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Post 401

Jabberwock


[I knew it sounded like a song!]


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Post 402

Jabberwock


He or she was not served at all well by the translator, either.


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Post 403

Magwitch - My name is Mags and I am funky.

It was the third one down when I googled it smiley - erm


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Post 404

paulh, vaccinated against the Omigod Variant

[As I brood on the death of a sperm whale less than 100 miles from the oil spill in the Gulf of mexsico, I think of a poem that expresses the horror of environmental destruction. You will all guess it easily enough...]

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ém woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.

'Ah wretch!' said they, 'the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!'
Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:

Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.'

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

The ship hath been
suddenly becalmed. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.


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Post 405

waiting4atickle


Well that, of course, is from Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". And all he did was kill an albatross.

This oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is a bad business and is causing a lot of ill-feeling - the "special relationship" is under some strain. But worse things happen at sea - and on land - that we don't often hear about. One of them is now being highlighted as an illustration of what some perceive to be American (and Western) double standards. http://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/the-staggers/2010/06/oil-delta-world-spilled

Paul, I don't think anyone said that 'Proud Music of the Storm' is from Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" collection. I'm afraid I don't know in which edition it first appeared, or even how many editions there were. According to wiki, "Whitman spent his entire life writing Leaves of Grass, revising it in several editions until his death."

Do I get a bonus point for that?

Next poem:-

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse ---
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.


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Post 406

paulh, vaccinated against the Omigod Variant

Yes, you get an extra point! smiley - ok


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Post 407

Jabberwock


Easter 1916 by W,B.Yeats. To trek back a little, my Google's broken. Anyone know who to send it to for a refund?

Now poetry from a poet to a poet. Can you name both poets, as well as the title of the collection - or title of the poem - ? Both tasks are much easier than they sound. This one always gets to me.

Your poems are like a dark city centre.
Your novel, your stories, your journals, your letters, are suburbs
Of this big city.
The hotels are lit like office blocks all night
With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It's at night
Sometimes I drive through. I just find
Myself driving through, going slow, simply
Roaming in my own darkness, pondering
What you did. Nearly always
I glimpse you - at some crossing,
Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old.



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Post 408

paulh, vaccinated against the Omigod Variant

smiley - wow

That was from "The City," by Ted Hughes, written to Sylvia Plath, who by then was long dead. He also left a collection called "Birthday letters," which I used for a book discussion group. The best of Hughes's poetry has a visceral quality that stays in your mind.


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Post 409

Jabberwock


smiley - bigeyes

Waitin' for the nex pome.


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Post 410

paulh, vaccinated against the Omigod Variant

Oh, sorry!

I'll be right back with one. smiley - run


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Post 411

paulh, vaccinated against the Omigod Variant

The next poem:

My little bark glides steadily along,
Still and unshaken as a summer dream;
And never falls the oar into the stream,
For 'tis but morning, and the current strong;
So let the ripples bear me as they will;
Sweet, sweet is Life, and every sound is song;
Sorrow lies sleeping, and Joy sends me still
Swift floating down the River.


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Post 412

waiting4atickle


That's "Floating Down The River" by Walter R Cassels - another poet with whose work I'm unfamiliar.

Thanks for the bonus point, btw, Paul.

New poem. Title please, when it was written, and the name of at least one of the people with a claim to having written it.


This bloody town's a bloody cuss
No bloody trains, no bloody bus,
And no one cares for bloody us
In **** ****.

The bloody roads are bloody bad,
The bloody folks are bloody mad,
They'd make the brightest bloody sad,
In **** ****.

All bloody clouds, and bloody rains,
No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains,
The Council's got no bloody brains,
In **** ****.

Everything's so bloody dear,
A bloody bob, for bloody beer,
And is it good? - no bloody fear,
In **** ****.

The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old,
The bloody seats are bloody cold,
You can't get in for bloody gold
In **** ****.

The bloody dances make you smile,
The bloody band is bloody vile,
It only cramps your bloody style,
In **** ****.

No bloody sport, no bloody games,
No bloody fun, the bloody dames
Won't even give their bloody names
In **** ****.

Best bloody place is bloody bed,
With bloody ice on bloody head,
You might as well be bloody dead,
In **** ****


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Post 413

Jabberwock


Floating Down The River - WALTER R. CASSELS



Now, a long excerpt which may be familiar:

And now a stranger's privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
"What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you."
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest--
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
--Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
"Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

While he was talking thus the lonely place,
The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me:
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this the other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind,
But stately in the main; and, when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"



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Post 414

Jabberwock


Sorry, WFAT - some kind of simulpost. Yours was Bloody Orkney by Anonymous. Can you have a go at mine?

Jabssmiley - erm


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Post 415

waiting4atickle


Well, yours is one of Wordsworth's, Jabs. I've often quoted the opening stanza in another place (on a weather thread). It's sometimes referred to as "The Leech-gatherer", but in my book it's called "Resolution and Independence".

Two people claim to have written "Bloody Orkney" and it has been ascribed to a third, whose name is mentioned in a 'final' verse.


What can you tell me of this one?

I'll tell thee everything I can:
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head,
Like water through a sieve.


He said "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread --
A trifle, if you please."


But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.


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Post 416

waiting4atickle


By the way, Jabs - or anyone else - do you happen to know any other poems which mention Orkney by name? (In the body of the work, rather than the title, that is.)


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Post 417

Jabberwock



I don't know any Orkney poems, but yes - the Wordsworth - I think it's usually called the Leech Gatherer - is the one remoreselessly lampooned in The Whte Knight's Song in Alice in Wonderland - down to his repeatedly thinking of something else while the man answers him, and then repeatedly asking him how he lives. Apalling manners, demonstrating the rigid class difference between the two.

That's why I said it might be familiar!smiley - ok

I think it's your turn now,


Jabssmiley - smiley



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Post 418

waiting4atickle


You seem to dismiss "Bloody Orkney" very lightly, Jabs. It was written during WWII to express the disaffection of servicemen stationed there. One version of it ends with

There's nothing greets your bloody eye
But bloody sea and bloody sky
"Roll on demob!" we bloody cry
In bloody Orkney.

It has has been accredited to a Royal Navy captain, Hamish Blair. However, that may be solely due to a riposte of the Orcadians, who took some exception to the poem and came up with

Captain Hamish "Bloody" Blair
Isna posted here nae mare
But no-one seems to bloody care
In bloody Orkney

It was quite possibly the work of several people, but two people - Fred Morgan and Bob Taylor - retrospectively claimed authorship.

The White Knight's song is entitled, among other things, "Haddocks' Eyes". Carroll published a later variation of it under the title "Upon The Lonely Moor".

New poem - I've left out the first verse as it contains the title.


If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!


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Post 419

paulh, vaccinated against the Omigod Variant

The title is "Say not the struggle naight availeth"

The poet is Arthur Hugh Clough.


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Post 420

paulh, vaccinated against the Omigod Variant

Sorry, "naight" should have been "naught" smiley - erm

[My typos are getting worse, and my eyesight is such that I don't notice many of them]


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