General Chat

just came across this one on the poem hunter site that Gwynne added. Dare I Hope? by Sophia White Dare I hope to hope? Is it safe? Is it right? Am I hoping for nothing But a black and empty night? Hope should make me happy. I should laugh, sing, and dance Because I am hoping. Right? Ha! Not a chance. How is it that hope can leave me Trembling in the darkness? How is it that something so “good” Should leave me feeling helpless? Dare I hope to hope? What difference does it make? Fate will be fate in the end, It will either “make or break.” Does Fate regard my hope? Does She listen? Or care? Am I shooting for a star that Simply isn’t there? I cannot know! Oh, God Why must I struggle with This doubt that pulls at me Rends me, limb from limb? What sort of hope leaves pain Where it should instead leave joy? Is this hope at all? Or perhaps Some wicked demon’s ploy? I cannot know! Dear heaven! How can I even begin to dare To hope for something – anything? Is no assurance there? No promise? No guarantee? I cannot stand it! I cannot! The doubt is a plague In my every thought. Dare I hope to hope In a hope that leaves me dry And lost? How can I dare To hope in hope? How can I? Maz. XX

Something a little different Blacksmiths Swarthy smoke-blackened smiths, smudged with soot, Drive me to death with the din of their banging. Men never knew such a noise at night! Such clattering and clanging, such clamour of scoundrels! Crabbed and crooked, they cry, ‘Coal! Coal!’ And blow with their bellows till their brains burst. ‘Huff Puff!’ pants one:;Haff Paff!’ another. They spit and they sprawl and they spin many yarns. They grate and grind their teeth and,groan together, Hot with the heaving of their hard hammers. Aprons they have, of hide of thebull, And greaves as leg-guards against glowing sparks. Heavy hammers they have, and hit hard with them; Sturdy strokes they strike on their steel anvils. Lus, bus! Las, bas! They beat in turn – Such o doleful sin, may the Devil destroy it! The smith stretches a scrap, strikes a smaller, Twines the two together, and tinkles a treble note: Tik, tak! Hic, hac! Tiket, taket! Tyk, tak! Bus, lus! Bas, las! Such a life they lead, These Dobbin-dressers: Christ doom them to misery! There’s no rest at night for the noise of their water-fizzing Anon Circa 1425-50 Translated from Mediaeval English by Brian Stone A lovely alliterative verse from before the time of the Norman Conquest. The clashing consonants brilliantly evoke the clanging of blacksmiths at work.

Maz, I hope these are not too naughty, if they are I am happy to remove them ;-)) They are from Rhyme Stew by Roald Dahl A Hand in the Bird I’m a maiden who is forty, And a maiden I shall stay. There are some who call me haughty, But I care not what they say I was running the tombola At our church bazaar today, And doing it with gusto In my usual jolly way…. When suddenly, I knew not why, There came a funny feeling Of something crawling up my thigh! I nearly hit the ceiling! A mouse! I thought. How foul! How mean! How exquisitely tickly! Quite soon I know I’m going to scream I’ve got to catch it quickly I made a grab. I caught the mouse, Now right inside my knickers. A mouse my foot! It was a HAND! Great Scott! It was the vicar’s! And Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? “I live with my brat in a high-rise flat, So how in the world would I know”

Dee no of course not they are fine!! I like those! Maz. XX

I found this really quite sad - it sort of sums up how I feel about getting older - that your chance for a bit of 'fun' is disappearing fast. Sonnet by Edna St Vincent Millay what lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning: but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the Winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its bough more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. Maz. XX

On a scrap of yellowing paper, cut from a magazine or newspaper, and slipped inside a book of poetry I have this poem by Roger McGough. He was, I believe, a member of Scaffold, the group that did Lily The Pink in the 60’s. He was born in Liverpool in 1937. I have a feeling this poem may have been written around the time that Lennon/McCartney wrote ‘When I’m 64’ and the Who were singing ‘Hope I die before I get old’ It must have ‘spoken’ to me when I first read it for me to have cut it out and kept it, and looking at it now I still like it, hope you do to LET ME DIE A YOUNG MAN”S DEATH Let me die a young man's death not a clean and in between the sheets holy water death not a famous-last-words peaceful out of breath death When I'm 73 and in constant good humour may I be mown down at dawn by a bright red sports car on my way home from an all night party Or when I'm 91 with silver hair and sitting in a barber's chair may rival gangsters with ham fisted tommy guns burst in and give me a short back and insides Or when I'm 104 and banned from the Cavern may my mistress catching me in bed with her daughter and fearing for her son cut me up into little pieces and throw away every piece but one Let me die a young man's death not a free from sin tip toe in candle wax and waning death not a curtains drawn by angels borne 'what a nice way to go' death Roger McGough

For some unknown reason I woke up with this in my head. I learned it for A level Eng Lit and it has stayed with me. I love the pictures Coleridge paints. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise. I especially love the last four lines. Gwynne

This is written by Muriel Stuart, who was my friend's grandmother. THE SEED SHOP Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry- Meadows and gardens running through my hand. In this brown husk ,a dale of hawthorn dream, A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust That will drink deeply of a century's streams These lilies shall make summer on my dust. Here in their safe and simple house of death, Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap Here I can blow a garden with my breath And in my hand a forest lies asleep. I love the idea of holding a forest in my hand. Sue

oooh Sue I really love that thank you :-))

I woke this morning wanting more than anything to go for a walk along a beach. As that is impractical I have dug out some poetry about the sea to share with you all DOVER BEACH By Matthew Arnold The sea is calm tonight, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.

and because I was up at sunrise, having had around four hours sleep, I thought this would be apt as well A Slash of Blue Emily Dickson A slash of Blue - A sweep of Gray - Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky – A little purple – slipped between Some Ruby trousers hurried on – A wave of Gold - A Bank of Day – This just makes out the Morning Sky

Lovely choices, Dee. As a land-locked Midlander, with the sea in her blood, this always strikes a chord with me - Sea-Fever I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. John Masefield

I love the sea so those are perfect - the last one reminds me of my trip to Aberdeen about 12 years ago - horrid day but the sea was just beautiful! Maz. XX

Another apt one for the time of year... Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. A.E.Housman

Just found these two by Roger McGough - perfect for this weekend :-)) Spring Fashion Show And now April saunters on Looselimbed and goldenhaired Wearing a see-through number Of infinity-blue, appliqued With fluffy white clouds. The designer gets a standing ovation. (Same dress every year and we still fall for it.) May Fields of golden rape, melting in the intensity of their own glowing colour, slowly butter the hillsides. Fantastic!!! Maz. XX

Sadly, this has been overtaken by events and I don't know the author, but it's one of the few I can empathise with and remember. The smallest thing under the sun Is called a quark... I feel like one.

I love this one Ancestry Julia Darling Have you ever seen my extraordinary feet? They are waders, descended from flippers. My little toe is related to a prehistoric mollusc. My legs are Gothic pillars, designed in Barnet by Presbyterians, who sang Jerusalem. These columns could support cathedrals. My womb is a wartime nurse, functional, regular, robust. A womb that purses its lips. My belly is the pillow that old ladies die on. It's Victorian linen, the best in the high street. It clasps my insides with invisible darns. My breasts are Scottish, from a line of sepia aunts, who wrapped their Bristols tightly in sealy cloths, with nipples as distant as Iona. Unfortunately my shoulders are related to sorry uncles, they hunch and apologise, sag and wait sadly for sympathetic arms. But these fine ears are sisters of the sails that carried cargo off the flat sea. They are adventurous and foolhardy. And this face, that berates me at the hairdresser and winces in bar mirrors is mine. I moulded it from ancestral clay. All mine, with its thumb prints and crevices. It's not finished. You can have it when I'm done.

My Other Half remembers his Mum reading this to him, he heard it mentioned on the radio recently so I have dug it out and thought I would share it with you Dee ;-)) The Dormouse and the Doctor A.A. Milne There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red) And all the day long he'd a wonderful view Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue) A Doctor came hurrying round, and he said: 'Tut-tut, I am sorry to find you in bed. Just say 'Ninety-nine', while I look at your chest... Don't you find that chrysanthemums answer the best?' The Dormouse looked round at the view and replied (When he'd said 'Ninety-nine') that he'd tried and he'd tried, And much the most answering things that he knew Were geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue). The Doctor stood frowning and shaking his head, And he took up his shiny silk hat as he said: 'What the patient requires is a change,' and he went To see some chrysanthemum people in Kent. The Dormouse lay there, and he gazed at the view Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue), And he knew there was nothing he wanted instead Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red). The Doctor came back and, to show what he meant, He had brought some chrysanthemum cuttings from Kent. 'Now these,' he remarked, 'give a much better view Than geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).' They took out their spades and they dug up the bed Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red), And they planted chrysanthemums (yellow and white). 'And now,' said the Doctor, 'we'll soon have you right.' The Dormouse looked out, and he said with a sigh: 'I suppose all these people know better than I. It was silly, perhaps, but I did like the view Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).' The Doctor came round and examined his chest, And ordered him Nourishment, Tonics, and Rest. 'How very effective,' he said, as he shook The thermometer, 'all these chrysanthemums look!' The Dormouse turned over to shut out the sight Of the endless chrysanthemums (yellow and white). 'How lovely,' he thought, 'to be back in a bed Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).' The Doctor said, 'Tut! It's another attack!' And ordered him Milk and Massage-of-the-back, And Freedom-from-worry and Drives-in-a-car, And murmured, 'How sweet your chrysanthemums are!' The Dormouse lay there with his paws to his eyes, And imagined himself such a pleasant surprise: 'I'll pretend the chrysanthemums turn to a bed Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)!' The Doctor next morning was rubbing his hands, And saying, 'There's nobody quite understands These cases as I do! The cure has begun! How fresh the chrysanthemums look in the sun!' The Dormouse lay happy, his eyes were so tight He could see no chrysanthemums, yellow or white. And all that he felt at the back of his head Were delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red). And that is the reason (Aunt Emily said) If a Dormouse gets in a chrysanthemum bed, You will find (so Aunt Emily says) that he lies Fast asleep on his front with his paws to his eyes.

I am currently studying the lives of the people who lived along the banks of the Thames and we discussed this poem the other day so I thought I would share it with you Sweet Thames Flow Softly · (Ewan MacColl) I met my girl at Woolwich Pier beneath the big crane standing And all the love I felt for her it passed all understanding Took her sailing on the river, flow sweet river flow London town was mine to give her, sweet Thames flow softly Made the Thames into a crown, flow sweet river flow Made a brooch of Silver town, sweet Thames flow softly At London Yard I held her hand, at Blackwell Point I faced her At the Isle of Dogs I kissed her mouth and tenderly embraced her Heard the bells of Greenwich ringing, flow sweet river flow All the time my heart was singing, sweet Thames flow softly Limehouse Reach I gave her there, flow sweet river flow As a ribbon for her hair, sweet Thames flow softly From Shadwell Dock to Nine Elms Reach we cheek to cheek were dancing A necklace made of London Bridge her beauty was enhancing Kissed her once again at Wapping, flow sweet river flow After that there was no stopping, sweet Thames flow softly Richmond Park it was a ring, flow sweet river flow I'd have given her anything, sweet Thames flow softly From Rotherhithe to Putney Bridge my love I was declaring And she from Kew to Isleworth her love for me was swearing Love it set my heart a-burning, flow sweet river flow Never saw the tide was turning, sweet Thames flow softly Gave her Hampton Court to twist, flow sweet river flow Into a bracelet for her wrist, sweet Thames flow softly But now, alas, the tide has changed, my love she has gone from me And winter's frost has touched my heart and put a blight upon me Creeping fog is on the river, flow sweet river flow Sun and moon and stars gone with her, sweet Thames flow softly Swift the Thames runs to the sea, flow sweet river flow Bearing ships and part of me, sweet Thames flow softly

Hadn't seen that one before Dee. I sort of felt it should be set to music, was it ever made into a song do you know. i liked it, sa ending though. Re the previous one about the Dormouse. i used to read that to my two. Ann Glos