h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart,
Although the master of his art,
Was a bit wary
Of Salieri.

Damn! Wrong thread.

That's a beautiful poem, el D. Have you been writing much lately? I must check your PH pages - do you still put everything there?

I'm afraid I can't manage much more than the odd clerihew these days.

Edmund Clerihew Bentley
Invented clerihews accident'ly
During a school experiment
And thereby inspired much merriment.

Tee-hee... lovely.

I do put things on PH but the site drives me nuts. It's technically appalling. Maybe I'll bring one or two more here. I only recently returned to h2. Had a few ups and downs lately but I think life is returning to something like normal, gradually.

Didn't I see a photo of you at the controls of a flying machine? You must expect a few ups and downs in that case.

I agree about PH. Have you found some better sites?

When Napoleon Bonaparte
And Josephine had grown apart,
He continued to phone her
Until she died of pneumonia.

Ahaa, you're right about the flying machine although this may be rather more up-to-date:
http://www.care2.com/c2c/people/photo.html?pid=544124281

I haven't really found another site worth posting poetry on and to be honest I don't have a lot of inclination to. It's much of a muchness I think. People post their stuff and others say nice things about it — or not. I think we know if a piece is any good anyway — although I know it's nice to get pats on the back too.

Feeling like another poem anyone? This one is fairly 'hot from the press', so to speak.

Is autumn come….?

Like me, you gaze at the trees, my friend!
How is it then that the fresh young life
That danced to the tune of summer's breezes
Darkly glows in the evening sun,
Wears a gown of such a hue?
Is autumn come so soon?

And listen to the birds, my friend.
The song that startled each new dawn,
Made believe the day would live for ever,
Ventures now a sad refrain,
Shyly tells of coming night.
Is autumn come so soon?

Just feel the chill of the day, my friend.
The gold that painted morning's sky,
Held the promise of summer's easy living,
Turns to silver on the earth,
Counts out our days in misty breath.
Is autumn come so soon?

© Les Derbyshire October 2010

I like that one, el D. As for knowing if one's own poetry is any good, I'm not so sure. It's all very subjective. As long as you're happy with it, I suppose that's the main thing. But it's nice if other people 'get it'.

R S Thomas is quoted as saying "My chief aim is to make a poem. You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in... then there we are."

I think you can tell that I don't get here so often nowadays!

Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed 'Autumn'.

I think what I meant was that, like Thomas, we want to make a poem and we work at it, bringing to bear what craft we have. I've been reading a poetry handbook written by Mary Oliver, who I love as a poet and whose opinions I respect. She suggests that poetry is created where the heart and the intellect meet. Neither is enough on its own. Simply to let the heart pour out its feelings onto the page is unlikely to produce a piece that is memorable or will stand the test of time. It takes the application of the poet's craft, knowledge of construction, rhythm, word-sounds and so on, to turn this into a satisfying piece of work. I guess that what I was trying to say was that we feel in ourselves when that standard of satisfaction is achieved.

Coming home

Down from the house, high over the bay,
Under the gull-crying sky,
A path winds over the tussocks where the rabbits graze,
To the woodland, moist and dim,
Home of rustlings and creepings.
On through the tussle and tangle,
Down and down, by moss and creeper,
Out into the dazzle of the bright sea-meadows,
Cow-grazed and wild-flower coloured,
Sloping down from the edge of the wood
To the reed beds, still in their restless motion,
Keepers of hidden, whispered secrets,
Nudging the edge of the great stone bank
Lit by sea-pinks and piled up high,
Rattling down to the blue-grey waters.

And I paused on the bright-dark edge of the wood
Where the grass grows long and the breeze
With salt on its breath brings news of the blue-grey seas.
And the sweep of the bay and the bright-quilt pattern of the field
Were the broad brush-strokes on the great wide canvas of the day.
Who knows what drew me down to lie among the plumes and blades
That reached for the blue overhead
Where the boom and rattle of the surf
And the long-drawn sigh of the wind give way
To the rasp of a single blade against another
As it moves beneath the feet of a small, brown creature
In the world of the ant and the bug and the snail;
And the hum of wings and the click of a beetle
And busy scurryings among the stems
Over the rich, dark earth.

As I watched, the great sounds somehow receded,
I felt the touch of the grass on my face
And the feel of the good, firm earth beneath me,
The touch of the earth that is home, beneath me
And my mind reached out to comprehend
The breadth and the narrowness of what I was feeling.
How could I not be a part of it all?
Spinning worlds in the dark infinity,
Lives of the ant and the snail, my brothers.
The ways and moods of the great wide sea,
The roots of the grasses silently moving
And always there, insistent, patient,
The sound of the earth, for those who will listen;
The song of the earth that faithfully loves me;
The earth I shall never leave.


© Les Derbyshire March 2011