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June
Jun 10, 2014 8:59:04 GMT -5
Post by beth on Jun 10, 2014 8:59:04 GMT -5
The Catch Simon Armitage Forget the long, smouldering afternoon. It is this moment when the ball scoots off the edge of the bat, upwards, backwards, falling seemingly beyond him yet he reaches and picks it out of its loop like an apple from a branch, the first of the season. This one's so yummy it leaves a sweet taste in my mind and a smile behind my eyes. (an observation about some other poetry by my former English Lit prof that is apt.) IOW, I like this one. lol
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 11, 2014 10:31:33 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 11, 2014 10:31:33 GMT -5
It's about cricket; Simon Armitage is IMO a really brilliant poet and one of the best Britain's produced in the last twenty-five years or so.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 11, 2014 10:31:56 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 11, 2014 10:31:56 GMT -5
Dragon Flies
W J Turner
What drinks the dragon fly, that dart of blue light, The small, the slender ones, in June later, or July, Among the irises, upon the water-lilies, by the bright rock rose Overhanging the goldfish, dark and yellow in the sunshine?
Drowsy, the tortoise sits by the water edge, On him the air is keener than a razor, His seat of stone and his shell together getting hotter, His little webbed feet like darker-dimpled water.
Those blue darts multiply as the day grows warmer, The leaf-packed lily buds are burst asunder Red-pale and crimson to burn upon the water Suddenly unfolded. What drinks the dragon fly?
He drinks the limitless, the boundless azure, Hence he is blue, like the poppy of Himal’ya – Ten thousand feet high o’er the snow wide-waving Happy like a sea of inland blue water.
Spirits of an alcohol unknown to earth-men, Delight-drunken fiends half-colour, half-madness The Dragon-flies battle, by the fires of their nature Mid the waves of the wind on the glowing water.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 11, 2014 10:32:53 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 11, 2014 10:32:53 GMT -5
The Sedge-Warbler
Ralph Hodgson
In early summer moonlight I have strayed Down pass and wildway of the wooded hill With wonder as again the sedge-bird made
His old, old ballad new beside the mill, And I have stolen closer to the song That, lispèd low, would swell and change to shrill,
Thick, chattered cheeps that seemed not to belong Of right to the frail elfin throat that threw Them on the stream, their waker. There among
The willows I have watched as over flew A noctule, making zigzag round the lone, Dark elm whose shadow clipt grotesque the new
Green lawn below. On softest breezes blown From some far brake, the cruising fern-owl’s cry Would stay my steps; a beetle’s nearing drone
Would steal upon my sense and pass and die. There I have heard in that still, solemn hour The quickened thorn from slaying weeds untie
A prisoned leaf or furlèd bloom, whose dower Of incense yet burned in the warm June night; By darkness cozened from his grot to cower
And curve the night long, that shy eremite The lowly, banded eft would seek his prey; And thousand worlds my silent world would light Till broke the babel of the summer day.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 11, 2014 10:33:15 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 11, 2014 10:33:15 GMT -5
From ‘Thyrsis’
Matthew Arnold
So, some tempestuous morn in early June, When the year’s primal burst of bloom is o’er, Before the roses and the longest day – When garden-walks and all the grassy floor With blossoms red and white of fallen May And chestnut-flowers are strewn – So have I heard the cuckoo’s parting cry, From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze; The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!
Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, Sweet-William with his homely cottage smell, And stocks in fragrant blow; Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, And the full moon, and the white evening-star.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 12, 2014 15:05:32 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 12, 2014 15:05:32 GMT -5
A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns
O my luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June, O, my luve is like the melodie That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun! And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my love, Tho it were ten thousand mile!
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 12, 2014 15:06:02 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 12, 2014 15:06:02 GMT -5
‘A clown’s smirk in the skull of a baboon’
e e cummings
a clown's smirk in the skull of a baboon (where once good lips stalked or eyes firmly stir red) my mirror gives me on this afternoon; i am a shape that can but eat and turd ere with the dirt death shall him vastly gird a coward waiting clumsily to cease whom every perfect thing meanwhile doth miss; a hand's impression in an empty glove a soon forgotten tune a house for lease. I have never loved you dear as now i love
behold this fool who in the month of June having certain stars and planets heard rose very slowly in a tight balloon until the smallening world became absurd; him did an archer spy(whose aim had erred never)and by that little trick or this he shot the aeronaut down into the abyss -and wonderfully i fell through the green groove of twilight striking into many a piece. I have never loved you dear as now i love
god's terrible face brighter than a spoon collects the image of one fatal word; so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon) resembles something that has not occurred: i am a birdcage without any bird a collar looking for a dog a kiss without lips;a prayer lacking any knees but something beats within my shirt to prove he is undead who living noone is. I have never loved you dear as now i love.
Hell(by most humble me which shall increase) open thy fire!for i have had some bliss of one small lady upon earth above; to whom i cry remembering her face i have never loved you dear as now i love
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 12, 2014 15:06:45 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 12, 2014 15:06:45 GMT -5
Adlestrop
Edward Thomas
Yes, I remember Adlestrop -- The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop -- only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 13, 2014 7:37:17 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 13, 2014 7:37:17 GMT -5
One by the late great master of bad verse, McGonagall.
Lord Roberts Triumphal Entry into Pretoria
William McGonagall
'Twas in the year of 1900, and on the 5th of June, Lord Roberts entered Pretoria in the afternoon; His triumphal entry was magnificent to see, The British Army marching behind him fearlessly.
With their beautiful banners unfurled to the breeze, But the scene didn't the Boers please; And they immediately made some show of fight, But at the charge of the bayonet they were put to flight.
The troops, by the people, were received with loud cheers, While many of them through joy shed joyous tears; Because Lord Roberts from bondage had set them free, Which made them dance and sing with glee.
Lord Roberts' march into Pretoria was inspiring to see, It is reckoned one of the greatest achievements in our military history; Because the Boers were watching him in front and behind, But he scattered them like chaff before the wind.
Oh! it was a most beautiful and inspiring sight To see the British bayonets glittering in the sunlight, Whilst the bands played "See the conquering hero comes," While the people in ecstasy towards them run.
The British marched into Pretoria like the rushing tide, And the Boers around Pretoria there no longer could abide, Because the British at the charge of the bayonet made them run with fear, And fly from Pretoria just like wild dear.
Then Lord Roberts cried, "Pull down the Transvaal Flag, And hoist the Union Jack instead of the Transvaal rag; And shout 'Britannia for ever,' and 'Long live our Queen,' For she is the noblest Queen the world has ever seen."
Then the Union Jack was hoisted and unfurled to the breeze, Which certainly did the Boers displease, When they saw the Union Jack flying o'er their capital, The sight thereof amazed them, and did them appall.
And when old Kruger saw Lord Roberts he shook with fright, Then he immediately disguised himself and took to flight, Leaving his poor wife in Pretoria behind, But the British troops have treated her very kind.
Now let us all thank Lord Roberts for his great bravery, Who has gained for the people of Pretoria their liberty, By his skillful tactics and great generalship, be it told, And the courage of his soldiers, who fought like lions bold.
Lord Roberts is a brave man, be it said, Who never was the least afraid To defend his Queen and country when called upon; And by his valorous deeds great battles he has won.
Then success to Lord Roberts and the British Army, May God protect them by land and by sea; And enable them always to conquer the Boers, And beat all foreign foes from our shores.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 13, 2014 7:37:42 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 13, 2014 7:37:42 GMT -5
Sonnet Reversed
Rupert Brooke
Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights.
Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon! Soon they returned, and, after strange adventures, Settled at Balham by the end of June. Their money was in Can. Pacs. B. Debentures, And in Antofagastas. Still he went Cityward daily; still she did abide At home. And both were really quite content With work and social pleasures. Then they died. They left three children (besides George, who drank): The eldest Jane, who married Mr Bell, William, the head-clerk in the County Bank, And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 13, 2014 7:38:35 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 13, 2014 7:38:35 GMT -5
Another Way of Love
Robert Browning
I.
June was not over Though past the fall, And the best of her roses Had yet to blow, When a man I know (But shall not discover, Since ears are dull, And time discloses) Turned him and said with a man's true air, Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 'twere,--- ``If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?''
II.
Well, dear, in-doors with you! True! serene deadness Tries a man's temper. What's in the blossom June wears on her bosom? Can it clear scores with you? Sweetness and redness. _Eadem semper!_ Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly! If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightly By plucking the roses,---my June will do rightly.
III.
And after, for pastime, If June be refulgent With flowers in completeness, All petals, no prickles, Delicious as trickles Of wine poured at mass-time,--- And choose One indulgent To redness and sweetness: Or if, with experience of man and of spider, June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder, And stop the fresh film-work,---why, June will consider.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 14, 2014 14:06:15 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 14, 2014 14:06:15 GMT -5
Ireland with Emily
John Betjeman
Bells are booming down the bohreens, White the mist along the grass, Now the Julias, Maeves and Maureens Move between the fields to Mass. Twisted trees of small green apple Guard the decent whitewashed chapel, Gilded gates and doorway grained, Pointed windows richly stained With many-coloured Munich glass.
See the black-shawled congregations On the broidered vestment gaze Murmer past the painted stations As Thy Sacred Heart displays Lush Kildare of scented meadows, Roscommon, thin in ash-tree shadows, And Westmeath the lake-reflected, Spreading Leix the hill-protected, Kneeling all in silver haze?
In yews and woodbine, walls and guelder, Nettle-deep the faithful rest, Winding leagues of flowering elder, Sycamore with ivy dressed, Ruins in demesnes deserted, Bog-surrounded bramble-skirted - Townlands rich or townlands mean as These, oh, counties of them screen us In the Kingdom of the West.
Stony seaboard, far and foreign, Stony hills poured over space, Stony outcrop of the Burren, Stones in every fertile place, Little fields with boulders dotted, Grey-stone shoulders saffron-spotted, Stone-walled cabins thatched with reeds, Where a Stone Age people breeds The last of Europe's stone age race.
Has it held, the warm June weather? Draining shallow sea-pools dry, When we bicycled together Down the bohreens fuchsia-high. Till there rose, abrupt and lonely, A ruined abbey, chancel only, Lichen-crusted, time-befriended, Soared the arches, splayed and splendid, Romanesque against the sky.
There in pinnacled protection, One extinguished family waits A Church of Ireland resurrection By the broken, rusty gates. Sheepswool, straw and droppings cover, Graves of spinster, rake and lover, Whose fantastic mausoleum, Sings its own seablown Te Deum, In and out the slipping slates.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 14, 2014 14:06:40 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 14, 2014 14:06:40 GMT -5
We real cool
Gwendolyn Brooks
We real cool. We Left School. We
Lurk late. We Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We Die soon.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 14, 2014 14:07:08 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 14, 2014 14:07:08 GMT -5
A Celebration
William Carlos Williams
A middle-northern March, now as always— gusts from the South broken against cold winds— but from under, as if a slow hand lifted a tide, it moves—not into April—into a second March,
the old skin of wind-clear scales dropping upon the mold: this is the shadow projects the tree upward causing the sun to shine in his sphere.
So we will put on our pink felt hat—new last year! —newer this by virtue of brown eyes turning back the seasons—and let us walk to the orchid-house, see the flowers will take the prize tomorrow at the Palace. Stop here, these are our oleanders. When they are in bloom— You would waste words It is clearer to me than if the pink were on the branch. It would be a searching in a colored cloud to reveal that which now, huskless, shows the very reason for their being.
And these the orange-trees, in blossom—no need to tell with this weight of perfume in the air. If it were not so dark in this shed one could better see the white. It is that very perfume has drawn the darkness down among the leaves. Do I speak clearly enough? It is this darkness reveals that which darkness alone loosens and sets spinning on waxen wings— not the touch of a finger-tip, not the motion of a sigh. A too heavy sweetness proves its own caretaker. And here are the orchids! Never having seen such gaiety I will read these flowers for you: This is an odd January, died—in Villon's time. Snow, this is and this the stain of a violet grew in that place the spring that foresaw its own doom.
And this, a certain July from Iceland: a young woman of that place breathed it toward the South. It took root there. The color ran true but the plant is small.
This falling spray of snow-flakes is a handful of dead Februaries prayed into flower by Rafael Arevalo Martinez of Guatemala. Here's that old friend who went by my side so many years: this full, fragile head of veined lavender. Oh that April that we first went with our stiff lusts leaving the city behind, out to the green hill— May, they said she was. A hand for all of us: this branch of blue butterflies tied to this stem.
June is a yellow cup I'll not name; August the over-heavy one. And here are— russet and shiny, all but March. And March? Ah, March— Flowers are a tiresome pastime. One has a wish to shake them from their pots root and stem, for the sun to gnaw.
Walk out again into the cold and saunter home to the fire. This day has blossomed long enough. I have wiped out the red night and lit a blaze instead which will at least warm our hands and stir up the talk. I think we have kept fair time. Time is a green orchard.
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ladylinda
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June
Jun 15, 2014 16:14:49 GMT -5
Post by ladylinda on Jun 15, 2014 16:14:49 GMT -5
From ‘The Scholar Gipsy’
Matthew Arnold
And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time’s here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through these wide fields of breezy grass Where black-wing’d swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandon’d lasher pass, Have often pass’d thee near Sitting upon the river bank o’ergrown: Mark’d thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air – But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone.
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