Wednesday, May 31, 2017

A BIRD FROM THE WEST
Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

At the grey dawn, amongst the falling leaves,
   A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
   And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sung.

Take me, I cried, back to my island home;
   Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
   And home and home and home he ever sings.

We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.
   I called: "Arise! doth none remember me?"
One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,
   "How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!"

We rested over Connaught – whispering said:
   "Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here."
One woke and shivered at the morning grey;
   "The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear."

We flew low over Munster. Long I wept:
   "You used to love me, love me once again!"
They spoke from out the shadows wondering;
   "You'd think of tears, so bitter falls the rain."

Long over Leinster lingered we. "Good-bye!
   My best beloved, good-bye for evermore."
Sleepless they tossed and whispered to the dawn;
   "So sad a wind was never heard before."

Was it a dream I dreamt? For yet there swings
   In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,
And "Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!" ever sings.
   Oh! fair the breaking day in Ireland now.

-o0o-

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

A MAGIC MOMENT I REMEMBER
Alexander Sergeyevich Poushkin 1799-1837

A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

I pray to mute despair and anguish,
To pursuits the vain world esteems,
Long did I hear your soothing accents,
Long did your features haunt my dreams. 

Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine. 

In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me
No one to cry for, live for, love. 

Then came a moment of renaissance,
I looked up - you again are there
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

-o0o-

Monday, May 29, 2017

A CALM
George Santayana 1863-1952

When the towering heights of the middle heavens
Deep down in the ocean appear,
How pleasant to see the great summer clouds
Reflect in the water so clear.

There are trees above,
There are trees below,
Huge rocks and sloping hills;
And another Sun with its mellow glow
The pictured landscape fills.

The deep, silent mountains beneath the calm wave
Uphold their companions above.
Until hurrying winds from the breezy west
Sky, mountains, and landscape remove.

-o0o-

Sunday, May 28, 2017

IN SUMMER SHOWERS A SKREEKING NOISE IS HEARD
John Clare 1793-1864

In summer showers a skreeking noise is heard
Deep in the woods of some uncommon bird
It makes a loud and long and loud continued noise
And often stops the speed of men and boys
They think somebody mocks and goes along
And never thinks the nuthatch makes the song
Who always comes along the summer guest
The birdnest hunters never found the nest
The schoolboy hears the noise from day to day
And stoops among the thorns to find a way
And starts the jay bird from the bushes green
He looks and sees a nest he's never seen
And takes the spotted eggs with many joys
And thinks he found the bird that made the noise 

-o0o-

Saturday, May 27, 2017

THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS
Heinrich Hoffmann 1809-94

Augustus was a chubby lad;
Fat, ruddy cheeks Augustus had;
And everybody saw with joy
The plump and hearty, healthy boy,
He ate and drank as he was told
And never let his soup get cold.

But one day, a cold winter’s day
He screamed out "Take the soup away:
Oh, take the nasty soup away!
I won’t have any soup today."

Next day begins his tale of woes,
Quite lank and lean Augustus grows,
Yet though he feels so weak and ill,
The naughty fellow cries out still
"Not any soup for me I say:
Oh, take the nasty soup away!
I won’t have any soup today."

The third day comes; oh what a sin!
To make himself so pale and thin.
Yet, when the soup is put on table,
He screams as loud as he is able
"Not any soup for me, I say:
Oh take the nasty soup away!
I won’t have any soup to-day."

Look at him, now the fourth’s day’s come!
He scarcely weighs a sugar-plum;
He’s like a little bit of thread
And on the fifth day he was dead!

-o0o-

Friday, May 26, 2017

BEN LOMOND
Thomas Campbell 1777-1844

Hadst thou a genius on thy peak,
What tales, white-headed Ben,
Could'st thou of ancient ages speak,
That mock th' historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives
Seem but so many hours;
And likens, to the bees' frail hives,
Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou seest begun,
New creeds, new conquerors sway;
And, like their shadows in the sun,
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied
(Unlike life's little span),
Looks down a mentor on the pride
Of perishable man.

-o0o-

Thursday, May 25, 2017

TO BE OF USE
Madge Piercy b.1936

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlour generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil, 
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used. 
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real. 

-o0o-

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

I AM IN NEED OF MUSIC
Elizabeth Bishop 1911-79

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colours deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

-o0o-



Tuesday, May 23, 2017

GALWAY BAY
Arthur Colahan 1884-1952

If you ever go across the sea to Ireland
than maybe at the closing of your day
you can sit and watch the moon rise over Claddah
or watch the sun go down on Galway Bay

Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream
the women in the meadow makin' hay
or to sit beside a turf fire in a cabin
and watch the barefoot gossoms as they play

Oh the breezed blowing o're the sea from Ireland
are perfumed by the heather as they blow
and the women in the uplands diggin' praties
speak a language that the strangers do not know

Oh the strangers came and tried to teach us their ways
they blamed us just for bein' what we are
but they might as well go chasing after moonbeams
or light a penny candle from a star

And if there's going to be a life hereafter
and something tells me sure there's going to be
I will ask my God to let me make my Heaven
in the dear old land across the Irish Sea.

-o0o-


Monday, May 22, 2017

ECHO
Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830-94

Come to me in the silence of the night; 
Come in the speaking silence of a dream; 
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright 
As sunlight on a stream; 
Come back in tears, 
O memory, hope, love of finished years. 
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter-sweet, 
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, 
Where souls brim-full of love abide and meet; 
Where thirsting longing eyes 
Watch the slow door 
That opening, letting in, lets out no more. 
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live 
My very life again though cold in death: 
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give 
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: 
Speak low, lean low, 
As long ago, my love, how long ago.

JUST CLOUDS
now online

-o0o-

Sunday, May 21, 2017

HOT AND COLD
Roald Dahl  1916-90

A woman who my mother knows
Came in and took off all her clothes.

Said I, not being very old,
'By golly gosh, you must be cold!'

'No, no!' she cried. 'Indeed I'm not!
I'm feeling devilishly hot!'

THE NEW BLOG JUST CLOUDS BEGINS TOMORROW

-o0o-

Saturday, May 20, 2017

CATS SLEEP ANYWHERE
Eleanor Farjeon 1881-1965

Cats sleep, anywhere,
Any table, any chair
Top of piano, window-ledge,
In the middle, on the edge,
Open drawer, empty shoe,
Anybody's lap will do,
Fitted in a cardboard box,
In the cupboard, with your frocks -
Anywhere! They don't care! 
Cats sleep anywhere. 

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED TODAY

-o0o-

Friday, May 19, 2017

STILL I RISE
Maya Angelou 1928-2014

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? 
Why are you beset with gloom? 
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? 
Bowed head and lowered eyes? 
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you? 
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? 
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
  I rise. 

JUST CLOUDS
A NEW BLOG BEGINS ON MONDAY

-o0o-

Thursday, May 18, 2017

I AM THE ONLY BEING
Emily Jane Bronte 1818-48

I am the only being whose doom
    No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
    I never caused a thought of gloom
    A smile of joy since I was born

    In secret pleasure, secret tears
    This changeful life has slipped away
    As friendless after eighteen years
    As lone as on my natal day

    There have been times I cannot hide
    There have been times when this was drear
    When my sad soul forgot its pride
    And longed for one to love me here

    But those were in the early glow
    Of feelings since subdued by care
    And they have died so long ago
    I hardly now believe they were

    First melted off the hope of youth
    Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
    And then experience told me truth
    In mortal bosoms never grew

    'Twas grief enough to think mankind
    All hollow servile insincere,
    But worse to trust to my own mind
    And find the same corruption there

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WILL BE UPDATED ON SATURDAY

-o0o-

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS
William Butler Yeats 1865-1939

Down by the salley gardens
   my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens
   with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy,
   as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish,
   with her would not agree.

In a field by the river
   my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder
   she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy,
   as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish,
   and now am full of tears.

-o0o-

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

A SATIRICAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LATE FAMOUS GENERAL
Jonathan Swift 1667-1745

His Grace! impossible! what dead!
Of old age too, and in his bed!
And could that mighty warrior fall?
And so inglorious, after all!
Well, since he’s gone, no matter how,
The last loud trump must wake him now:
And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,
He’d wish to sleep a little longer.
And could he be indeed so old
As by the newspapers we’re told?
Threescore, I think, is pretty high;
’Twas time in conscience he should die
This world he cumbered long enough;
He burnt his candle to the snuff;
And that’s the reason, some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.
Behold his funeral appears,
Nor widow’s sighs, nor orphan’s tears,
Wont at such times each heart to pierce,
Attend the progress of his hearse.
But what of that, his friends may say,
He had those honours in his day.
True to his profit and his pride,
He made them weep before he died.
Come hither, all ye empty things,
Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings;
Who float upon the tide of state,
Come hither, and behold your fate.
Let pride be taught by this rebuke,
How very mean a thing’s a Duke;
From all his ill-got honours flung,
Turned to that dirt from whence he sprung.

-o0o-

Monday, May 15, 2017

LIKE THE TOUCH OF RAIN
Edward Thomas 1878-1917

Like the touch of rain she was
On a man's flesh and hair and eyes
When the joy of walking thus
Has taken him by surprise:

With the love of the storm he burns,
He sings, he laughs, well I know how,
But forgets when he returns
As I shall not forget her "Go now".

Those two words shut a door
Between me and the blessed rain
That was never shut before
And will not open again.

-o0o-

Sunday, May 14, 2017

ANDY'S GONE WITH CATTLE
Henry Lawson 1867-1922

Our Andy's gone to battle now 
'Gainst Drought, the red marauder; 
Our Andy's gone with cattle now 
Across the Queensland border. 

He's left us in dejection now; 
Our hearts with him are roving. 
It's dull on this selection now, 
Since Andy went a-droving. 

Who now shall wear the cheerful face 
In times when things are slackest? 
And who shall whistle round the place 
When Fortune frowns her blackest? 

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now 
When he comes round us snarling? 
His tongue is growing hotter now 
Since Andy cross'd the Darling. 

The gates are out of order now, 
In storms the riders* rattle; 
For far across the border now 
Our Andy's gone with cattle. 

Poor Aunty's looking thin and white; 
And Uncle's cross with worry; 
And poor old Blucher howls all night 
Since Andy left Macquarie. 

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall, 
And all the tanks run over; 
And may the grass grow green and tall 
In pathways of the drover; 

And may good angels send the rain 
On desert stretches sandy; 
And when the summer comes again 
God grant 'twill bring us Andy.

* Riders - pieces of timber used to hold down the bark roofs of primitive bush houses.

-o0o-

Saturday, May 13, 2017

CARGOES
John Masefield 1878-1967

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

-o0o-

Friday, May 12, 2017

ALL NATURE HAS A FEELING
John Clare 1793-1864

All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks 
Are life eternal: and in silence they 
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books; 
There's nothing mortal in them; their decay 
Is the green life of change; to pass away 
And come again in blooms revivified. 
Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay, 
And with the sun and moon shall still abide 
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.

-o0o-

Thursday, May 11, 2017

A FAREWELL
Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-92

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
    Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
    For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
    A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be
    For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree
    And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
    For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
    A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
    For ever and for ever.

-o0o-

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

A LETTER TO LOUISE 
(written to his wife)
John Reed 1887-1920

Rainy rush of bird-song
Apple-blossom smoke
Thin bells water-falling sound
Wind-rust on the silver pond
Furry starring willow wand
Wan new grasses waking round
Blue bird in the oak...
Woven in my word-song

White and slim my lover
Birch-tree in the shade
Mountain pools her fearless eyes
Innocent all-answering
Were I blinded to the Spring
Happy thrill would in me rise
Smiling half afraid
At the nearness of her

All my weak endeavour
Lay I at her feet
Like a moth from oversea
Let me longing lightly rest
On her flower petal breast
Till the red dawn set me free
To be with my sweet
Ever and forever...

-o0o-

Tuesday, May 9, 2017

ON RAGLAN ROAD
Patrick Kavanagh 1904-67

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew 
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; 
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way, 
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. 

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge 
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge, 
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay - 
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away. 

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known 
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone 
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say. 
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May 

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now 
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow 
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay - 
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

Monday, May 8, 2017

MY PAPA'S WALTZ
Theodore Roethke 1908-63

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

-o0o-

Sunday, May 7, 2017

LIFE
Charlotte Bronte 1816-55

Life, believe, is not a dream 
 So dark as sages say; 
Oft a little morning rain 
 Foretells a pleasant day. 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, 
 But these are transient all; 
If the shower will make the roses bloom, 
 O why lament its fall ? 

   Rapidly, merrily, 
 Life's sunny hours flit by, 
   Gratefully, cheerily, 
 Enjoy them as they fly ! 

What though Death at times steps in 
 And calls our Best away ? 
What though sorrow seems to win, 
 O'er hope, a heavy sway ? 
Yet hope again elastic springs, 
 Unconquered, though she fell; 
Still buoyant are her golden wings, 
 Still strong to bear us well. 
  
 Manfully, fearlessly, 
 The day of trial bear, 
   For gloriously, victoriously, 
 Can courage quell despair !

The new poetry blog is now online

-o0o-

Saturday, May 6, 2017

I CRY 
Tupac Shaur 1971-96

Sometimes when I'm alone
I Cry,
Cause I am on my own.
The tears I cry are bitter and warm.
They flow with life but take no form
I Cry because my heart is torn.
I find it difficult to carry on.

If I had an ear to confiding,
I would cry among my treasured friends,
but who do you know that stops that long,
to help another carry on.


The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.
Then to stop and see what makes one cry,
so painful and sad.
And sometimes…
I Cry
and no one cares about why.

-o0o-

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG WAS UPDATED TODAY

Friday, May 5, 2017

NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY
Robert Frost 1874 - 1963

 Nature’s first green is gold, 
Her hardest hue to hold. 
Her early leaf’s a flower; 
But only so an hour. 
Then leaf subsides to leaf. 
So Eden sank to grief, 
So dawn goes down to day. 
Nothing gold can stay. 

The new blog THE POETRY OF THOMAS HARDY is now online

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.7 WILL BE POSTED ON SATURDAY

-o0o-

Thursday, May 4, 2017

CARVING A NAME
Horatio Alger 1832-99

I wrote my name upon the sand,
 And trusted it would stand for aye;
But, soon, alas! the refluent sea
 Had washed my feeble lines away.

I carved my name upon the wood,
 And, after years, returned again;
I missed the shadow of the tree
 That stretched of old upon the plain.

To solid marble next, my name
 I gave as a perpetual trust;
An earthquake rent it to its base,
 And now it lies, o'erlaid with dust.

All these have failed. In wiser mood
 I turn and ask myself, "What then?"
If I would have my name endure,
 I'll write it on the hearts of men,

In characters of living light,
 Of kindly deeds and actions wrought.
And these, beyond the touch of time,
 Shall live immortal as my thought.

The new blog THE POETRY OF THOMAS HARDY begins tomorrow

A PERSONAL SCRAPBLOG No.7 WILL BE POSTED ON SATURDA Y

-o0o-

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

GO, LOVELY ROSE!
Edmund Waller 1606-87

Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair! 

-o0o-

A new blog begins on Friday
THE POETRY OF THOMAS HARDY

-o0o-

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

DO YOU HEAR THE CHILDREN WEEPING?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground,
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity.
“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,—
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And your purple shows your path!
But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.”

[The above is part of “The Cry of the Children” a poem of 13 verses. It was written at the time "when government investigations had exposed the exploitation of children employed in coal mines and factories."]

-o0o-

Monday, May 1, 2017

BARTER
Sara Teasedale 1884-1933

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like the curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

-o0o-