Archive for the Poetry Category

May and the Poets – Leigh Hunt

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on May 1, 2025 by telescoper

I almost forgot that today is Poetry Day Ireland which this year has a theme of “May Day” so here’s a romantic yet whimsical offering that seems tailor-made to mark the start of the month of May.

There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books:—
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
May's at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859)

Easter Monday (In Memoriam E.T.) – Eleanor Farjeon

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on April 21, 2025 by telescoper
In the last letter that I had from France
You thanked me for the silver Easter egg
Which I had hidden in the box of apples
You liked to munch beyond all other fruit.
You found the egg the Monday before Easter,
And said, 'I will praise Easter Monday now -
It was such a lovely morning'. Then you spoke
Of the coming battle and said, 'This is the eve.
Good-bye. And may I have a letter soon.'

That Easter Monday was a day for praise,
It was such a lovely morning. In our garden
We sowed our earliest seeds, and in the orchard
The apple-bud was ripe. It was the eve.
There are three letters that you will not get.

by Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)

Eleanor Farjeon, who is probably best known for having written the words to the hymn Morning has Broken, wrote this poem shortly after she heard news of the death of her close friend the poet Edward Thomas (the E.T. in the title) who was killed in action at the Battle of Arras on Easter Monday, 9th April 1917.

Sonnet No. 19

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on April 11, 2025 by telescoper
Devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws
And burn the long-liv'd phoenix in her blood,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
And do what e'er thou wilt, swift-footed time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets:
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime,
O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen,
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst, old time, despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

(I don’t know why it’s been such a long time since I last posted one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.)

The Market-Place – Walter de la Mare

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on April 4, 2025 by telescoper
My mind is like a clamorous market-place.
All day in wind, rain, sun, its babel wells;
Voice answering to voice in tumult swells.
Chaffering and laughing, pushing for a place,
My thoughts haste on, gay, strange, poor, simple, base;
This one buys dust, and that a bauble sells:
But none to any scrutiny hints or tells
The haunting secrets hidden in each sad face.

The clamour quietens when the dark draws near;
Strange looms the earth in twilight of the West,
Lonely with one sweet star serene and clear,
Dwelling, when all this place is hushed to rest,
On vacant stall, gold, refuse, worst and best,
Abandoned utterly in haste and fear.

by Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

A Poem for St David’s Day

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on March 1, 2025 by telescoper
Daffodils photographed yesterday at Maynooth University

It’s St David’s Day so, notwithstanding the fact that I’ve just watched Leinster beat Cardiff 42-24 at Rugby,

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus!

On this day I usually post a poem by a Welsh poet. This, by Dylan Thomas, which was published in 1936 and seems to me to be rather topical, featured in the concert I went to about a month ago.

The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.

The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The finger joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose's quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.

The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,
And famine grew, and locusts came;
Great is the hand that holds dominion over
Man by a scribbled name.

The five kings count the dead but do not soften
The crusted wound nor pat the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hands have no tears to flow.

Aubade – Louis MacNeice

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on February 11, 2025 by telescoper
Having bitten on life like a sharp apple 
Or, playing it like a fish, been happy,

Having felt with fingers that the sky is blue,
What have we after that to look forward to?

Not the twilight of the gods but a precise dawn
of sallow and grey bricks, and newsboys crying war.

by Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

The Celestial Stranger – Thomas Traherne

Posted in History, Music, Poetry with tags , , on February 2, 2025 by telescoper

I promised yesterday that I would post the poem that gives its title to the song cycle, The Celestial Stranger, which was performed at the National Concert Hall on Friday night, so here it is as it appeared in the programme:

It’s very interesting to see such thoughts expressed in the mid-17th Century!

Thomas Traherne is an interesting poet in many ways and the associated story of his poetical manuscripts is strange and fascinating. The son of  a cobbler, Traherne was a devoutly religious man who lived most of his short life (1637-1674) in relative obscurity as a clergyman and theologian. He was a prolific writer of both prose and poetry, but very little of his work was published during his lifetime. A vast number of handwritten manuscripts survived his death, however, and many of these remained in the safekeeping of a local family in his native Herefordshire. However, in 1888 the estate of this family was wound up, sold, and the manuscripts became dispersed. Eventually, in 1897, one set of papers was  accidentally discovered in a bookstall. Traherne’s first volume of verse was published in 1903 and a second collection followed in 1908.

When these poems finally found their way into the literary world they were greeted with astonishment as well as deep appreciation and they were widely  influential: T.S. Eliot was a great admirer of Traherne, as was Dorothy L Sayers. There are also truly wonderful musical settings of some of Traherne’s poetry made by a young Gerald Finzi in his cantata Dies Natalis.

Over the years further manuscripts  have also come to light – literally, in one case, because in 1967 another lost Traherne manuscript was found, on fire, in a  rubbish dump and rescued in the nick of time! As late as 1997 more works by Traherne were discovered among 4,000 manuscripts in the Library of Lambeth Palace, the London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Lambeth manuscripts, from which the above poem is taken, are mostly prose writings, actually, but there are many poems in there too.

Traherne is sometimes described as the last metaphysical poet. However, it seems to me he might equally be described as the first romantic poet. The themes he tackles – love of nature and loss of childhood innocence – and his visionary, rhapsodic style have as much in common with William Blake and, especially, William Wordsworth as they do with better known metaphysical poets such as John Donne.

Cut – Sylvia Plath

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on January 29, 2025 by telescoper
What a thrill -
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man -

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump -
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

by Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

Absence – Edwin Morgan

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on January 22, 2025 by telescoper
My shadow --
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire
so that I got up and looked out half-asleep
at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below?
Without fire
Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you
came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging
to my elbow, your eyes spoke
what I could not grasp --
Nothing, if you were here!

The wind of the early quiet
merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets?
Are you at my heels? Are you here?
And I throw back the sheets.

by Edwin Morgan (1920-2010)

Twelfth Night – Louis MacNeice

Posted in Maynooth, Poetry with tags , , , on January 6, 2025 by telescoper
Snow-happy hicks of a boy’s world –
O crunch of bull’s-eyes in the mouth,
O crunch of frost beneath the foot –
If time would only remain furled
In white, and thaw were not for certain
And snow would but stay put, stay put!

When the pillar-box wore a white bonnet –
O harmony of roof and hedge,
O parity of sight and thought –
And each flake had your number on it
And lives were round for not a number
But equalled nought, but equalled nought!

But now the sphinx must change her shape –
O track that reappears through slush,
O broken riddle, burst grenade –
And lives must be pulled out like tape
To measure something not themselves,
Things not given but made, but made.

For now the time of gifts is gone –
O boys that grow, O snows that melt,
O bathos that the years must fill –
Here is dull earth to build upon
Undecorated; we have reached
Twelfth Night or what you will … you will.

by Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)