Poetry Page

[BarbStAubrey]

J.W. Waterhouse Famous Poets and Poems about Spring Link to: Spring Poems Discussion Leaders: Barb & fairanna

Join Us! For a Season of Spring Poetry A Prayer in Spring ~ Robert Frost        Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees, The swarm dilating round the perfect trees. And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard, The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill, And off a blossom in mid air stands still. For this is love and nothing else is love, The which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends He will, But which it only needs that we fulfil.

[BarbStAubrey]

GOOD FRIDAY
           ~ by George Herbert
                  (Notice how each stanza roughly resembles the shape of a cross.)

                Oh my chief good,
How shall I measure out thy blood?
How shall I count what thee befell,
                And each grief tell?

                Shall I thy woes
Number according to thy foes?
Or, since one star show’d thy first breath,
                Shall all thy death?

                Or shall each leaf,
Which falls in Autumn, score1 a grief?
Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be sign,
                Of the true vine?

                Then let each hour
Of my whole life one grief devour;
That thy distress through all may run,
                And be my sun.

                  Or rather let
My several sins their sorrows get;
That, as each beast his cure doth know,
                  Each sin may so.

[BarbStAubrey]

“THE PASSION”
          – by George Herbert

Since blood is fittest, Lord, to write
Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight;
My heart hath store; write there, where in
One box doth lie both ink and sin:

That when sin spies so many foes,
Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes,
All come to lodge there, sin may say,
No room for me, and fly away.

Sin being gone, oh fill the place,
And keep possession with thy grace;
Lest sin take courage and return,
And all the writings blot or burn.

[BarbStAubrey]

George Herbert was born on April 3, 1593, the fifth son of an eminent Welsh family. His mother, Magdalen Newport, held great patronage to distinguished literary figures such as John Donne, who dedicated his Holy Sonnets to her. Herbert's father died when he was three, leaving his mother with ten children, all of whom she was determined to educate and raise as loyal Anglicans. Herbert left for Westminster School at age ten, and went on to become one of three to win scholarships to Trinity College, Cambridge.

Herbert received two degrees (a B.A. in 1613 and an M.A. in 1616) and was elected a major fellow of Trinity. Two years after his college graduation, he was appointed reader in Rhetoric at Cambridge, and in 1620 he was elected public orator—a post wherein Herbert was called upon to represent Cambridge at public occasions and that he described as "the finest place in the university." In 1624 and 1625 Herbert was elected as a representative to Parliament. He resigned as orator in 1627, married Jane Danvers in 1629, and took holy orders in the Church of England in 1630. Herbert spent the rest of his life as rector in Bemerton near Salisbury. While there, he preached, wrote poetry, and helped rebuild the church out of his own funds.

Herbert's practical manual to country parsons, A Priest to the Temple (1652), exhibits the intelligent devotion he showed to his parishoners. On his deathbed, he sent the manuscript of The Temple to his close friend, Nicholas Ferrar, asking him to publish the poems only if he thought they might do good to "any dejected poor soul." He died of consumption in 1633 at the age of forty and the book was published in the same year. The Temple met with enormous popular acclaim—it had been reprinted twenty times by 1680.

Herbert's poems have been characterized by a deep religious devotion, linguistic precision, metrical agility, and ingenious use of conceit. Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote of Herbert's diction that "Nothing can be more pure, manly, or unaffected," and he is ranked with Donne as one of the great Metaphysical poets.

[BarbStAubrey]

THE QUIDDITY
          ~ by George Herbert

MY God, a verse is not a crown,
No point of honour, or gay suit,
No hawk, or banquet, or renown,
    Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute.

It cannot vault, or dance, or play ;
    It never was in France or Spain ;
Nor can it entertain the day
    With a great stable or domain.

It is no office, art, or news ;
    Nor the Exchange, or busy Hall :
But it is that which, while I use,
    I am with Thee : and Most take all

[Gumtree]

How strange it is that only yesterday I read those very poems by George Herbert - not so strange really considering the season. Herbert's work fell into neglect for quite a time but I think he is one of the more accessible of the metaphysical poets to read today.

Here's one by John Donne - one of Herbert's contemporaries.

CRUCIFYING.

By miracles exceeding power of man,
He faith in some, envy in some begat, 
For, what weak spirits admire, ambitious hate : 
In both affections many to Him ran. 
But O ! the worst are most, they will and can, 
Alas ! and do, unto th' Immaculate, 
Whose creature Fate is, now prescribe a fate, 
Measuring self-life's infinity to span, 
Nay to an inch.   Lo ! where condemned He 
Bears His own cross, with pain, yet by and by 
When it bears him, He must bear more and die. 
Now Thou art lifted up, draw me to Thee, 
And at Thy death giving such liberal dole, 
Moist with one drop of Thy blood my dry soul.

[Gumtree]

Barbara - we were posting more or less together as I see you've added another poem and biography of Herbert. Thanks for that - it's good to have the refresher on his life. I'd forgotten that Herbert's mum was patroness to Donne...

[Octavia]

Hello, I've been offline and there's so much here to catch up with, I've just skimmed through the last couple of pages, but I'll go through them properly tomorrow. Son is going to the beautiful Keppel Island for the day with friends.
Gum, I have the Magi poem memorised, it was like meeting up with an old friend . Soe beautiful new ones(to me) to read carefully.
 I'm going to down load this one by Barbara Smith from Ireland before I lose it. Often happens!

On Not Seeing Inside the Sistine Chapel

You were a sky-gazer, a cloud-watcher,
seeing within those steamed puff-pillows
the forms of fabulous beings.

Just now I saw a fisherman, his white head
turned away, his finger flung
behind him pointing at infinity.

His rag-rolled head streamed to the west,
clothes rippling in the high sky-wind.
And when my lazy eye looked again

he morphed into a huge ornamental E,
whose top lintel was a crocodile’s mouth,
snapping at the blue. This too bleeds,

feeds into a sterling pound sign. You
must have spent afternoons on your back
gazing at patterns forming and merging,

dissipating where the mind dragged it.
You took your pigments and pulled them,
your art fixing a borderless sky inside

a broad high vault, peopling the heavens.
Ah, Michelangelo, I know why the sky
became your backdrop, why you loved shades

from azurite to smalt to cobalt blue .

[Gumtree]

Octavia - thanks for Barbara Smith from Ireland - I don't know of her but she jolted me out of my chair with the use of 'smalt' in the last line... haven't heard the term for years - its a pigment made from powdered glass and cobalt used during the Renaissance? - I would never use it in a million years because of the danger of inhaling the glass - but then perhaps I would have in those days -  I do sometimes use a glasspaper for my pastels and that's always ready to bite me - takes the skin off my hands if I don't watch it. Ah! Anything for art 

[Babi]

 All this time, GUM, and I hadn't realized you are an artist!  Have you mentioned it before,
and I just wasn't paying attention?   It's a wonderful thing to be able to create..or re-create..
beauty.  Could you show us any of your art?   It has been so great to share FairAnna's poems; I'd enjoy seeing some of your work as well.

[BarbStAubrey]

OH my to come in today and learn from two of you something new - I was not familiar with the poet Barbara Smith and found her online - what a busy lady - raising 6 children, she will soon have published her second book of poetry all the while teaching Creative Writing - she has an MA in  Creative Writing from Queens University, Belfast.

And then I have seen often the word 'smalt' and never knew this meaning - I always assumed it had something to do with metalwork or Alchemy and here it is a pigment made from powdered glass and cobalt. Gumtree what is glasspaper that you use for your pastels?

Good Friday silence starts for me in  just a few minutes - so let me upload these poems so I can offer my 3 hours of contemplative silence.

Here is one of our Annafair's poems that she shared with us in the Spring of 2006 although written the year before.

Not because the light  sifting through  
the new born  leaves is softer
Not because my daffodils bloomed  
last week and now are gone  
Not  because my plum tree in its lacy gown  
dropped its buds like snow upon the greening lawn  
Not because the lilacs await their turn  
and the iris green swards  heralds  
the coming of the Empress in her royal gown  
Not because the birds are searching  
for just the place to build their nests  
Always it seems in some tree I had  
Hoped to remove or vines that need tearing down  
Not because the world looks cleaner  
washed by warmer rains instead of snow
Not because the earth smells new and robins  
pull  worms from newly turned sod  
No all these things tell me it is  here  
BUT still …
it is the sound this  Saturday morning  
Of my neighbors gasoline mower  
Being pushed in precision across his lawn  
The first  of many Saturday forays  
Until once again Autumn sings her song.

anna  alexander  4/9/05©

[BarbStAubrey]

here is another Barbara Smith poem:

Sea Horses

Curlicued inside her head —
her own album of the past,
smoothed out grooves of inverted
submerged horns — the hippocampus.

Where significant events are stored
to be replayed and glossed at will.
Like a three year old’s yellow
trousers: blue wellingtons,
the fuzziness of losing a sibling,
not owning a single face-shot
of his blondness; or hiding
beneath a brown-barred bed
to escape tan coloured brogues.

And inside the matter of the brain,
twigs, branches, boughs,
(a sturdy trunk for now)
all contained within a nutcase.
Dutch Elm disease the fiercest threat —
spreading within the whorled passages,
cuckolding the present sense.

[BarbStAubrey]

And then this is an entire post from Annafair

annafair
March 25, 2006 - 03:15 pm
Require a bit of thought and I suspect each person reading one will say OH YES that is what it means,.

Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand in here in front of me
and take the strain.


The kits is soaring , enjoying the life it has but like all of us soon it will plunge down...and the line that held it aloft is useless. I think he is telling the boys to grab life, they were born for it and it wont be easy but take it and run with it ...that is what comes to my mind...the only way to enjoy life is to run with it. and if it isn't easy take it anyway ,,,,we are given life and the only way to make it meaningful is live it ...annafair

[BarbStAubrey]

Anna's reply was her understanding from the post that MarjV wrote - Both Marj and Anna are discussing a poem written by --Seamus Heaney during our month long in-depth discussion and sharing of his poetry. Here is MarjV's post so that Anna's post makes sense.

MarjV
March 25, 2006 - 01:40 pm

"A Kite for Michael and Christopher"

All through that Sunday afternoon
a kite flew above Sunday,
a tightened drumhead, an armful of blown chaff.

I'd seen it grey and slippy in the making,
I'd tapped it when it dried out white and stiff,
I'd tied the bows of newspaper
along its six-foot tail.

But now it was far up like a small black lark
and now it dragged as if the bellied string
were a wet rope hauled upon
to lift a shoal.

My friend says that the human soul
is about the weight of a snipe,
yet the soul at anchor there,
the string that sags and ascends,
weigh like a furrow assumed into the heavens.

Before the kite plunges down into the wood
and this line goes useless
take in your two hands, boys, and feel
the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.
You were born fit for it.
Stand in here in front of me
and take the strain.

- - - - - -


There are certainly many things to look at in this poem. First of course is the image of the boys flying their kite. And then we see the soul is brought into play as an image/metaphor. Our soul does soar. It also bears grief.

And at the end he tells the boys they were born fit for it; fit for the strain. The strain of having a soul? Some days>br? it does strain.

I do remember that feeling of the heavy weight of the kite  and that "bellied string". Kites way up there bouncing around are such a light looking sight. Not heavy at all to the eye.

Having fun rambling around here. That's all I know to mention right now.

[BarbStAubrey]

Could not find a poem with the word Smalt used however, this is a lovely article about Smalt in Vermeer paintings.
http://www.essentialvermeer.com/palette/palette_smalt.html

[Octavia]

Gum, I thought 'smalt' was a misprint when I first read the poem, so went searching and read the same website, that Barb's brought up. There is everything to learn on the Internet, and not enough lifetimes to do it in.
Ouch, glass and hands, not a good mix!
I've always loved Anna's work, there were some really touching ones she wrote on Seniornet, I'd really like to read again.
There was one on grief or death, that moved us all.
I wouldn't know all these poems without my laptop, it's a godsend.
The poems are piling up here, and I type so slowly, I'm having trouble keeping my head above water in here.

[Babi]

 Another beautiful poem by ANNA.  I could just cry thinking that all those wonderful
poems could be lost. Anna cannot do all that would be necessary now to get them published,
even if she would. I can only hope that her family will.

  Ah, Ms. Smith.  My bane is the 'significant events' that insist on being replayed and
refuse to be glossed, whether I will it or not. "contained within a nutcase".  How apt!!

[Gumtree]

Babi l'artiste?   C'est moi!  I daresay I've mentioned it in passing once or twice. I mainly do oil on canvas or pastels and am partial toward the conte crayon a trois coleurs. I do all sorts of subjects - land  sea and rockscapes, still lifes, portraits in a relaxed realist style and like to work on large canvases though I do small stuff as well.   I'd be happy to put up some images if ever I get my head around how to do it. Actually, I'm something of a moron when it comes to photos.

Barbara The glasspaper for pastels is a fine art paper impregnated with fine glass particles which gives more texture to the paper and holds the pastel rather well so that one can apply many layers before the support becomes saturated. It is actually similar to the 'sand' paper used in carpentry etc to smooth down wooden surfaces before applying paints or varnishes etc. Some artists do in fact use a heavyweight hardware variety of glasspaper especially when they want a more textured support for their work. Sand and glass papers are perhaps known by other names in your country.

[BarbStAubrey]

aha - found a video with a lesson in various papers including glass paper

http://www.mindbites.com/lesson/2021-painting-an-autumn-pastel-on-glasspaper

[BarbStAubrey]

Good Morning - Easter morning here - I think you have already experienced Easter morning  in Australia - if not than I am really confused about the International clock. But Easter is one of the days that takes a few days to feel the beginnings of the new season... We in the States are looking towards turning up the AC and digging in our gardens where as Australian's are looking to make a fire in the grate and pull out the cookbooks to try a new stew.

And yet again, Herbert goes for the shape of things - it appears the words outline the shape of two wings.

Easter Wings
          ~ by George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poor:
With thee
O let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did begin:
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sin,
That I became
Most thin.
With thee
Let me combine
And feel this day thy victory:
For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

[Gumtree]

Yes, Barbara you've got the clock right - already it is late afternoon here in West Aust. We are exactly 12 hours ahead of your eastern time (without Daylight saving). Octavia and Roshanarose are both a couple of hours ahead of me.

The Herbert poem is a Shape Poem where the lines and even the choice of words are chosen to fit a predetermined shape on the page. One of my sons was enraptured of this form when he was a boy and wrote all sorts of stuff to fit the shape he had drawn.

Resurrection - John Donne
 

Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule
Shall (though she now be in extreme degree
Too stony hard, and yet too fleshly) be
Freed by that drop, from being starved, hard, or foul,
And life, by this death abled, shall control
Death, whom thy death slew; nor shall to me
Fear of first or last death, bring misery,
If in thy little book my name thou enroll,
Flesh in that long sleep is not putrified,
But made that there, of which, and for which 'twas;
Nor can by other means be glorified.
May then sins sleep, and deaths soon from me pass,
That waked from both, I again risen may
Salute the last, and everlasting day.

[Babi]

 As one with absolutely no artistic talent, I can only bring admiration to the viewing
of beautiful paintings.  I do know a pastel from an oil painting; for the most part I am
a moron about the details. Photos, too. The only artistic thing I ever did successfully
was cross-stitch...and couldn't do that as well as my daughters.
  Yes, I imagine Australia would definitely lend itself to large canvases.

 Intriguing...shaping the poem into wings.  But...can you tell me what he means by "if
I imp my wing on thine"?  imp??

 
 

[Gumtree]

I think in this instance imp means to graft one thing on to another. It's probably an obsolete term these days.

Ah Ha! Cross Stitch - I'm a fanatic too - love it. I'm a member of a group which meets weekly and try to get there as often as I can though since my eyes started playing up I haven't been quite so regular. Some of the 'girls' do beautiful work.

[roshanarose]

It is fascinating how people see shapes differently.  I didn't see wings, although I do now, but much less poetic, I saw a capital E for Easter. 

This time of year in Queensland - Brisbane and Rocky in this instance - is a time when the powers in charge of the weather stubbornly refuse to end Summer.  There is a hopeful exchange of clothes from Summer to Winter.  I don't know about Octavia, but I think that Gumtree and I are looking forward to much cooler weather soon.  Autumn and Spring are not always well defined in warmer climes.  I find myself comparing our temperatures every night, Gum, watching for which state is going to be the coolest first. 

Brisbane, my city, is very humid.  I hate humidity, it does terrible things to my skin. I seem to have rashes constantly.  Even after so many years of acclimatising: mother's side landed in Sydney in 1854; father's c.1911, my skin still remains European.  I have also had Malignant Melanoma, but survived, as you can probably tell 

[BarbStAubrey]

      Funny because I kept looking and looking - how in the world does she get an E out of that - Maybe E looks different in other languages - then no wait - they speak English in Australia - hahaha oh dear - then when I saw it I couldn't stop laughing.

And yes, Imp is not a word we see used today - took a stretch of the imagination to get it but a look at the dictionary repeats your explanation for imp Gumtree

imp
   
–noun
1.a little devil or demon; an evil spirit.
2.a mischievous child.
3.Archaic . a scion or offshoot of a plant or tree.
4.Archaic . an offspring.

–verb (used with object)
5.Falconry .
          a.to graft (feathers) into a wing.
          b.to furnish (a wing, tail, etc.) with feathers, as to make good losses or deficiencies and improve powers of flight.
6.Archaic . to add a piece to; mend or repair.

Origin:
before 900;  (noun) Middle English impe, Old English impa, impe  shoot, graft < Late Latin impotus, imputus  grafted shoot < Greek émphytos  planted, implanted, verbal adjective of emphŷein  to implant ( em- em-2  + phŷein  to bring forth);

(v.) Middle English impen  to plant, graft, Old English impian, geimpian,  derivative of the noun (compare Old High German impfōn, impitōn  > German impfen  to inoculate); sense “demon” < phrase imp of the devil


Hope  y'all get  your cool breezes but while you are doing your weather dance please include us for rain - the rest of the nation is soaking including all sorts of storms but we are dry as fossilized bones.

[roshanarose]

Thanks to this site and your careful editing Barb, my English is improving! 

[BarbStAubrey]

        

[Gumtree]

Barbara - Thanks for checking out imp - I was too lazy to get to the dictionaries. My knowledge of the sense of the word comes (I think) from horticulture - the graft - but I also know it in the sense of 'mend or repair'
which I note is archaic .... Just shows how old I am 

Roshanarose - who is winning in the race for cooler weather? you or me?
It's not too bad here at present - typical late summer weather but without the sea breezes to freshen the air - temps up to mid 30s. I don't compare our temps with Qld but always check out Sydney where one of my sons abides - now I guess I'll be looking for yours and Octavia's as well 

As for rain - like Barbara we're still waiting and waiting for a drop or two. We did actually have a light a sprinkle for a few minutes yesterday -but not enough to wet the pavement under the trees. As for a real downpour - it's been several months since that happened - Water storage is at crisis levels as our dams and resevoirs are almost empty and levels in the aquifers are dropping appreciably.

[Gumtree]

Today, 25th April is ANZAC day when we commemorate and honour all Australians and New Zealanders who have served in our armed forces many of whom gave their lives in the cause of freedom.

Here's a poem or two... 


The Soul of Australia

In the light of dawn, the break of day,
Through the waters chill they fought their way;
Like their sires of old, to the Motherland
They came o’er the sea, and they sprang to the strand;
And the blood of the Angles, the Scot, and the Celt
Grew hot in their veins as the war fire they felt.

In the light of noon, in the bright sunlight,
They fought up the cliffs from height to height;
And the sun shone down on that scene of strife
Where the ‘Soul of Australia’ came to life,
As the blood of Australians was shed on the sod,
For Australia, for Britain, Humanity, God.

Shall Australia mourn for the sons she has lost-
Should Australians weep? Nay! Great though the cost,
Joy mingles with grief, and pride mingles with pain,
For our boys died like heroes, and died not in vain.
And the ‘Soul of Australia’, new-born on that day
When her sons died at ANZAC, shall never decay.

J.H.M.
The Brisbane Courier, 25 April 1916

[Gumtree]

A Tribute to ANZAC Day

With their hair a little whiter, their step not quite so sure
Still they march on proudly as they did the year before.
Theirs were the hands that saved us, their courage showed the way
Their lives they laid down for us, that we may live today.

From Gallipoli's rugged hillsides, to the sands of Alamein
On rolling seas and in the skies, those memories will remain.
Of airmen and the sailors, of Lone Pine and Suvla Bay
The boys of the Dardenelles are remembered on this day.

They fought their way through jungles, their blood soaked desert sands
They still remember comrades who rest in foreign lands.
They remember the siege of old Tobruk, the mud of the Kokoda Trail
Some paying the supreme sacrifice with courage that did not fail.
To the icy land of Korea, the steamy jungles of Vietnam
And the heroic battle of Kapyong and that epic victory at Long Tan.

Fathers, sons and brothers, together they fought and died
That we may live in peace together, while at home their mothers cried.
When that final bugle calls them to cross that great divide
Those comrades will be waiting when they reach the other side.

Ken Bunker




                             LEST WE FORGET

[Babi]

  Oh, sad poems! Even knowing the battle was necessary,  the losses seem too much
to bear.

 GUM, I've definitely reached the point where I had to drop the cross-stitch. Last time
I tried it I kept getting off-track. I still have a couple I saved and hung, so there's
something to enjoy and remember.  And I have some from my two daughters, too.

 ROSE, your weather sounds exactly like mine, here on the Gulf Coast, near Houston. Always
high humidity, with my favorite seasons...spring and autumn...all too brief.

 Falconry, is it?!! Old poetry does have it's small puzzles, halting us in mid-stride.


A Day in a Texas Heat Wave,  Jeff Haby

After sunrise-
The air feels sticky,
Like honey drying and thick.

Texas heat gradually builds
As noontime approaches-
Heat such as in a warming oven
Or a roaring fire.

The heat and humidity combine
To a heat index of one-o-nine.
Sweat drips from every brow.
How a normal human can handle it-
I don't know how.

The sun is still only halfway
Across the sky.
Weak grass and bushes
Begin to wilt and die.

The temperature reaches 100 again.
Only sunset gives relief
From the red hot
Sunburning thief.

Praying tomorrow will be the day
That there will be rain
Because another 14 hours of the sun's ray
Will send a few more people insane.

[BarbStAubrey]

I love it Babi - it made me chuckle with the truth of a Texas Heat only I wouldn't say Wave - it sounds to me like a typical summer's day.

And yes Gumtree, the poems are filled with sadness, noble bravery, love as well as, the foolishness of man all rolled into words that stir the reader's emotions. Sounds like your ANZAC  Day is similar to our Memorial Day which comes the last weekend of May.

The two extremes of poetry reminded me of this un-named with each stave given a name...

Corinne Roosevelt Robinson (1861-1933)

            Comedy

    I AM the Comic Muse,
    Soft as the summer rain,
    Come the children I bear
    Out of the breath of my brain;
    Love,—and Laughter that lifts,
    Joy with the lilt of a song,
    Beauty that's born of praise,
    And Faith that has righted wrong.
    I am the heart of a child,
    I am the trust of a maid,
    Spirit and passion of man,
    Love that is unbetrayed;
    I am the Muse that smiles,
    Lo ! and gladness is rife,
    Comedy, I am called,
    I am the mirror of Life.

            Tragedy

    I am the Tragic Muse;
    Born of the web of my brain,
    Lo ! my children shall pass,
    Poverty, Pathos, and Pain;
    Labor,—and Love forsworn,
    Each in their turn I name.
    Jealousy, evil born
    Sorrow, and Sin and Shame.
    I am the World's despair,
    I am the heart's despite,
    Woven of me is fear,
    Shadow of mine is night;
    I am the Muse that weeps,
    Out of my grief is Strife,
    Tragedy, I am called,
    I am the mirror of Life!

[Octavia]

Babi, Texas heat sounds exactly like Queensland .

It's the Anzac Day holiday today, so I'll put a last war poem here.

 Beach Burial.

Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs
The convoys of dead sailors come;
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
But morning rolls them in the foam.

Between the sob and clubbing of the gunfire
Someone, it seems, has time for this,
To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows
And tread the sand upon their nakedness;

And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,
Bears the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin -

'Unknown seaman' - the ghostly pencil
Wavers and fades, the purple drips,
The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions
As blue as drowned men's lips,

Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,
Whether as enemies they fought,
Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,
Enlisted on the other front.
Kenneth Slessor

[Octavia]

I'm having trouble with the posting box. After a certain amount of writing,it starts jumping, and it's very difficult to keep typing.
Kenneth Slessor was an Australian war correspondent.
he line 'sob and clubbing ' for the sound of the gunfire sends shivers up my spine. Another evocative line is Wilfred Owen's 'stuttering rifle's rapid rattle'.
Different sounds conveying the same deadly message.

[BarbStAubrey]

Octavia the line that caught my breath

At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,

I could see it in my minds eye - like so much flotsam, light enough not to sink but rather to remain a few feet from the surface swaying with the tide. Hunting like driftwood that reminds us of what was - not how mothers want to think their babies will mark the journey they both started when the first movement of life took hold in their womb. Then, maybe there is peace in a circle of waiting in the waters of life for birth and then burial. Imagining a metaphor is the only weapon to the intolerable sadness that is a picture of this truth.

[Gumtree]

Octavia - trouble with the jumping screen can be fixed - If you have IE there's a 'compatibility' icon up on the browser bar - it looks like  a torn piece of paper and is to the left of the 'refresh' icon. Just click on that when you come in each time and it should be OK. Don't click on it halfway through a post or you'll lose it. - the post I mean...

Otherwise you might have to ask Jane for help.

[Babi]

I like the poem about comedy and tragedy.  Poetry and drama...the good ones...do reflect life for
us, and say for us the things we feel but cannot express.

[BarbStAubrey]

May Baskets
          ~ by Evaleen Stein

Let us take our baskets early
To the meadows green,
While the wild-flowers still are pearly
With the dewdrops' sheen.

Fill them full of blossoms rosy,
Violets and gay
Cowslips, every pretty posy
Welcoming the May.

Then our lovely loads we'll carry
Down the village street,
On each door, with laughter merry,
Hang a basket sweet.

Hey-a-day-day! It is spring now,
Lazy folks, awake!
See the pretty things we bring now
For the May Day's sake!

[BarbStAubrey]

May Basket
          ~ By Dorothy Butts
 
From “The Passers-by”

I LOVE you, dear;   
And all the little world   
Loves my simplicity.   
 
For in my love   
There are no passions whirled          
In wild complexity.   
 
No mystery   
Of “Does she love?” and “Whom?”   
Needs fathoming.   
 
I gather love,          
And ever find more room   
For gathering.   
 
Will you take this basketful today,   
Of old love and new flowerets, and say,   
“This much she loved me during May?”

[BarbStAubrey]

Poems by Louisa May Alcott

A little bird I am,
Shut from the fields of air,
And in my cage I sit and sing
To Him who placed me there:
Well pleased a prisoner to be,
Because, my God, it pleases Thee!

"Naught have I else to do;
I sing the whole day long;
And He whom most I love to please
Doth listen to my song,
He caught and bound my wandering wing,
But still He bends to hear me sing.


TO MY LADY

There are no flowers in the fields,
No green leaves on the tree,
No columbines, no violets,
No sweet anemone.
So I have gathered from my pots
All that I have to fill
The basket that I hang to-night,
With heaps of love from Jill.


 Little Verse

To one who teaches me
The sweetness and the beauty
Of doing faithfully
And cheerfully my duty.