shall I start them this year, or next year
shall I sometime, or …..?

-o0o-

THE FUTURE
Edgar Guest 1881-1959

“The worst is yet to come:”
So wail the doubters glum,
But here’s the better view;
“My best I’ve yet to do.”
The worst some always fear;
To-morrow holds no cheer,
Yet farther on life’s lane
Are joys you shall attain.
Go forward bravely, then,
And play your part as men,
For this is ever true:
“Our best we’ve yet to do.”

-o=0=o-

POETRY TO PLEASE
will now be updated every Friday.
The paintings blog MASTERS OF COLOUR comes to an end today and will be replaced by
NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL ART
which will begin on Tuesday 3rd January and then be updated every day
nowthatswhaticallart.blogspot.com

A poem is a frozen moment melted by each reader for themselves to flow into the here and now. - Hilde Domin 1909-2006

-o0o-

SONNET 97 - HOW LIKE A WINTER HATH MY ABSENCE BEEN

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!

What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!

What old December's bareness everywhere!

And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,

Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,

Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:

Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me

But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,

And thou away, the very birds are mute;

Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

-o0o-

CHRISTMASTIDE
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

The rain-shafts splintered on me
As despondently I strode;
The twilight gloomed upon me
And bleared the blank high-road.
Each bush gave forth, when blown on
By gusts in shower and shower,
A sigh, as it were sown on
In handfuls by a sower.

A cheerful voice called nigh me,
"A merry Christmas, friend!"
There rose a figure by me,
Walking with townward trend,
A sodden tramp's, who, breaking
Into thin song, bore straight
Ahead, direction taking
Toward the Casual's gate.

The Casual's gate was the entrance to the workhouse in Dorchester

-o0o-

A FAMILY CHRISTMAS

Ernestine Northover b.1943

Sitting in front of the fire, Auntie Flo's reciting a story,

it's one about her first Christmas as a newly wed,

the same one she broadcasts every year,

but no one is listening.

Uncle Fred, 'out to the world' snores rhythmically

on the sofa.

Mother exhausted, having cooked the lunch,

without help, as usual,stifles a yawn.

Dad, brow furrowed, is trying to piece together

Eddy's lego set,

whilst Eddy glowers,

after all, it was his present.

Joe, playing with a set of 'disco lights'

is sending flashes of colour across the room,

straight into Grandpa's eyes,

making him feel even more bilious

after having consumed too many chocolates.

Grandma's knitting.

Grandma always knits on Christmas Day,

and every other day, come to that,

probably yet another scarf for what she believes is

still the war effort.

The cat, curled up on her lap, purrs contentedly,

oblivious of the knitting needles, waving precariously

in front of his sleepy eyes.

Susan is gazing at the TV screen, .

glued, for the umpteenth time to The Sound of Music movie,

singing every song, word for word,

at the top of her voice.

'Turkey was nice', said Auntie,

'I was given too much', moaned Grandpa, belching loudly.

'Your problem is, you never can refuse a second helping', said Grandma, 'so it's your own fault'.

Mother grins and asks,

'Would anybody like another mince pie? '

-o0o-

POETRY TO PLEASE WILL BE UPDATED ON THURSDAY NEXT WEEK

-o=0=o-

Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people - Adrian Mitchell

-o0o-

FILLING STATION

Elizabeth Bishop 1911-79

Oh, but it is dirty!

- this little filling station,

oil-soaked, oil-permeated

to a disturbing, over-all

black translucency.

Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,

oil-soaked monkey suit

that cuts him under the arms,

and several quick and saucy

and greasy sons assist him

(it's a family filling station),

all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?

It has a cement porch

behind the pumps, and on it

a set of crushed and grease-

impregnated wickerwork;

on the wicker sofa

a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide

the only note of colour -

of certain colour. They lie

upon a big dim doily

draping a taboret

(part of the set), beside

a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?

Why the taboret?

Why, oh why, the doily?

(Embroidered in daisy stitch

with marguerites, I think,

and heavy with grey crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.

Somebody waters the plant,

or oils it, maybe. Somebody

arranges the rows of cans

so that they softly say:

ESSO--SO--SO--SO

to high-strung automobiles.

Somebody loves us all.

-o0o-

TO MY WIFE - WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS

Oscar Wilde 1854-1900

I can write no stately poem

As a prelude to my lay;

From a poet to a poem

I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals

One to you seem fair,

Love will waft it till it settles

On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden

All the loveless land,

It will whisper of the garden,

You will understand.

-o0o-

AFTERNOON IN SCHOOL - THE LAST LESSON

D. H. Lawrence 1885-1930

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?

How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart

My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start

Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,

I can haul them and urge them no more.

No more can I endure to bear the brunt

Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score

Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl

Of slovenly work that they have offered me.

I am sick, and tired more than any thrall

Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

And shall I take

The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul

Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume

Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll

Of their insults in punishment? - I will not!

I will not waste myself to embers for them,

Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,

For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep

Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep

Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell

It all for them, I should hate them -

- I will sit and wait for the bell.

-o0o-

Brew me a cup for a winter’s night.
For the wind howls loud, and the furies fight;
Spice it with love and stir it with care,
And I’ll toast your bright eyes, my sweetheart fair.
-  Minna Antrim 1861-1950

-o0o-

WINTER MORNING
Ogden Nash 1902-71

Winter is the king of showmen,
Turning tree stumps into snowmen
And houses into birthday cakes
And spreading sugar over lakes.
Smooth and clean and frosty white,
The world looks good enough to bite.
That’s the season to be young,
Catching snowflakes on your tongue.
Snow is snowy when it’s snowing,
I’m sorry it’s slushy when it’s going.

-o0o-

POETRY TO PLEASE WILL BE UPDATED ON THURSDAY NEXT WEEK

-o=0=o-

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words - Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49

-o0o-

John Betjeman

DEATH IN LEAMINGTON

John Betjeman 1906-84

She died in the upstairs bedroom

By the light of the ev'ning star

That shone through the plate glass window

From over Leamington Spa

Beside her the lonely crochet

Lay patiently and unstirred,

But the fingers that would have work'd it

Were dead as the spoken word.

And Nurse came in with the tea-things

Breast high 'mid the stands and chairs -

But Nurse was alone with her own little soul,

And the things were alone with theirs.

She bolted the big round window,

She let the blinds unroll,

She set a match to the mantle,

She covered the fire with coal.

And "Tea!" she said in a tiny voice

"Wake up! It's nearly five"

Oh! Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness,

Half dead and half alive.

Do you know that the stucco is peeling?

Do you know that the heart will stop?

From those yellow Italianate arches

Do you hear the plaster drop?

Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,

At the grey, decaying face,

As the calm of a Leamington ev'ning

Drifted into the place.

She moved the table of bottles

Away from the bed to the wall;

And tiptoeing gently over the stairs

Turned down the gas in the hall.

Sir John Betjeman CBE was a well-loved British poet, writer and broadcaster. He was Poet Laureate of the UK from 1972 until his death. A founding member of the Victorian Society, he was a passionate defender of Victorian architecture.

-o0o-

REVERIE
Sophia Scott

The Campsie Fells lay dreaming in the soft sweet summer light,
Little breezes played and whispered round her knees,
She dreamed of days we knew not when the waters lapped her feet
And the glaciers slithered steeply from her sides -
Days when mammoths roamed the valley through the sand dunes weird and high,
And our coal was mosses, ferns and tropic trees.

The long low line of hills was swept by western winds,
And the bracken’s green was long since turned to brown,
Her dreams were sore and troubled, for she heard the tramp of feet
As the Romans marched to Cadder o’er the down;
Till they pitched their tents and sheltered from the winter’s wildest wrath,
And beneath her flanks they built for them a town.

All these days are long since over, long ago and far away,
Changeless still the Campsies lie in summer sheen;
We discover Roman forts and we dig up mammoth bones
In our age of petrol, aeroplanes and steam;
And we build our little houses and we live our little lives,
But the great hills hug their secrets still - and dream.

Mrs Scott lived in Kirkintilloch which lies to the south of the Fells. Nothing is known of her, but it's believed that she belonged to the local Baptist Church and that her poems usually had religious themes.

-o-0-o-

Extract from SONG OF SONGS
Attributed to King Solomon of Israel (c.976-c.931 BC ?)

My beloved spake, and said unto me,
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

-o0o-

William Barnes

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE
William Barnes 1801-86

When I wer still a bwoy, an' mother's pride,
  A bigger bwoy spoke up to me so kind-like,
  "If you do like, I'll treat ye wi' a ride
  In theäse wheel-barrow here." Zoo I wer blind-like
  To what he had a-workèn in his mind-like,
  An' mounted vor a passenger inside;
  An' comèn to a puddle, perty wide,
  He tipp'd me in, a-grinnèn back behind-like.
  Zoo when a man do come to me so thick-like,
  An' sheäke my hand, where woonce he pass'd me by,
  An' tell me he would do me this or that,
  I can't help thinkèn o' the big bwoy's trick-like.
  An' then, vor all I can but wag my hat
  An' thank en, I do veel a little shy.

Barnes was an Anglican priest, philologist, writer and poet. Some of his poems like the one here were written in the Dorset dialect. Nowadays he is best remembered for the song "Linden Lea."

-o0o-

Poetry is what happens when nothing else can. - Charles Bukowski 1920-94

-o=0=o-

POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY FRIDAY

“To be creative means to be in love with life. You can be creative only if you love life enough that you want to enhance its beauty, you want to bring a little more music to it, a little more poetry to it, a little more dance to it.” - Osho 1931-90

-o0o-

A STAR DEEP IN THE MIND

Dejan Stojanovic b.1959

I see a new star on the horizon; 

It's not the Morning Star; 

It's a star without light.

This star without the light is the brightest

Because its light stays within. 

The biggest star doesn't take any space; 

It lives within, 

Feeds all other stars, all other matter. 

Without space, there is no time, 

Without time, there is no ageing, 

Without ageing, there is no death.

A star without light never dies; 

It cannot be seen in the outer space; 

It can only be sensed in the mind. 

-o0o-

John Dryden

DREAMS

John Dryden 1631-1700

Dreams are but interludes which Fancy makes;

When monarch Reason sleeps, this mimic wakes:

Compounds a medley of disjointed things,

A mob of cobblers, and a court of kings:

Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad;

Both are the reasonable soul run mad;

And many monstrous forms in sleep we see,

That neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be.

Sometimes forgotten things long cast behind

Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind.

The nurse's legends are for truths received,

And the man dreams but what the boy believed.

Sometimes we but rehearse a former play,

The night restores our actions done by day;

As hounds in sleep will open for their prey.

In short, the farce of dreams is of a piece,

Chimeras all; and more absurd, or less. 

Dryden was  poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who was made England's first Poet Laureate. He became so prominent that the period in which he wrote became known as "The Age of Dryden." Walter Scott referred to him as "Glorious John."

-o0o-

Henry David Thoreau

THE MOON NOW RISES TO HER ABSOLUTE RULE 

Henry David Thoreau 1817-62

The moon now rises to her absolute rule, 

And the husbandman and hunter 

Acknowledge her for their mistress. 

Asters and golden reign in the fields 

And the life everlasting withers not. 

The fields are reaped and shorn of their pride 

But an inward verdure still crowns them; 

The thistle scatters its down on the pool 

And yellow leaves clothe the river -

And nought disturbs the serious life of men. 

But behind the sheaves and under the sod 

There lurks a ripe fruit which the reapers have not gathered, 

The true harvest of the year - the boreal fruit 

Which it bears forever, 

With fondness annually watering and maturing it. 

But man never severs the stalk 

Which bears this palatable fruit.

Thoreau was an American essayist, poet, philosopher, abolitionist, naturalist, tax resister, development critic, surveyor, and historian. His philosophy of civil disobedience later influenced the political thoughts and actions of people like Leo Tolstoy, Mahatma Gandhi, and Martin Luther King Jr.

-o0o

THOSE ANNUAL BILLS

Mark Twain 1835-1910 (Samuel Langhome Clemens)

These annual bills! these annual bills!
How many a song their discord trills
Of 'truck' consumed, enjoyed, forgot,
Since I was skinned by last year's lot!

Those joyous beans are passed away;
Those onions blithe, O where are they?
Once loved, lost, mourned-now vexing ills
Your shades troop back in annual bills!

And so 'twill be when I'm aground
These yearly duns will still go round,
While other bards, with frantic quills,
Shall damn and damn these annual bills!

-o0o-

"Only as far as I reach can I grow / Only as far as I seek can I go / Only as deep as I look can I see / Only as much as I dream can I be" - Karen Raven

-o0o-

POETRY TO PLEASE IS UPDATED EVERY FRIDAY

-o=0=o-