Poetry Page

[BarbStAubrey]

and yep - another from annafair...

I love this hour when all the stars have melted away.
When black night has bleached to gray.
The quietude before the sun's golden yawn,
Sends rosy banners to herald the dawn.

The birds still warm within their nest.
The squirrels coiled in peaceful rest.
I love this time when the house is still.
My mind is silent, my soul tranquil.

The colors of day consumed by night 
Begin to awaken in the waxing light.
I cherish this hour before boisterous day 
Tumbles across my sill, eager for play.                 

I wait serene for Apollo to ride into view.
Hug to my heart warm memories of you! 

anna alexander  2/4/98  all rights reserved

[Gumtree]

Thanks for posting The Listener - one of my all time favourites. It always sets me to ponder. I like Walter de la Mare - we had a lot of him at school.

this one from T.S Eliot says things we can all relate to in regard to poetry in our life and clearly references The Listener.


 To Walter de la Mare "    T.S. Eliot

The children who explored the brook and found
A desert island with a sandy cove
(A hiding place, but very dangerous ground,

For here the water buffalo may rove,
The kinkajou, the mungabey, abound
In the dark jungle of a mango grove,

And shadowy lemurs glide from tree to tree -
The guardians of some long-lost treasure-trove)
Recount their exploits at the nursery tea

And when the lamps are lit and curtains drawn
Demand some poetry, please. Whose shall it be,
At not quite time for bed ? ...

Or when the lawn
Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return
Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn,
The sad intangible who grieve and yearn ;

When the familiar is suddenly strange
Or the well known is what we yet have to learn,
And two worlds meet, and intersect, and change ;

When cats are maddened in the moonlight dance,
Dogs cower, flitter bats, and owls range
At witches' sabbath of the maiden aunts ;

When the nocturnal traveller can arouse
No sleeper by his call ; or when by chance
An empty face peers from an empty house ;
The whispered incantation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind ?[/

By whom, and by what means, was this designed ?
By you ; by those deceptive cadences
Wherewith the common measure is refined ;
By conscious art practised with natural ease ;

By the delicate, invisible web you wove -
The inexplicable mystery of sound.


I love the line "the sad intangible who grieve and yearn" and then "the inexplicable mystery of sound' speaks volumes...

The whispered incantation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind ?

I think that's just exactly what poety does...

[Babi]

  So nice to meet you, AMICAH. I can fully understand how you would come to feel you knew Anna well, reading her beautiful poems. She was a lovely person, and we all mourn her loss.

 

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;

Kingsley Amis
 What an odd thought..at least to me. Not being male, I can't speak to
it with any authority.  Do you suppose it's true?

 Oh, Lord, I haven't thought of that Edgar Guest poem in ages. Yet that
opening/closing line is one well embedded in my memory. And the De La Mare poem always made me feel there was a whole novel waiting to be written behind that one.

  Well said, GUM.  Poetry can open our imagination in ways prose seldom can.

[BarbStAubrey]

New Chap book that I picked up because I was taken with a few of the poems

I am realistic

I always wish what is impossible.

          by anamnesys

Diamonds and Rust

Well I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you happened to call

And here I sit
My hand on the telephone
Hearing a voice I'd known
A couple of light years ago
Heading straight for a fall

As I remember your eyes
Were bluer than robin's eggs
My poetry was lousy you said
Where are you calling from?
A booth in the midwest

Ten years ago
I bought you some cufflinks
Oh and you brought me something
We both know what memories can bring
They bring diamonds and rust

Well you burst on the scene
Already a legend
The unwashed phenomenon
The original vagabond
You strayed into my arms

And there you stayed
Temporarily lost at sea
The Madonna was yours for free
Yes the girl on the half-shell
Would keep you unharmed

Now I see you standing
With leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that hotel
Over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me
We both could have died then and there

Now you're telling me
You're not nostalgic
Then give me another word for it
You are always so good with words
And at keeping things vague

Because I need some of that vagueness now
It's all coming back too clearly
Oh I loved you dearly
And if you're offering me diamonds and rust
I've already paid...

          by anamnesys

Dust if you must

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better to paint a picture or write a letter, bake a cake or plant a seed, ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time, with rivers to swim and mountains to climb, music to hear and books to read, friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there with the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair, a flutter of snow, a shower of rain. This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind, old age will come and it's not kind. And when you go - and go you must - you, yourself will make more dust!

          By Rose Milligan

[rosemarykaye]

Barb - I have only really discovered this page since Anna's death, but I absolutely love those poems.  I will be forwarding that dust one to quite a few of my friends - I love the third verse, the words are so evocative, and the last phrase has a wonderful, falling, cadence.

The Diamonds and Rust poem is really beautiful - so romantic and evocative.

My daughter has recently discovered the joy of poetry for the first time, and now I find myself coming back to it, many, many years after loving it at her age.

Thanks for that.

Rosemary

[Octavia]

The Listeners made a shiver down my spine when I was young. There's an age when being scared is quite enjoyable.

'Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,
 'tis woman's whole existence'
Lord Byron.
I think there's a grain of truth in these lines. We're the nurturers and carers, and love is woven into most of our thoughts and actions.
Love Dust If You Must            

[JoanK]

Those of you who remember ANNA'S years in the poetry discussion, please do put your comment in the rememberance folder, if you who haven't, even if you e-mailed them or posted them here. The book that I received from Seniorlearn's rememberance folder when my husband died is a permanant momento I will always have, while the e-mails I got are gone with my last computer.

[Babi]

 Wow! Who is tis Anamnesy'? "The girl on the half-shell"...what an image that provokes.
And,"You are always so good with words, And with keeping things vague."  This gal is
good.  And my heartfelt thanks to Rose Milligan for endorsing my failure to dust!


I went looking for my dear Emily Dickinson this morning, and bring you this,
 
 HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
 
  Welcome, Rosemary.  You'll like it here.    

[BarbStAubrey]

        THE GENESIS OF BUTTERFLIES

        by: Victor Hugo (1802-1885)

            THE dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
            The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
            That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
            In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
            That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
            With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
            Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
            That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
            Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
            Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
            The messages of love that mortals write
            Filled with intoxication of delight,
            Written in April and before the May time
            Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
            We dream that all white butterflies above,
            Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
            And leave their lady mistress in despair,
            To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
            Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
            Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies.

[Babi]

 Ah, I was thinking what a delicate, romantic poem Mr. Hugo wrote, ...until I got to the line,
 And leave their lady mistress in despair,   

[BarbStAubrey]

I think that is the irony of the poem Babi - all those charming romantic words and thoughts turn just at the point where a Sonat is supposed to turn so that reading the poem we are prepared for some soot of change within the last 4 lines - and he is showing all the wings or dreamy days among letters of romance there is despair, pain as he hopes she sees her beauty and freedom as he acknowledges she seeks kindness. It is always a shock and hard to dwell on the realization that within the most tame beautiful moments in life lurking in the shadows is always pain.

On the surface this poem is about love letters between a man and a women but it may be about the French Revolution -  the love of freedom written as a message of love which is how a Constitution could be romantically described and in France after all the pain and suffering they achieve their new found freedom and bango within a few years they are back to being a republic with Napoleon crowning himself King and he is followed by the restoration of the Royals.

Also during this time in history Mistress was not a behind the curtain ID - remember Mistress Mary Quite Contrary how does your garden grow.

And then Victor Hugo could be describing the love between his daughter and her new husband when at age 19 she drowns along with her husband who tried to save her after the boat they were in on the Seine tipped and her heavy fashionable skirts of the time pulled her under. And so he could be using all the allusions to butterflies and flowers as a way to deal with her spirit and his spirit trying to see her spirit as free and always beautiful Since he mentions water in the last line just before the turn I am thinking this scenario is more likely the basis for the Sonnet with his daughter the lady who is mistress to death and whose spirit is like the torn paper..

[BarbStAubrey]

I thought this interesting - we often see multiple translations of Chinese and Japanese poetry but seldom do we think of mulitple translations from French to English - here is one of Baudelaire's poems translated 3 times!

    Ciel Brouillé (Cloudy Sky)

On dirait ton regard d'une vapeur couvert;
Ton oeil mystérieux (est-il bleu, gris ou vert?)
Alternativement tendre, rêveur, cruel,
Réfléchit l'indolence et la pâleur du ciel.

Tu rappelles ces jours blancs, tièdes et voilés,
Qui font se fondre en pleurs les coeurs ensorcelés,
Quand, agités d'un mal inconnu qui les tord,
Les nerfs trop éveillés raillent l'esprit qui dort.

Tu ressembles parfois à ces beaux horizons
Qu'allument les soleils des brumeuses saisons...
Comme tu resplendis, paysage mouillé
Qu'enflamment les rayons tombant d'un ciel brouillé!

Ô femme dangereuse, ô séduisants climats!
Adorerai-je aussi ta neige et vos frimas,
Et saurai-je tirer de l'implacable hiver
Des plaisirs plus aigus que la glace et le fer?

Cloudy Sky

One would say that your gaze was veiled with mist;
Your mysterious eyes (are they blue, gray or green?)
Alternately tender, dreamy, cruel,
Reflect the indolence and pallor of the sky.

You call to mind those days, white, soft, and mild,
That make enchanted hearts burst into tears,
When, shaken by a mysterious, wracking pain,
The nerves, too wide-awake, jeer at the sleeping mind.

You resemble at times those gorgeous horizons
That the sun sets ablaze in the seasons of mist...
How resplendent you are, landscape drenched with rain,
Aflame with rays that fall from a cloudy sky!

O dangerous woman, O alluring climates!
Will I also adore your snow and your hoar-frost,
And can I draw from your implacable winter
Pleasures keener than iron or ice?


— Translated by William Aggeler

Misty Sky

One would have thought your eyes were veiled in haze
Strange eyes! (Grey, green, or azure is their gaze?)
It seems they would reflect, in each renewal,
The changing skies, dull, dreamy, fond, or cruel.

You know those days both warm and hazy, which
Melt into tears the hearts that they bewitch:
And when the nerves, uneasy to control,
Too-wide awake, upbraid the sleeping soul.

You, too, resemble such a lit horizon
As suns of misty seasons now bedizen...
As you shine out, a landscape fresh with rain
With misty sunbeams sparkling on the plain.

Dangerous girl, seductive as the weather!
Shall I adore your snows and frosts together?
In your relentless winter shall I feel
A kiss more sharp than that of ice and steel?


— Translated by Roy Campbell

Ciel brouillé

thine eyes are veiled with vapour opaline;
— those eyes of mystery! — (azure, grey or green?)
cruel or soft in turn as dreams devise,
reflect the languor of the pallid skies.

thou'rt like these autumn days of silver-grey
whose magic melts the soul to tears: a day
when by a secret evil inly torn
the quivering nerves laugh drowsy wits to scorn.

thou art as fair as distant dales, where suns
of misty seasons leave their benisons...
how dazzling rich the dewy woodlands lie
flaming in sunlight from a ruffled sky!

o fateful woman! sky that lures and lours!
and shall I love thy snow, its frosty hours,
and learn to clutch from winter's iron gyves
new pleasure keen as cloven ice or knives?


— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks

[Babi]

 Yes, I am aware that 'Mistress' was a respectable title in those days.
Nevertheless, this one was being "left in despair" after all those lovely,
charming words. This sort of thing has long since made me very suspicious of 'charm'.  That is a sad story about his daughter and her husband, tho'.  Thank God for modern, practical clothing for women.

 Interesting, the difference between the three translations. I like
last two best. Shanks, I think, a bit better than Campbell.

[Octavia]

While everyone's having a break, I thought I might post this poem about a bird by an Australian poet. I found it quite moving, especially the last two lines.
Death of the Bird by Alec Derwent Hope

For every bird there is this last migration;
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

Year after year a speck on the map, divided
By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;
Season after season, sure and safely guided,
Going away she is also coming home.

And being home, memory becomes a passion
With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest,
Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession
And exiled love mourning within the breast.

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;
The palm tree casts a shadow not its own;
Down the long architrave of temple or palace
Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.

And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger;
That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,
Custom and fear constraining her no longer,
Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.

A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,
Single and frail, uncertain of her place,
Alone in the bright host of her companions,
Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.

She feels it close now, the appointed season;
The invisible thread is broken as she flies;
Suddenly, without warning, without reason,
The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.

Try as she will, the trackless world delivers
No way, the wilderness of light no sign;
Immense,complex contours of hills and rivers
Mock her small wisdom with their vast design.

The darkness rises from the eastern valleys,
And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,
And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,
Receives the tiny burden of her death.


 
 

[BarbStAubrey]

Oh my - my heart catches at the realization that instinct is all for not only the bird but as an analogy to how often we act in life with some invisible instinct that if it fails leaves us mocked in our efforts and buffeted with neither grief nor malice. You can almost wonder if that is what happens to mother's who loose it while caring for their young child. Is the thread of sanity based in instinct? Much to ponder about the fragility of our mind and body. Thanks Octavia.

[Octavia]

I've often wondered about the way animals and birds live and die, Barb. No safety net, no Medicare or Social Security. We see them as carefree and happy but they live on a knife edge all the time.
Here is a poem with I think, much the same theme. A soldier's life is always about survival too.

the good soldier by Chris Mansell
on someone else's place
it seems to him the land
slings distance way out
the dirt is dead and
the sky seems twisted
the beat of the stones is wrong
he doesn't know how to say it
there are no words no opportunity
and anyway
what would you say
that you're a stranger
and this doesn't say it at all

he walks with his weapon through the town
and from time to time he sees the luscious curl
of intimacy the uncommon common life
it's dressed differently he can't understand
the language rasping and gargling
another time he'd be an interested tourist
now he's a hunter and the hunted

soon they say
he'll be freed to retreat home
where the earth is vein deep
and when he puts his hand on the ground
he'll feel it beating but now
he can't remember home
though he knows the words well enough
back paddock Steve's paddock the yard
it's just words but now the imam calls
and winds a veil around his senses
and sometimes he thinks he'll never
get back to where he belonged.

Chris Mansell is a younger Australian poet, obviously. Very relevant right now, as the call to bring our troops home gains momentum. 

[Babi]

 Very impressive, Mr. Mansell.  Though I did have a bit of trouble with the
lines running over and the lack of punctuation. I realize that is simply a modern form.  The poem nonetheless shows a  remarkable depth and power.

[BarbStAubrey]

Change of pace this small poem - small in story and feelings - reminds me of a summer tidbit before dinner.

The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)
           ~ by Paul Verlaine

High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.

Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.

Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.

[Octavia]

That's gorgeous Barbara, made me smile
Babi, Chris Mansell is a woman, and I might have misled, saying she was a younger poet. Although it depends where we are ourselves on the age scale She was born in '53, and is young compared to our famous poets, like Judith Wright, Dame ,Mary Gilmore etc.
I totally agree about the punctuation. Why do they do that, I wonder?

[BarbStAubrey]

Although e.e.cummings was known for writing his poetry without the traditional use of a capitol for the first word of every line nor did he use punctuation however, there are others - the best explanation I found is that one of the poets said something to the affect, a capitol should mean something and if not, forget it - also, much of their poetry was written during the hay day of the stream of consciousness where thoughts rolled into thought with Joyce given the honors for making that style a cause for celebration.

here is another poet who writes with no punctuation although he employs the traditional use of a capitol letter for each line.

The River of Bees
          ~ W.S. Merwin

In a dream I returned to the river of bees
Five orange trees by the bridge and
Beside two mills my house
Into whose courtyard a blindman followed
The goats and stood singing
Of what was older

Soon it will be fifteen years

He was old he will have fallen into his eyes

I took my eyes
A long way to the calendars
Room after room asking how shall I live

One of the ends is made of streets
One man processions carry through it
Empty bottles their
Image of hope
It was offered to me by name

Once once and once
In the same city I was born
Asking what shall I say

He will have fallen into his mouth
Men think they are better than grass

I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay

He was old he is not real nothing is real
Nor the noise of death drawing water

We are the echo of the future

On the door it says what to do to survive
But we were not born to survive
Only to live

[Babi]

  I suppose the lack of punctuation and awkward form is intended to be
avant garde.  Reminds me a bit of a stint in college as a teacher asst.,
grading English papers. One young fellow apparently thought foul language
in every sentence would show how bold and brilliant he was.  I wasn't
impressed.
  Not putting a capital letter at the beginning of each line doesn't
bother me. If it's not the beginning of a new sentence/thought, it seems
perfectly reasonable. It's not being certain where one thought ends and
the next begins that can be so confusing. W. S. Merwin, I'm sorry to say,
 I found mostly meaningless.

[BarbStAubrey]

4th of July weekend - for the States that is our Independence Day celebration - so here is a red, white and blue poem...

Red Cloth    
          ~ by Jean Valentine

Red cloth
I lie on the ground
otherwise nothing could hold

I put my hand on the ground
the membrane is gone
and nothing does hold

your place in the ground
is all of it
and it is breathing


The White Horse    
          ~ by D. H. Lawrence

The youth walks up to the white horse, to put its halter on
and the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent, they are in another world.


At the Blue Note    
          ~by Pablo Medina
                 for Karen Bentivenga

Sometimes in the heat of the snow
you want to cry out

for pleasure or pain like a bell.
And you wind up holding each other,

listening to the in-between
despite the abyss at the edge of the table.

Hell. Mulgrew Miller plays like a big
bad spider, hands on fire, the piano

trembling like crystal,
the taste and smell of a forest under water.

The bartender made us a drink
with butterfly wings and electric wire.

Bitter cold outside, big silence,
a whale growing inside us.

[BarbStAubrey]

I Hear America Singing    
          ~ by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
     singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or
     at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of
     the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows,
     robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

[roshanarose]

Thanks Barb for those "colourful" poems.

The white one by D.H. Lawrence made me feel bad though.  Right now in my state there is a terrible virus, called the "Lyssa Virus" which is deadly if it appears in horses, and can also be fatal to those people who handle them. 

Sorry - I didn't mean to rain on your parade.  I loved the poems, it was just the White Horse that hit a nerve.

[BarbStAubrey]

by 8 year old riding student

Indie is a wonderful horse
and you love him of course
I feel bad that Indie is sick
I hope he gets better real real quick
If Indie dies
He'll be in heaven without any flies


Ghost Song
          ~ William Mendelson

     An old man and an old horse moved slowly and steadily
towards the furthest mountain.
An old man on an old horse.
The old man thought of the many times he'd been thrown;
the old horse, how many times he'd been ridden.
They weren't in no great rush.
The old man sat straight in the saddle, head held high.
The old horse kept his head high too,
letting his feet choose the way as they
searched the clouds looking for any old friends
they had passed on the way.
A soft gentle rain started to fall,
the horse stopped, the old man bent over
and stroked his friend's neck

[BarbStAubrey]

The Horse Fell Off the Poem
          ~By Mahmoud Darwish 1942–2008
                 Translated By Fady Joudah

The horse fell off the poem
and the Galilean women were wet
with butterflies and dew,
dancing above chrysanthemum

The two absent ones: you and I
you and I are the two absent ones

A pair of white doves
chatting on the branches of a holm oak

No love, but I love ancient
love poems that guard
the sick moon from smoke

I attack and retreat, like the violin in quatrains
I get far from my time when I am near
the topography of place ...

There is no margin in modern language left
to celebrate what we love,
because all that will be ... was

The horse fell bloodied
with my poem
and I fell bloodied
with the horse’s blood ...

[Babi]

 I can't help wondering if Mr. Darwish enjoys seeing how well he can puzzle and
obfuscate without being called on it. A number of nice images,.. unrelated to
anything else.  If there is meaning in all this, it escapes me.

Here's a brief excerpt in which the horses stay in the poem.

A thousand horse and none to ride! -
With flowing tail, and flying mane,
Wide nostrils never stretched by pain,
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein,
And feet that iron never shod,
And flanks unscarred by spur or rod,
A thousand horse, the wild, the free,
Like waves that follow o'er the sea,
Came thickly thundering on,...~Lord Byron, XVII, Mazeppa, 1818

[Octavia]

I read The Horse Fell Off The Poem quite a few times trying to get the theme of the poem. Do you have any background for it, Barbara? Could it be biblical, perhaps?
I liked Ghost Song, simple but sweet.
Roshanarose, you probably remember we lost a popular vet here in Rocky from the virus. I can't imagine what the other people went through, knowing there's no cure, and few survivors.

[BarbStAubrey]

been busy busy- sorry no chat time - the poem that has no theme - no other information - I read it as simply enjoying the the beauty of a collocation and juxtaposition of words and phrases.

[roshanarose]

Octavia - I have missed you.  When I lived closer to the city every evening literally thousands of fruit bats would fly over my apartment on high.  It was always a scary scene for me as I have always feared bats of any description.  I was always worried that they would become entangled in my hair.   Uggghhhh.  Yes, I remember about the Rocky vet.  Very sad.  I think the worst part about the Lyssa Virus is that there is no cure.  I did a bit of searching for it and evidently it belongs to a similar strain as Rabies. 

Thanks everyone for "keeping the horses".

[Octavia]

I feel like a little olde worlde poetry this morning.
Delight In Disorder by Robert Herrick

A sweet disorder in the dresse
Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse:
A Lawne about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring Lace, which here and there
Enthralls the Crimson Stomacher:
A Cuffe neglectfull, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving Note)
In the tempestuous petticote:
A careless shooe-string, in whose tye
I see a wilde civility

I'm still dealing with my virus Roshanarose, it's very clingy.

[Octavia]

Another old poem, I had trouble putting them in the same post. Sometimes gremlins get in the works.

So We'll Go No More a Roving
By Lord Byron (George Gordon) 1788–1824 Lord Byron (George Gordon)
So, we'll go no more a roving
   So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
   And the moon be still as bright.


For the sword outwears its sheath,
   And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
   And love itself have rest.


Though the night was made for loving,
   And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
   By the light of the moon.

[BarbStAubrey]

Oh Octavia - I hope you are feeling some better - and I hope you could sleep it off - I know that is all I want to do when I am down - just sleep and sleep so I do not have to feel miserable.

Hadn't heard of this illness that is attacking it sounds like not only the animals but those who make contact with an ill animal - sounds dreadful - I wonder where something like that starts.

I loved the Delight In Disorder by Robert Herrick - I laughed as a read it - it is like reading a puzzle with the old spelling on some of the words - fun...

here is another Robert Herrick poem - written to another but Octavia sounds like it was written for you

UPON JULIA'S RECOVERY.

DROOP, droop no more, or hang the head,
Ye roses almost withered ;
Now strength and newer purple get,
Each here declining violet.
O primroses! let this day be
A resurrection unto ye ;
And to all flowers ally'd in blood,
Or sworn to that sweet sisterhood :
For health on Julia's cheek hath shed
Claret and cream commingled ;
And those her lips do now appear
As beams of coral, but more clear.

[Octavia]

Oh, to be in love again! Herrick is deeply, madly smitten
The name Julia jogged my memory, and sure enough


UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.
by Robert Herrick


WHEN AS in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free ;
O how that glittering taketh me !

He is swooning, as they say. I've never actually swooned, but I felt like it when I went to see Col Joye and the Joye Boys in my youth.The local paper has been printing extracts from old newspapers, and the boys thought it was so funny that 'Rockhampton teenagers, clapped, shouted and screamed' through the show. I assured them that I didn't scream, I'm pretty reserved
I petted a bat once in Cairns and fed him corn, he was rather sweet. Now people want them exterminated. They're not all infected, there are bat wildlife carers in Rocky.
I wondered if the Hendra virus was in other countries.
 

[roshanarose]

I don't think that many men swoon these days, although sometimes you can see admiration and love in their eyes.  A wonderful moment , or two, to experience.  You can tell I am missing my ex hubby.

I remember Col Joye singing "Living Doll" and of course loved it.  I never liked Cliff Richard's version of it.  I had a crush on the singer in the Dell Tones, but he was killed in a car accident quite early in the band's development.  I didn't have a crush on the EasyBeats, but they were most certainly my favourite Australian band of the time. 

Sorry, Octavia, I don't find anything about bats sweet.  I have been watching a program about Zoo babies, it seems to satisfy that maternal quality.  Have you seen it?  The program last night was about a baby snow leopard and a dog who were playmates and four gorgeous little lion cubs.  Now I am getting clucky....

Byron was regarded as a kind of rock star in his day.  It is easy to see (and read) why.

Get well soon, Octavia.  Did you have two flu injections?

[roshanarose]

Barb - You were curious about the transmission of the LyssaVirus, also known as the Hendra virus.  I hesitate to include the nasty aspect of transmission in a Discussion that is more concerned with the beauty of words. 

Transmission

While the exact route of infection is not known, it is thought that horses may contract Hendra virus infection from eating food recently contaminated by flying fox urine, saliva or birth products. Spread of infection to other horses can then follow. Spread happens more often when the sick horse is kept with other horses in a stable, but is possible wherever horses have close contact with secretions from an infected horse. Small amounts of virus may be present in a horse’s body fluids, particularly nasal secretions, for a few days before they become sick.

[BarbStAubrey]

GERMS
          ~ by Walt Whitman (1819 - 1892)

FORMS, qualities, lives, humanity, language, thoughts,
The ones known, and the ones unknown—the ones on the stars,
The stars themselves, some shaped, others unshaped,
Wonders as of those countries—the soil, trees, cities, inhabitants, whatever they may
be,
Splendid suns, the moons and rings, the countless combinations and effects;
Such-like, and as good as such-like, visible here or anywhere, stand provided for in a
handful
of space, which I extend my arm and half enclose with my hand;
That contains the start of each and all—the virtue, the germs of all.

[BarbStAubrey]

I Hate Germs
          ~ by David Keig

     i hate germs
they're nasty things
they're spread by kissing
and mozzie stings.

so i don't kiss
nor go outside
i sit at home
with the door shut tight.

i cook my food
for hours and hours
i avoid preservatives
and wheat and flour.

it really is quite boring
and i'm not happy
but those nasty germs
they don't get me.

[BarbStAubrey]

Germs

All germy people
cough and sneeze.
They do not bother
To cover these.

They spread their germs
About in the air,
Making everyone sick
With colds and despair.

So, I’ll give you a message
Please listen here,
Do what I tell you
And others won’t fear
—germs.

Cover your mouth!
Cover your nose!
Use a clean tissue
For all your blows!

© 2007 Jeanette Cooper

[BarbStAubrey]

Join Us! For a Summer of Poetry Flowers ~ Jessi Lane Adams   Have you ever seen a flower down Sometimes angels skip around And in their blissful state of glee Bump into a daisy or sweet pea. Famous Poets and Poems about Summer Link to: Summer Poems   ~~~   Discussion Leaders: Barb &Fairanna