A question for poets and poetry lovers

[cowtime]

From Belfast came Louis Macneice...well worth a look.


Prayer Before Birth

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me, my treason engendered by traitors beyond me, my life when they murder by means of my hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white waves call me to folly and the desert calls me to doom and the beggar refuses my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton, would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with one face, a thing, and against all those who would dissipate my entirety, would blow me like thistledown hither and thither or hither and thither like water held in the hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

Louis Macneice



Slan,
D.

amazing........(I'm copying that one to keep )

[Innocent Bystander]

The Liverpool poets are too obsessed with sex to be any use with a class full of teenagers. And The book of Roger McGough's Children's poems is lost in the debris of my daughter's room. Someday it will resurface. Meanwhile, try these:

Any Prince to Any Princess

By Adrian Henri

August is coming
and the goose, I’m afraid,
is getting fat.
There have been no golden eggs for some months now.
Straw has fallen well below the market price
despite my frantic spinning
and the sedge is,
as you rightly point out,
withered.

I can’t imagine how the pea
got under your mattress. I apologise
humbly. The chambermaid has, of course,
been sacked. As has the frog footman.
I understand that, during my recent fact-finding tour of the Golden River,
despite you nightly unavailing efforts
he remained obstinately
froggish.

I hope that the Three Wishes granted by the General Assembly
will go some way towards redressing
this unfortunate sequence of events.
The fall in output from the shoe factory, for example:
no-one could have foreseen the work-to-rule
by the National Union of Elves. Not to mention the fact
that the court has been fast asleep
for the last six and a half years.
The matter of the poisoned apple has been taken up
by the Board of trade: I think I can assure you
the incident will not be
repeated.

I can quite understand, in the circumstances,
your reluctance to let down
your golden tresses. However
I feel I must point out
that the weather isn’t getting any better
and I already have a nasty chill
from waiting at the base
of the White Tower. You must see
the absurdity of the situation.
Some of the courtiers are beginning to talk,
not to mention the humble villagers.
It’s been three weeks now, and not even
a word.

Princess,
a cold, black wind
howls through our empty palace.
Dead leaves litter the bedchamber;
the mirror on the wall hasn’t said a thing
since you left. I can only ask,
bearing all this in mind,
that you think again,

let down your hair,

reconsider.





First Day at School

By Roger McGough

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, the other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
that don’t let me in. Games
that are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don’t take sweets from?
Perhaps they’re to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there’s puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

[fearfaoin]

• I shot an arrow into the sky
  It hit a cloud, 'twas floating by
  The cloud fell, dying, to the shore...
  I don't shoot arrows anymore

--Shel Silverstein

[dubhlinn]

An adorable woman from this neck of the woods... moved to Oxford at a young age and a serious Catholic in later life..Elizabeth Jennings.



One Flesh

Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,
He with a book, keeping the light on late,
She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait
Some new event: the book he holds unread,
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if they do it is like a confession
Of having little feeling - or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination
For which their whole lives were a preparation.

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
Silence between them like a thread to hold
And not wind in. And time itself's a feather
Touching them gently. Do they know they're old,
These two who are my father and my mother
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

Elizabeth Jennings.


A greatly undervalued poet.

Slan,
D.

[Will O'B]

• I shot an arrow into the sky
  It hit a cloud, 'twas floating by
  The cloud fell, dying, to the shore...
  I don't shoot arrows anymore

--Shel Silverstein

I shot a pass into the air
It fell to earth I know not where...
So, that is why I sit and dream
On the bench with the junior team.

Michael

[Will O'B]

This one is kind of about "other worlds" but I'm not sure if it's the world you're wanting, since he's talking about death It's fairly well known, though.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I have never understood why some people say this poem is about death. I'm not saying they are wrong to say that because that is their interpretation and they have a right to believe that. I just don't see anything in the text that suggests death except for maybe the last two repeated lines that refer to sleep. But I don't know if he is talking about the "final' sleep or not here. I see words and images that describe a beautiful serene setting that he stops to enjoy and gets caught up in its tranquility. Then he suddenly remembers that he has other more "important" things that need to be done ("I have promises to keep"). He has to leave that reverie behind and get back to living his life however boring it might be. He has alot of things to do before his day is done and he can finally get some rest ("miles to go before I sleep"). Sometimes life (or responsibilities) get in the way and stop us from fully living our life. That's just what I get out of the poem anyway. I know that what I think is no more right than what anyone else thinks. That's the cool thing about poetry. You get alot of different opinions about what the words mean once you put it all together. Sometimes you would think that the other person has read something totally different than you. But we all have our own personal lives that we bring to the poem when we read it. I'm sorry. I'll shut up now. I guess this is what makes me such a nerd.

Michael

[dfernandez77]

From the most incredible collection of poetry I ever read.

Harper's Anthology of 20th Century Native American Poetry

Transformations
This poem is a letter to tell you that I
have smelled the hatred you have tried
to find me with; you would like to
Bone splintered in the eye of one you choose
to name your enemy won't make it better for you
to see. It could take a thousand years if you name it
that way, but then, to see after that time never
could anything be so clear. Memory has many forms.
When I think of early winter I think of a blackbird
laughing in the frozen air; guards a piece of light.
I saw the whole world caught in that sound. The sun
stopped for a moment because of tough belief. I don't
know what that has to do with what I am trying to tell
you, except that I know you can turn a poem into something
else. This poem could be a bear treading the far northern
tundra, smelling the air for sweet alive meat. Or a piece
of seaweed stumbling in the sea. Or a blackbird, laughing.
What I mean is that hatred can be turned into something
else, if you have the right words, the right meanings
buried in that tender place in your heart where
the most precious animals live. Down the street
an ambulance has come to rescue and old man who is slowly
losing his life. Not many can see that he is already
becoming the backyard tree he has tended
for years, before he moves on. He is not sad, but
compassionate for the fears moving around him.
That's what I mean to tell you. On the other side
of the place where you live stands a dark woman
She has been trying to talk to you for years.
You have called the same name in the middle of a
nightmare, from the center of miracles.
She is beautiful.
This is your hatred back. She loves you.
-- Joy Harjo

[fearfaoin]

I have never understood why some people say this poem is about death.

I don't think it's necessarily about death, it just has many
metaphors that evoke thoughts about mortality. The woods can be
taken as a metaphor for death itself, with the descriptions of their
darkness and peacefulness. And if you do that, whose "woods" are
they? God's? Does that make the "house in the villiage" a church?

The narrator may contemplate his own mortality for awhile but
realizes he has many responsibilities while he's still alive. So, it is
certainly about contemplating a peaceful scene, but it can be taken
farther by thinking about the metaphorical language. That's why
it's such a popular poem with literature teachers.

[Will O'B]

And if you do that, whose "woods" are
they? God's? Does that make the "house in the villiage" a church?

I like the metaphors alot. But if we go there then it seems like we must also say that the narrator does not believe that God is all-knowing or all-present. ("He will not see me stopping here")

Michael

[hathair_bláth]

Alan Jackson is Scottish.

As a fan of country music, that statement took me a little while to digest!


One of my favourite poems:

The Day Is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

[fearfaoin]

And if you do that, whose "woods" are
they? God's? Does that make the "house in the villiage" a church?

I like the metaphors alot. But if we go there then it seems like we must also say that the narrator does not believe that God is all-knowing or all-present. ("He will not see me stopping here")

Interesting point. Maybe the narrator just feels abandoned by God...
Many ways to go with that.

[Congratulations]

I love this poem. Though it doesn't fit the theme, it's good for the age group.



THE LANYARD

Billy Collins


The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly--
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift--not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

To compliment that, here's a Billy Collins poem that sort of fits the theme, but not really the age group:

Man in Space

All you have to do is listen to the way a man
sometimes talks to his wife at a table of people
and notice how intent he is on making his point
even though her lower lip is beginning to quiver,

and you will know why the women in science
fiction movies who inhabit a planet of their own
are not pictured making a salad or reading a magazine
when the men from earth arrive in their rocket,

why they are always standing in a semicircle
with their arms folded, their bare legs set apart,
their breasts protected by hard metal disks.

Billy Collins

[carrie]

Lovin' these!

carrie

[carrie]

Just another big thank you to all who contributed ideas. I've read this thread over and over! Here are a few poems that I especially love.

by Lucille Clifton
memory

ask me to tell how it feels
remembering your mother's face
turned to water under the white words
of the man at the shoe store. ask me,
though she tells it better than i do,
not because of her charm
but because it never happened
she says,
no bully salesman swaggering,
no rage, no shame, none of it
ever happened.
i only remember buying you
your first grown up shoes
she smiles. ask me
how it feels.


And this one by Lisa Suhair Majaj, found in a very satisfying Young Adult book called The Space Between Our Footsteps: Poems and Paintings from the Middle East

I Remember My Father's Hands

because they were large, and square,
fingers chunky, black hair like wire

because they fingered worried beads over and over
(that muted clicking, that constant motion, that secular prayer)

because they ripped bread with a quiet purpose,
dipped fresh green oil like a birthright

because after his mother's funeral they raised a tea cup,
set it down untouched, uncontrollably trembling

because when they trimmed hedges, pruned roses,
their tenderness caught my breath with jealousy

because once when I was a child they cupped my face,
dry and warm, flesh full and calloused, for a long moment

because over his wife's still form they faltered
great mute helpless beasts

because when his own lungs filled and sank they reached out
for the first time pleading

because when I look at my hands
his own speak back



Thanks again, everyone!

carrie

[FJohnSharp]

For a very accessible collection of poetry, pick up a copy of 'Good Poems', edited by Garrison Keillor.