General Chat

A light hearted one this cold friday morn. REALITY Each day we take a look Into the silver glass Hoping that we might see A glimmer of our past. The glowing smile, that once was there, Has turned into a frown. There's no such thing has Growing up There is only going down. The softest skin on my baby face Now I can no longer see, For life has changed for evermore Into Reality. The worry lines have overcome The smoothness of my look Just like the crumpled pages In a horror story book Where has it gone The time ,the past My lifes gone by Just like a flash I try each day To find the Lad But every Morn All i see is my Dad The creams, the Lotions and the potions Can mask and hide the wither But the silver glass holds the truth No matter how we see For time can never save us from The realm of Reality. Geoff.

Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is,-- I hate all your Frenchified fuss: Your silly entrées and made dishes Were never intended for us. No footman in lace and in ruffles Need dangle behind my arm-chair; And never mind seeking for truffles, Although they be ever so rare. But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, I pr'ythee get ready at three: Have it smoking, and tender, and juicy, And what better meat can there be? And when it has feasted the master, 'Twill amply suffice for the maid; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster, And tipple my ale in the shade. Thackeray (according to the net - I couldn't find the book I first read it in) This amused me as I am a very awkward eater and don't like what I call 'Euro food' - nice to see another plain eater from the past!

I have chosen this poem by Ted Hughes from his collection 'Birthday Letters'. Virtually all the verses are addressed to his late wife, the poet, Sylvia Plath. Horoscope You wanted to study Your stars - the guards Of your prison yard, their Zodiac. The planets Muttered their Babylonish power-sprach - Like a witchdoctor's bones. You were right to fear How loud the bones might roar, How clear an ear might hear What the bones whispered Even embedded as they were in the hot body. Only you had no need to calculate Degrees for your ascendant disruptor In Aries. It meant nothing certain - no more According to the Babylonian book Than a scarred face. How much deeper Under the skin could any magician peep? You only had to look Into the nearest face of a metaphor Picked out of your wardrobe or off a plate Or out of the sun or the moon or the yew tree To see your father, your mother, or me Bringing you your whole Fate.

I love this nature poem by Gerald Manley Hopkins - though I think it's more about nostalgia & change Binsey Poplars felled 1879 My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank. O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew— Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc únselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.

Whispers Of The Mind YOUR EYES CANNOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOUR MIND SEE'S If each breath we took, could tell a tale. If each glance we gave could show a sign. Everyone would know, the 'Whisper of the mind' It's screaming shout cannot be heard It's raging pain, cannot be felt. If it could, Everyone would know, the 'Whisper of the mind' Love and hate, can both be shown, Tears can flow and memories grown But can they hear, the ' Whisper of the mind' Far off places, Loved one's faces, Travel through our energy, We cannot touch But we long to hold, the 'Whisper of the mind' With heavy heart, And weary head In our darkest hour The light, we try to find With hope and Prayer We must listen to, the 'Whisper of the mind. Another short one; WE. We help, but do we matter. If we mattered would we help. We look but do we see, If we saw would we really look. We try to make a change, But if we changed, would we try. We love to share a laugh But would we laugh, At a shared love. We feel and like to touch But are we touched by what we feel. We all have to die But do we all Truly live.

I have just read right through all the poems. All those written by board members are wonderful, from the heart, and yes I know what you mean Jill be having to experience some strong feeling before writing. (they used to say that jack Jones wrote and sang his best songs when he was going through a personal crisis). Gwynne I love Dylan Thomas and have also been to Laugharne and visited the Boathouse, such a lovely peaceful spot. I do like Eliabeth Barrett Browning witht his as one of my favourites. Hoe do I Love Thee? How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight I love thee freely, as men strive for Right, I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seem to lose With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath, Smiles,tears of all my life!- and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. Elizabeth Barrett Browning Ann Glos

Sheila, Edward Thomas is another favourite of mine. I love this one- NO ONE SO MUCH AS YOU Edward Thomas No one so much as you Loves this my clay, Or would lament as you, Its dying day. You know me through and through Though I have not told And though with what you know You are not bold. None ever was so fair As I thought you: Not a word can I bear Spoken against you. All that I ever did For you seemed coarse Compared with what I hid Nor put in force. My eyes scarce dare meet you Lest they should prove I but respond to you And do not love. We look and understand, We cannot speak Except in trifles and Words the most weak. For I at most accepting Your love regretting That is all: I have kept Only a fretting That I could not return All that you gave And could not ever burn With the love you have. Till sometimes it did seem Better it were Never to see you more Than linger here. With only gratitude Instead of love – A pine in solitude Cradling a dove. ------------------------------------ So very sad ............. Gwynne

thank you Geoff that is lovely! Maz. XX

I wrote this for my Parents, HALFWAY We are born into this World We know not why We live a while And then we Die We have a journey to fulfil Some days we are well And others ill The path we take Might be right or wrong One thing is for sure It will be long I have no doubt That come what may The journeys end Will come one day My journey so far Has been like no other But i've tried to walk Like my Father and Mother They showed me how To be a Man I thank them both For what I am HALFWAY has come On this lonely track I must stride on There Is no turning back I cannot fail to reach the end For i walk this walk With my two best friends I have only written a few, but this means a lot to me, Hope someone likes it. Regards Geoff.

My Dumb Friends My home is a haven for one who enjoys The clamour of children and ear-splitting noise From a number of dogs who are always about, And who want to come in and, once in, go out. Whenever I settle to read by the fire, Some dog will develop and urge to retire, And I’m constantly opening and shutting the door For a dog to depart or, as mentioned before, For a dog to arrive who, politely admitted, Will make a beeline for the chair I’ve just quitted. Our friends may be dumb, but my house is a riot, Where I cannot sit still and can never be quiet Ralph Wotherspon From Verse and Worse This one reminds me of my little dog, who constantly gets me out of bed at night to go in the garden. By the time I get back from re locking the door she is snug just where I usually sleep!!!!!

Thank you Jill, that is beautiful. Maz. XX

A Pathetic Psyche The hyperaesthetic schizoid type Is given to talking and writing tripe. They go all timid and hide in holes, And even worry about their souls. Though not religious, they like to talk Of metaphysics. They never walk With striding gait and aspect free, But read a book beneath a tree. Obsessed with doubt, they cannot find Comfort in heart or soul or mind. They long for companions, yearn for a friend, But find only bitterness at the end. They spend whole days in bleak despair, Grow happy when the sun shines fair, Ecstatic at the birth of spring: The bright dark eye and fluttering wing Of every bird is their delight – They almost feel their souls take flight To join the essential harmony Of sky and field, and hill and sea, But something always drags them back To their unhappy selves. The black And sullen mood returns once more, More black and sullen than before. What can be done with hearts like these? Will death at last afford them ease? Will they sleep the, as before birth, Silence their friend, their blanket earth? By Winifred Ambler I know nothing of this poet, and have been unable to find anything about her on the net. The poem is in a book Verse and Worse that I have had for many, many years. It describes how I sometimes feel, and I am sure there are others of you out there that can equate to the words. I especially relate to the bit about ‘talking and writing tripe’ and the ‘obsessed with doubt’

I particularly love poems about nature, this little one is fitting for the time of year (hopefully!) Thaw ------- Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed The speculating rooks at their nests cawed And saw from elm-tops, delicate as a flower of grass, What we below could not see, winter pass. Edward Thomas

Thank you Gwynne I've not read Dylan Thomas before - I think he seems quite deep, I'll have another read of that one later! Will see if there are any more of his in my books too. David, yep Betjeman is growing on me - I like the simple language and the rhythms. The 4 Weddings one I LOVE. I can't read it without hearing that Scottish accent and seeing the scene from the film. The film is one of my faves and brings back a lot of memories for me - I 'll tell you about it next time I see you! ;-)) Dee - d'oh - I should have got off my butt and looked in the book! I think you're right though it does sound similar. Maz. XX

Cheerful I know but these are two of my favourite poems about death:) They're both well known & I thought of them cos you've been talking about the poets - the first is John Betjeman (who I'm not normally keen on) and I find it light but poignant and the second is W H Auden. It was used in Four Wedding and a Funeral and is just beautiful. DEATH IN LEAMINGTON She died in the upstairs bedroom By the light of the ev'ning star That shone through the plate glass window From over Leamington Spa. Beside her the lonely crochet Lay patiently and unstirred, But the fingers that would have work'd it Were dead as the spoken word. And Nurse came in with the tea-things Breast high 'mid the stands and chairs- But Nurse was alone with her own little soul, And the things were alone with theirs. She bolted the big round window, She let the blinds unroll, She set a match to the mantle, She covered the fire with coal. And 'Tea!' she said in a tiny voice 'Wake up! It's nearly five.' Oh! Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness, Half dead and half alive. Do you know that the stucco is peeling? Do you know that the heart will stop? From those yellow Italianate arches Do you hear the plaster drop? Nurse looked at the silent bedstead, At the gray, decaying face As the calm of a Leamington ev'ning Drifted into the place. She moved the table of bottles Away from the bed to the wall; And tiptoeing gently over the stairs Turned down the gas in the hall. FUNERAL BLUES (from Twelve Songs) Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

I love this thread. Thanks to Maz for starting it and thanks to all who have contributed so far. My contribution for today is a well known poem that moves me to tears, still. I love Dylan and we have been to his museum in Swansea and visted the Boathouse and Brown's Hotel in Laugharne and many other places associated with him Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas

Maz I always think of Betjeman and the 'mail train' but it is in fact W H Auden This is the Night Mail crossing the border Bringing the cheque and the postal order It is in a very similar style isn't it? Dee ;-))

Thank you Jim, I think people who can write poetry are so lucky - I can't do it at all Dee - I think I will try and find a book of Betjeman stuff - I really like that one and others in the 2 anthologies I have. The 'mail train' one is his too isn't it? (sorry, too lazy to go and get the book lol lol) Maz. XX

One I wrote last year. Ode to living by the Sea Where sea meets sky There is a magic place. An optical illusion Where ships appear to fly. The colours ever changing The surface ripples flashing, Sunlight dancing, Lights forever rearranging. Ships laden with freight. Cruisers full of Holidayers Travelling in State. And at night in fog, Hidden, mournful. A mighty ship Howling like a dog. The foghorns wail A sad lament For those who now No longer sail. Those lost in storms, No grave for them but, Dancing on the water Misty ghostly forms Storms, and wind gusting. Spray splashing overhead. Wind and rain lashing. Bus shelters rusting. And then the sun. Children on the beaches Swimming through the breakers Having fun. So through the year Changing, ever offering Some new delight. I love it here. Jim Weatherall 2005

One poet I do like is John Betjeman, especially when his works are read aloud. My favourite of his must be Diary of a Church Mouse. It is a long poem so I am only including the first few lines here, just to whet your appetite. Here among long discarded cassocks Damp stools, and half split open hassocks, Here where the Vicar never looks, I nibble through old service books Lean and alone I spend my days Behind this Church of England baize. I share my dark forgotten room With two oil lamps and half a broom The cleaner never bothers me, So here I eat my frugal tea.