Poetry Please

Tom

Eirú Sean Gael
Member
Joined
Nov 10, 2017
Messages
176
Likes
197
Points
43
#61
We were blessed with wonderful poets in Ireland (and other parts of the world) in the 20th century - and some of them are still alive ;)

But has Irish Poetry lost its "bite" as Ireland has liberalised?
Yes I think so, not just liberalised but the other isems as well, I'm having some thoughts on poetry and why and how it works. The poetry I gravitate towards is Grecian, in that I like the tragedy, the lived experience. Maudlin I know But I do like Macavity The Mystery Cat by Eliot but less so of that type. Anyhow I have a proposal about reverse poetry, Not completely formulated in my head yet, I'll throw it up for criticism shortly.
 
OP
OP
Casablanca
Joined
Nov 1, 2015
Messages
516
Likes
703
Points
93
#62
Death In Leamingtin by Sir John Betjeaman


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
 
Joined
Nov 2, 2015
Messages
359
Likes
336
Points
63
Location
Dublin
#64
Is this true - or is it just me :oops:





MOONSHINE


To think
I must be alone:
To love
We must be together.

I think I love you
When I’m alone
More than I think of you
When we’re together.

I cannot think
Without loving
Or love
Without thinking.

Alone I love
To think of us together:
Together I think
I’d love to be alone.
 

Socratus O' Pericles

Donator
Premium Account
Member
Joined
Oct 30, 2015
Messages
363
Likes
293
Points
63
#65
In the storm-tossed
Chilean
sea
lives the rosy conger,
giant eel
of snowy flesh.
And in Chilean
stewpots,
along the coast,
was born the chowder,
thick and succulent,
a boon to man.
You bring the conger, skinned,
to the kitchen
(its mottled skin slips off
like a glove,
leaving the
grape of the sea
exposed to the world),
naked,
the tender eel
glistens,
prepared
to serve our appetites.
Now
you take
garlic,
first, caress
that precious
ivory,
smell
its irate fragrance,
then
blend the minced garlic
with onion
and tomato
until the onion
is the color of gold.
Meanwhile steam
our regal
ocean prawns,
and when
they are
tender,
when the savor is
set in a sauce
combining the liquors
of the ocean
and the clear water
released from the light of the onion,
then
you add the eel
that it may be immersed in glory,
that it may steep in the oils
of the pot,
shrink and be saturated.
Now all that remains is to
drop a dollop of cream
into the concoction,
a heavy rose,
then slowly
deliver
the treasure to the flame,
until in the chowder
is warmed
the essences of Chile,
and to the table
come, newly wed,
the savors
of land and sea,
that in this dish
you may know heaven.
 
Joined
Oct 31, 2015
Messages
688
Likes
540
Points
93
Location
County Londondoire
#66
One of the Great Poets.

The Wounded Otter

Michael Hartnett

A wounded otter
on a bare rock
a bolt in her side,
stroking her whiskers
stroking her webbed feet.
Her ancestors
told her once
that there was a river,
a crystal river,
a waterless bed.
They also said
there were trout there
fat as tree-trunks
and kingfishers
bright as blue spears -
men there without cinders
in their boots,
men without dogs
on leashes.
She did not notice
the world die
nor the sun expire.
She was already
swimming at ease
in the magic crystal river.
 
Joined
Jul 30, 2018
Messages
220
Likes
196
Points
43
#67
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

John Donne.
 
Joined
Nov 2, 2015
Messages
359
Likes
336
Points
63
Location
Dublin
#69
Discretion
by Roger McGough

Discretion is the better part of Valerie
(though all of her is nice)
lips as warm as strawberries
eyes as cold as ice
the very best of everything
only will suffice
not for her potatoes
and puddings made of rice

Not for her potatoes
and puddings made of rice
she takes carbohydrates
like God takes advice
a surfeit of ambition
is her particular vice
Valerie fondles lovers
like a mousetrap fondles mice

And though in the morning
she may whisper: "it was nice"
you can tell by her demeanour
that she keeps her love on ice
but you've lost your hard-earned heart
now you'll have to pay the price
for she'll kiss you on the memory
and vanish in a trice

Valerie is corruptible
but known to be discreet
Valerie rides a silver cloud
where once she walked the street.
 
Joined
Oct 31, 2015
Messages
688
Likes
540
Points
93
Location
County Londondoire
#70
A Rough Honeymoon



Heaven and Hell had a rough honeymoon.

Hell had a sense of humour

That Heaven frowned on :



There was a conductor called Hass

Whose balls were two spheres of glass

Which tinkled toccatas

And fugues and sonatas

And on Sundays the B Minor Mass.



Heaven didn’t like Hell’s banter

And exhorted her to be more serious.

Otherwise, said Heaven, the world will think you’re a cod.

Fuck the world, said Hell, I believe in God.

Heaven pushed on: Your breakfast jokes are vulgar.

‘How do you like your eggs?’ ‘Unfertilised.’

That sort of crack is in bad taste.



Perhaps it is, conceded Hell, but we must get to know each other

And jokes point the way to the heart of the matter.

Let’s reconcile me laughing with you being scandalised.

Otherwise our marriage is a bit of a waste.



Brendan Kennelly, Little Book Of Judas.
 
Top Bottom