tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24368943033540589672024-03-24T07:10:13.761+00:00Conjured Sunlight'These fragments I have shored against my ruins'Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.comBlogger185125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-35648788969221069512024-03-02T15:37:00.003+00:002024-03-02T15:44:41.805+00:00Today by Billy Collins<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2RZ0GtFNvlc" width="320" youtube-src-id="2RZ0GtFNvlc"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><br />If ever there were a spring day so perfect,<br />so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />that it made you want to throw<br />open all the windows in the house<br /><br />and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,<br />indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,<br /><br />a day when the cool brick paths<br />and the garden bursting with peonies<br /><br />seemed so etched in sunlight<br />that you felt like taking<br /><br />a hammer to the glass paperweight<br />on the living room end table,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">releasing the inhabitants<br />from their snow-covered cottage<br /><br />so they could walk out,<br />holding hands and squinting<br /><br />into this larger dome of blue and white,<br />well, today is just that kind of day.</span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-54563491026534951752024-03-02T15:18:00.001+00:002024-03-02T15:18:20.491+00:00 The Best Time Of The Day by Raymond Carver<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAwL5fl1hUoH2vam6uSaFicf4qxWndpYO-Rpb908kVDTIS6FHOy-rtrKkgjX571HieUTrRqPVKZno5_DQXYhWmZjJjCNvYeBrk48Y1YscFEsj5SBAJKwU0sYNkmlph4lbqZ8riSivd0VI5L5vFuQD932c6hl2Pe6KjSIwCbkdpDygxyYOUnwI9sfoE5To" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="733" data-original-width="1000" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAwL5fl1hUoH2vam6uSaFicf4qxWndpYO-Rpb908kVDTIS6FHOy-rtrKkgjX571HieUTrRqPVKZno5_DQXYhWmZjJjCNvYeBrk48Y1YscFEsj5SBAJKwU0sYNkmlph4lbqZ8riSivd0VI5L5vFuQD932c6hl2Pe6KjSIwCbkdpDygxyYOUnwI9sfoE5To=w400-h294" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Raymond Carver</div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Cool summer nights.<br />
Windows open.<br />
Lamps burning.<br />
Fruit in the bowl.<br />
And your head on my shoulder.<br />
These the happiest moments in the day.<br />
<br />
Next to the early morning hours,<br />
of course. And the time<br />
just before lunch.<br />
And the afternoon, and<br />
early evening hours.<br />
But I do love<br />
<br />
these summer nights.<br />
Even more, I think,<br />
than those other times.<br />
The work finished for the day.<br />
And no one who can reach us now.<br />
Or ever.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-63121407349691844062023-12-18T16:31:00.008+00:002023-12-20T08:43:41.709+00:00Fairytale of New York written by Jem Finer and Shane MacGowan<span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1viIsLvKIM7Opc0mP46Vl65V1uf___CxeDEDPneW2--R5R3b8Kvrmuzzw28NZNuCmNecVwstrkE6JIt657kggnCl71zDRa-eI1xQ4FtDIWpyiUOvwhFTVVBO-d-HlsRldPO1mbk5v2-2II4MWvctcZaspv33QTnEsE3afTZCJjYGfObktYduQ4IiqGOw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1viIsLvKIM7Opc0mP46Vl65V1uf___CxeDEDPneW2--R5R3b8Kvrmuzzw28NZNuCmNecVwstrkE6JIt657kggnCl71zDRa-eI1xQ4FtDIWpyiUOvwhFTVVBO-d-HlsRldPO1mbk5v2-2II4MWvctcZaspv33QTnEsE3afTZCJjYGfObktYduQ4IiqGOw=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Shane MacGowan</div><br /><br /><i>Verse 1: Shane MacGowan]</i><br /><br />It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank<br />An old man said to me, "Won't see another one"<br />And then he sang a song, 'The Rare Old Mountain Dew'<br />I turned my face away and dreamed about you<br /><br />[<i>Verse 2: Shane MacGowan]</i><br /><br />Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen-to-one<br />I've got a feeling this year's for me and you<br />So, Happy Christmas, I love you, baby<br />I can see a better time when all our dreams come true<br /><br /><i>[Verse 3: Kirsty MacColl]</i><br /><br />They've got cars big as bars, they've got rivers of gold<br />But the wind goes right through you, it's no place for the old<br />When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas Eve<br />You promised me Broadway was waiting for me</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><i>[Verse 4: Kirsty MacColl & Shane MacGowan & Together]</i><br /><br />You were handsome, you were pretty, queen of New York City<br />When the band finished playing, they howled out for more<br />Sinatra was swinging, all the drunks, they were singing<br />We kissed on a corner, then danced through the night<br /><br /><i>[Chorus: Shane Macgowan & Kirsty MacColl]</i><br /><br />The boys of the NYPD choir<br />Were singing, "Galway Bay"<br />And the bells were ringing out<br />For Christmas Day<br /><br /><i>[Verse 5: Kirsty MacColl & Shane MacGowan]</i><br /><br />You're a bum, you're a punk, you're an old slut on junk<br />Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed<br />You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap, lousy faggot<br />Happy Christmas, your arse, I pray God it's our last<br /><br /><i>[Chorus: Shane Macgowan & Kirsty MacColl]</i><br /><br />The boys of the NYPD choir<br />Still singing, "Galway Bay"<br />And the bells are ringing out<br />For Christmas Day<br /><br /><i>[Verse 6: Kirsty MacColl & Shane MacGowan]</i><br /><br />"I could have been someone" Well, so could anyone<br />You took my dreams from me when I first found you<br />I kept them with me, babe, I put them with my own<br />Can't make it all alone, I've built my dreams around you<br /><br /><i>[Outro: Shane Macgowan & Kirsty MacColl]</i><br /><br />The boys of the NYPD choir<br />Still singing, "Galway Bay"<br />And the bells are ringing out<br />For Christmas Day <br /><br /><a href="https://genius.com/The-pogues-fairytale-of-new-york-lyrics" target="_blank">Click here</a> for a detailed analysis of the lyrics</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And <a href="https://conjuringsunlight.blogspot.com/2023/12/fairytale-of-new-york-with-shane.html" target="_blank">click here</a> for my tribute to Shane MacGowan<br /><br /></span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-33438066583356537602023-08-11T00:37:00.000+01:002023-08-11T00:37:00.527+01:00The Way Through the Woods by Rudyard Kipling<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHifC-2sURkVs3tDNMFfe199SfjVvATtY-NubhBU4G1NmxMD-4MlgT1MA5qSOnRCl6YK5ctrydMSXGMa-pODHddnYEMNJ2_9b95RsvMywZu3jEazDs5Yu_wDvsfHZgYD2NfUcDH1vhZ09TB4JHJaKymwYfjvrf0vyg45Lqq9yq7K5ZHnN4vvSwULyPBAc" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHifC-2sURkVs3tDNMFfe199SfjVvATtY-NubhBU4G1NmxMD-4MlgT1MA5qSOnRCl6YK5ctrydMSXGMa-pODHddnYEMNJ2_9b95RsvMywZu3jEazDs5Yu_wDvsfHZgYD2NfUcDH1vhZ09TB4JHJaKymwYfjvrf0vyg45Lqq9yq7K5ZHnN4vvSwULyPBAc=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Rudyard Kipling</div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b>The Way through the Woods</b> by Rudyard Kipling<br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">They shut the road through the woods<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Seventy years ago.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Weather and rain have undone it again,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> And now you would never know<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">There was once a road through the woods<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Before they planted the trees.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">It is underneath the coppice and heath,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> And the thin anemones.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Only the keeper sees<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">That, where the ring-dove broods,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> And the badgers roll at ease,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">There was once a road through the woods.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Yet, if you enter the woods<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Of a summer evening late,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Where the otter whistles his mate,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">(They fear not men in the woods,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Because they see so few.)<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> And the swish of a skirt in the dew,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Steadily cantering through<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The misty solitudes,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> As though they perfectly knew<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> The old lost road through the woods.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But there is no road through the woods.</span></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-52873080367668432762023-07-27T17:38:00.003+01:002023-07-27T17:43:51.463+01:00'Not Adlestrop' by Dannie Abse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyv5zKCWrotWEoiQjX119EfgQ2Dp7ewbGO1e8HwYVZpZTsyW3dVkSFM9VGIYWeTD0gqOs10gaaicUQjB3r17S2iBgKK8lz0i0Rn7gHI5ZD2q4bSI10svb3s3f3ili9TN2l-ZTGZG4yG0_KXvDL3tlKDt05wZUyicIwtagNjmoPpjU-rqLBfGNpB8Bik88" style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyv5zKCWrotWEoiQjX119EfgQ2Dp7ewbGO1e8HwYVZpZTsyW3dVkSFM9VGIYWeTD0gqOs10gaaicUQjB3r17S2iBgKK8lz0i0Rn7gHI5ZD2q4bSI10svb3s3f3ili9TN2l-ZTGZG4yG0_KXvDL3tlKDt05wZUyicIwtagNjmoPpjU-rqLBfGNpB8Bik88=w320-h320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;">Dannie Abse</span></span></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Not Adlestrop, no - besides the name<br />hardly matters. Nor did I languish in June heat.<br />Simply, I stood, too early, on the empty platform,<br />and the wrong train came in slowly, surprised, stopped.<br />Directly facing me, from a window,<br />a very, very pretty girl leaned out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When I, all instinct, <br />stared at her, she, all instinct, inclined her head away<br />as if she'd divined the much married life in me,<br />or as if she might spot, up platform,<br />some unlikely familiar.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">For my part, under the clock, I continued<br />my scrutiny with unmitigated pleasure.<br />And she knew it, she certainly knew it, and would<br />not glance at me in the silence of not Adlestrop.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Only when the train heaved noisily, only<br />when it jolted, when it slid away, only then,<br />daring and secure, she smiled back at my smile,<br />and I, daring and secure, waved back at her waving.<br />And so it was, all the way down the hurrying platform<br />as the train gathered atrocious speed<br />towards Oxfordshire or Gloucestshire.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.swansea.ac.uk/media/Dannie-Abse---'Not-Adlestrop'.pdf" target="_blank">Click here</a> for a line by line analysis of the poem</span></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-14002207920519132032023-07-14T15:44:00.004+01:002023-07-15T12:27:51.657+01:00Adlestrop by Edward Thomas<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZxjmB579hix6RAU3SoQ9gKCs_pUK-KmBlA2Km30fUDSMXlyaM78WINpvAEWJtaPPx46we8VlERUNzZqB7EfTc7zAk5MOSXbrXTPomUFoih_laR6QZMjNzDDZjx1IRV_ZgIHxd4Tb968CBqetf4Pp5ZnA0ImJcZL0KrH8MjdPagwhNEXoho7qVi1V2j_c" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZxjmB579hix6RAU3SoQ9gKCs_pUK-KmBlA2Km30fUDSMXlyaM78WINpvAEWJtaPPx46we8VlERUNzZqB7EfTc7zAk5MOSXbrXTPomUFoih_laR6QZMjNzDDZjx1IRV_ZgIHxd4Tb968CBqetf4Pp5ZnA0ImJcZL0KrH8MjdPagwhNEXoho7qVi1V2j_c=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Yes. I remember Adlestrop—<br />The name, because one afternoon<br />Of heat the express-train drew up there<br />Unwontedly. It was late June.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.<br />No one left and no one came<br />On the bare platform. What I saw<br />Was Adlestrop—only the name<br /><br />And willows, willow-herb, and grass,<br />And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,<br />No whit less still and lonely fair<br />Than the high cloudlets in the sky.<br /><br />And for that minute a blackbird sang<br />Close by, and round him, mistier,<br />Farther and farther, all the birds<br />Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.<br /><br /><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0J1Ze5QXG8" target="_blank">Click here</a> for a link to Richard Burton reading the poem. I love his reading. It's brilliance is all held in that first word, 'Yes.'<br />It's all there in the casual and off hand way he says 'yes'. He says 'yes' as if it's unimportant, almost as if he's half paying attention to the unknown speaker of his unknown question. And of course that completely goes to the very core of this poem. <br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEil5TVBgQE_Pj1_JSO3zTmT_OAI4V0zLMEYtU4uZSJjB1DhqIFr4RilJRjgCEtBz7gd4kqFL0izQ1A4pI8x7H8OfaY2nraWprO5E5poHp_5ohpT-gwBfzL-3XbzT2zwd6A6SHaeW11QJ50Um144n9xtAc-IohYG3g2xWtMbWr4DuCzEU21RlQtI5vGYHiU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="448" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEil5TVBgQE_Pj1_JSO3zTmT_OAI4V0zLMEYtU4uZSJjB1DhqIFr4RilJRjgCEtBz7gd4kqFL0izQ1A4pI8x7H8OfaY2nraWprO5E5poHp_5ohpT-gwBfzL-3XbzT2zwd6A6SHaeW11QJ50Um144n9xtAc-IohYG3g2xWtMbWr4DuCzEU21RlQtI5vGYHiU=w400-h261" width="400" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Edward Thomas</span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-53232221199797780142023-05-24T17:26:00.011+01:002023-09-21T07:12:34.373+01:00Bedtime Story by Jeffrey Whitmore<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx35DQWWtrwBFEE3U6lTzm9NcfnLZKCmfBNdwxmybMbZQ-zuBB96iW1weSzAwOtAsm2sg5PtTTRFJCCwKkeDBSIh7Op6-BOpXkpQXVC3zT58VHSkZYPkmPfcg2Lu_ilWwnF16nnn2hXF4SOPMbbmw6vvB9jF0RwSeShEAQZZrWuORQYKNWP9lM-xH2" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="1400" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx35DQWWtrwBFEE3U6lTzm9NcfnLZKCmfBNdwxmybMbZQ-zuBB96iW1weSzAwOtAsm2sg5PtTTRFJCCwKkeDBSIh7Op6-BOpXkpQXVC3zT58VHSkZYPkmPfcg2Lu_ilWwnF16nnn2hXF4SOPMbbmw6vvB9jF0RwSeShEAQZZrWuORQYKNWP9lM-xH2=w400-h211" width="400" /></a><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>“Careful, honey, it’s loaded,”</i> he said, re-entering the bedroom.<br /><br /><br />Her back rested against the headboard. <i>“This for your wife?”</i><br /><br /><br /><i>“No, too chancy. I’m hiring a professional.”</i><br /><br /><br /><i>“How about me?”<br /></i><br /><br />He smirked. <i>“Cute. But who’d be dumb enough to hire a lady hit man?”</i><br /><br /><br />She wet her lips, sighting along the barrel.<br /><br /><br /><i>“Your wife.”</i><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I read this 55 word short story so long ago. Occasionally I go looking for it on the internet.</span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Today I was doing some work with students doing 55 word stories. Again I went searching for it. And eventually I found it.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">At last.</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="color: #212121;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><br /></span><o:p></o:p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-85866419289965686662023-04-08T11:22:00.001+01:002023-04-28T15:38:57.122+01:00W B Yeats and Bedford Park, London. A Short Introduction<div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwKH1jKpi_YQN0KCoBMgw2BKHRuaBUvt7Y6wkzETRDfflgPDhgrTqgit15G8jaBV4sCUPbRXP3Gy_nyaRrRCXrO51o7rP6T5JivLB9mZqde-ILI99iCK6922h2SxSHGPvMAY-C9hF_fvHIA1n0_qBDxc25w3XoyLtnaS23MxWAMLteLm_4e1PpHXh0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwKH1jKpi_YQN0KCoBMgw2BKHRuaBUvt7Y6wkzETRDfflgPDhgrTqgit15G8jaBV4sCUPbRXP3Gy_nyaRrRCXrO51o7rP6T5JivLB9mZqde-ILI99iCK6922h2SxSHGPvMAY-C9hF_fvHIA1n0_qBDxc25w3XoyLtnaS23MxWAMLteLm_4e1PpHXh0=w280-h400" width="280" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div style="text-align: center;">W. B. Yeats</div></span><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div>Here's a short video introducing W B Yeats and Bedford Park where he lived</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> when he first came to London.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/n/?annemarie.fyfe%2Fvideos%2F3474186992853710%2F&aref=1680864119847486&medium=email&mid=5f8bc6331776cG2a08b022G5f8bcacc77a3eG316&bcode=2.1680864120.Aby_D6eors6n0nHNPbY&n_m=davidloffman%40yahoo.co.uk&lloc=new_view&rms=v2&irms=true"><b><span style="background: rgb(0, 132, 255); color: white; font-family: Roboto; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="border-radius: 4px; display: inline-block;">View Video</span></span></b></a></span></span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-71323519542541196612023-04-06T15:09:00.006+01:002023-05-06T14:40:49.053+01:00 He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven by W B Yeats<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0iKs6tNPdsCC0cWkgDtRMq_B0xVRdko684_TaTvAjkxCnHiTQixdPfOsIQS03LcnQNCumxPj5QnxtBboa4uJEUwILhe_GfIs_9pcKvILtsTSHfc_LltlE8Do9y4LXbc7XfpqjJKpAsRj0G1A59cM0bCxleWYcmZu_eS5nUNDndE4Jyl4OGgAOrf5T" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0iKs6tNPdsCC0cWkgDtRMq_B0xVRdko684_TaTvAjkxCnHiTQixdPfOsIQS03LcnQNCumxPj5QnxtBboa4uJEUwILhe_GfIs_9pcKvILtsTSHfc_LltlE8Do9y4LXbc7XfpqjJKpAsRj0G1A59cM0bCxleWYcmZu_eS5nUNDndE4Jyl4OGgAOrf5T" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn1dg1-O-6Ns15mmIzPAo9O0FC6QMdJqWaBui41LfOtZIUYBerFSSFeHXTbeFk8TtY4xhnrKwdYQWN3I4-nbnlfF3TDUXhMKn4bimNviU2IWWZnXhKjQh2ZqVE_Zw6zoX6x7Nu5TYOakG8iXvy8hjDJbgcbgo8i7TSvJD2ZmfDefWR4y_CHBn4UJrp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="675" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhn1dg1-O-6Ns15mmIzPAo9O0FC6QMdJqWaBui41LfOtZIUYBerFSSFeHXTbeFk8TtY4xhnrKwdYQWN3I4-nbnlfF3TDUXhMKn4bimNviU2IWWZnXhKjQh2ZqVE_Zw6zoX6x7Nu5TYOakG8iXvy8hjDJbgcbgo8i7TSvJD2ZmfDefWR4y_CHBn4UJrp=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Enwrought with golden and silver light,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">The blue and the dim and the dark cloths<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Of night and light and the half-light,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I would spread the cloths under your feet:<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">But I, being poor, have only my dreams;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">I have spread my dreams under your feet;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0iKs6tNPdsCC0cWkgDtRMq_B0xVRdko684_TaTvAjkxCnHiTQixdPfOsIQS03LcnQNCumxPj5QnxtBboa4uJEUwILhe_GfIs_9pcKvILtsTSHfc_LltlE8Do9y4LXbc7XfpqjJKpAsRj0G1A59cM0bCxleWYcmZu_eS5nUNDndE4Jyl4OGgAOrf5T" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4015" data-original-width="5736" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0iKs6tNPdsCC0cWkgDtRMq_B0xVRdko684_TaTvAjkxCnHiTQixdPfOsIQS03LcnQNCumxPj5QnxtBboa4uJEUwILhe_GfIs_9pcKvILtsTSHfc_LltlE8Do9y4LXbc7XfpqjJKpAsRj0G1A59cM0bCxleWYcmZu_eS5nUNDndE4Jyl4OGgAOrf5T=w400-h280" width="400" /></a><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.rte.ie/radio/radio1/clips/22228503/" target="_blank">Click here</a> for a 17 minute programme about The Bedford Park Artwork Project. It concludes with a reading of the poem, 'He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven' by W. B. Yeats, read by Ciaran Hinds.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.wbyeatsbedfordpark.com/bedford-park/" target="_blank">Click here</a> for a link to the W B Yeats Bedford Park Artwork Project</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBv7VhSACb6UbnrveR7bNOoWT9vEHOo5A2eN-p-ucIbj5NJxSc056KxnWUS07MPngs8f1EExRYf4zUvf7CSwRxGHyZHNpPcD7VdndO6-UdU5dgvDVBg8jeiQp1dYXVOeg-xMqN0_WEURPrjzU6n1glwGJTvfD0t0xOE8g_qbuOkus21QyD73ezgyLz" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="400" height="595" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBv7VhSACb6UbnrveR7bNOoWT9vEHOo5A2eN-p-ucIbj5NJxSc056KxnWUS07MPngs8f1EExRYf4zUvf7CSwRxGHyZHNpPcD7VdndO6-UdU5dgvDVBg8jeiQp1dYXVOeg-xMqN0_WEURPrjzU6n1glwGJTvfD0t0xOE8g_qbuOkus21QyD73ezgyLz=w447-h595" width="447" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><br /><br /></span><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-57535167081706153712021-03-27T16:29:00.004+00:002021-03-27T16:29:50.678+00:00Ode on a Grayson Perry Urn by Tim Turnbull<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTljSEViokzB6IN_dNNHE_sGRhfrL8Z6ltLl-iV67ZSuE9ihqAaVRWCejsc6diNbM457PtvxedQqAuPoTcB17sYzthypspZDyyQ0UxG40X5WmlWvZO0oUKVWAtlJHqrKwFPPhKF4ocb6Y/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTljSEViokzB6IN_dNNHE_sGRhfrL8Z6ltLl-iV67ZSuE9ihqAaVRWCejsc6diNbM457PtvxedQqAuPoTcB17sYzthypspZDyyQ0UxG40X5WmlWvZO0oUKVWAtlJHqrKwFPPhKF4ocb6Y/w320-h320/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Tim Turnbull</span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Hello! What's all this here? A kitschy vase<br />some Shirley Temple manqué has knocked out<br />delineating tales of kids in cars<br />on crap estates, the Burberry clad louts<br />who flail their motors through the smoky night<br />from Manchester to Motherwell or Slough,<br />creating bedlam on the Queen's highway.<br />Your gaudy evocation can, somehow,<br />conjure the scene without inducing fright,<br />as would a Daily Express exposé,<br /><br />can bring to mind the throaty turbo roar<br />of hatchbacks tuned almost to breaking point,<br />the joyful throb of UK garage or<br />of house imported from the continent<br />and yet educe a sense of peace, of calm -<br />the screech of tyres and the nervous squeals<br />of girls, too young to quite appreciate<br />the peril they are in, are heard, but these wheels<br />will not lose traction, skid and flip, no harm<br />befall these children. They will stay out late<br /><br />forever, pumped on youth and ecstasy,<br />on alloy, bass and arrogance, and speed<br />the back lanes, the urban gyratory,<br />the wide motorways, never having need<br />to race back home, for work next day, to bed.<br />Each girl is buff, each geezer toned and strong,<br />charged with pulsing juice which, even yet,<br />fills every pair of Calvin’s and each thong,<br />never to be deflated, given head<br />in crude games of chlamydia roulette.<br />Now see who comes to line the sparse grass verge,<br />to toast them in Buckfast and Diamond White:<br />rat-boys and corn-rowed cheerleaders who urge<br />them on to pull more burn-outs or to write<br />their donut Os, as signature, upon<br />the bleached tarmac of dead suburban streets.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">There dogs set up a row and curtains twitch<br />as pensioners and parents telephone<br />the cops to plead for quiet, sue for peace -<br />tranquility, though, is for the rich.<br /><br />And so, millennia hence, you garish crock,<br />when all context is lost, galleries razed<br />to level dust and we're long in the box,<br />will future poets look on you amazed,<br />speculate how children might have lived when<br />you were fired, lives so free and bountiful<br />and there, beneath a sun a little colder,<br />declare How happy were those creatures then,<br />who knew the truth was all negotiable<br />and beauty in the gift of the beholder.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiej_hViDD81eygZCMMaoqZ6mnxy6lXDph1Y0be-sfreD3q8S2RK4oohIGFwwaeQs6dAyJOgsRqMjnW5TKVDIMr-zqNlQB0xT0vjaJX90op1ohFILjrsZymSECC0DvlpoAMzzGtZB7MO7A/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="315" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiej_hViDD81eygZCMMaoqZ6mnxy6lXDph1Y0be-sfreD3q8S2RK4oohIGFwwaeQs6dAyJOgsRqMjnW5TKVDIMr-zqNlQB0xT0vjaJX90op1ohFILjrsZymSECC0DvlpoAMzzGtZB7MO7A/w224-h320/image.png" width="224" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The Insider by Grayson Perry</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: trebuchet; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQF0EubZIePtvNFmPNsRwsHiwOhaXpLqeXrETu8jdljrYojvT3IIc3-hv3cVU6OACc5zmz_6xCEvl8P5QwpSBNvoQIzjUaAtMHezcSCBxrhzLKh7z6kqlhmOP2aKmuN8Gb6npPnbKXfk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQF0EubZIePtvNFmPNsRwsHiwOhaXpLqeXrETu8jdljrYojvT3IIc3-hv3cVU6OACc5zmz_6xCEvl8P5QwpSBNvoQIzjUaAtMHezcSCBxrhzLKh7z6kqlhmOP2aKmuN8Gb6npPnbKXfk/w400-h266/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Grayson Perry</span></div><br /><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-39431951519183911492021-03-10T09:42:00.000+00:002021-03-10T09:42:02.535+00:00Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-3idmjjwK8YygR-gKsuyTM243Isjr_vE6kJQsKZSTxZ9HO9zlCg-EOFPvVxn-x4V4l4AwvMR2wSrQi9Gmo45dOa7NBApScPhawv7cqbGG39xOucLwEM4j2akS3BImNCM7k-0kbcMI9I/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="194" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-3idmjjwK8YygR-gKsuyTM243Isjr_vE6kJQsKZSTxZ9HO9zlCg-EOFPvVxn-x4V4l4AwvMR2wSrQi9Gmo45dOa7NBApScPhawv7cqbGG39xOucLwEM4j2akS3BImNCM7k-0kbcMI9I/w239-h320/image.png" width="239" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Sylvan historian, who canst thus express<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Of deities or mortals, or of both,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">And, happy melodist, unwearied,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> For ever piping songs for ever new;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">More happy love! more happy, happy love!<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> For ever panting, and for ever young;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">All breathing human passion far above,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Who are these coming to the sacrifice?<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> To what green altar, O mysterious priest,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">What little town by river or sea shore,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">And, little town, thy streets for evermore<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Will silent be; and not a soul to tell<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Of marble men and maidens overwrought,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">With forest branches and the trodden weed;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> When old age shall this generation waste,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_E6Y0EsNX3jep9njLOlCqiZztx5oY6k649nKZsSNnRvaAx2EFzIj_WCMKcJe2ah6OxTo_bB_Tf11APi681Glo0oFslVe9_KxFtoclu96mbPd5FxeUAUyTdhq_2N6l18hjo0mRGlxNkcM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_E6Y0EsNX3jep9njLOlCqiZztx5oY6k649nKZsSNnRvaAx2EFzIj_WCMKcJe2ah6OxTo_bB_Tf11APi681Glo0oFslVe9_KxFtoclu96mbPd5FxeUAUyTdhq_2N6l18hjo0mRGlxNkcM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MHeE2gqqdfMqtwBRcxi9jt4WBdzXPZEM4TM3XHRzjWECdeeGs1MnymsrNwm9EMMbGSq5KegTYZHdAIA_UB3v-MU0PndIKcE_YPAzp-weA8i7KgAW2AJgVunfDVq-uSHGUTcteiL3Ebo/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MHeE2gqqdfMqtwBRcxi9jt4WBdzXPZEM4TM3XHRzjWECdeeGs1MnymsrNwm9EMMbGSq5KegTYZHdAIA_UB3v-MU0PndIKcE_YPAzp-weA8i7KgAW2AJgVunfDVq-uSHGUTcteiL3Ebo/w320-h213/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><img alt="" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="230" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_E6Y0EsNX3jep9njLOlCqiZztx5oY6k649nKZsSNnRvaAx2EFzIj_WCMKcJe2ah6OxTo_bB_Tf11APi681Glo0oFslVe9_KxFtoclu96mbPd5FxeUAUyTdhq_2N6l18hjo0mRGlxNkcM/w320-h287/image.png" width="320" /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-79128149246896876182021-02-27T14:56:00.005+00:002021-02-28T13:42:59.895+00:00Psalm 46 [a]<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yr62kELnHKlQexFNnS8hpVuW1upMt7O9gIl-wUrbUetVcFpKCSFHG0u-942fI33FLbw_TGyXWDhwWBc19hdHZk3IER9sskcWeI5zmut3Bp_JrJIV6KJ3I3C63nqVzM-cgjhE2r96hLw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="250" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-yr62kELnHKlQexFNnS8hpVuW1upMt7O9gIl-wUrbUetVcFpKCSFHG0u-942fI33FLbw_TGyXWDhwWBc19hdHZk3IER9sskcWeI5zmut3Bp_JrJIV6KJ3I3C63nqVzM-cgjhE2r96hLw/w400-h268/image.png" width="400" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>For the director of music. Of the Sons of Korah. According to alamoth.[b] A song.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> God is our refuge and strength,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> an ever-present help in trouble.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> though its waters roar and foam<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> and the mountains quake with their surging.[c]<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> the holy place where the Most High dwells.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> God is within her, she will not fall;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> God will help her at break of day.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> he lifts his voice, the earth melts.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> The Lord Almighty is with us;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> the God of Jacob is our fortress.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> Come and see what the Lord has done,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> the desolations he has brought on the earth.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> He makes wars cease<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> to the ends of the earth.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> he burns the shields[d] with fire.<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> I will be exalted among the nations,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> I will be exalted in the earth.”<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> The Lord Almighty is with us;<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> the God of Jacob is our fortress.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Footnotes</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">[a] Psalm 46:1 In Hebrew texts 46:1-11 is numbered 46:2-12.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">[b] Psalm 46:1 Title: Probably a musical term</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">[c] Psalm 46:3 The Hebrew has Selah (a word of uncertain meaning) here and at the end of verses 7 and 11.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">[d] Psalm 46:9 Or chariots</span></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-13199168629208891432021-02-24T09:56:00.000+00:002021-02-24T09:56:03.423+00:00Effects by Alan Jenkins<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBf62WsdRUHrq2WWZfGGm9af-9ty7taP0XrJDve0veoSTqWJ5rX4KGqa4dXl_EujgeJZvNHO500DlNLFm6bjtqtz8x8Nz4Bsk71fm7xUB3i4s0F7NJgQDa3WotIS6PGzTjMDQqzWHCzSI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBf62WsdRUHrq2WWZfGGm9af-9ty7taP0XrJDve0veoSTqWJ5rX4KGqa4dXl_EujgeJZvNHO500DlNLFm6bjtqtz8x8Nz4Bsk71fm7xUB3i4s0F7NJgQDa3WotIS6PGzTjMDQqzWHCzSI/w320-h320/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Alan Jenkins</div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I held her hand, that was always scarred<br />
From chopping, slicing, from the knives that lay in wait<br />
In bowls of washing-up, that was raw,<br />
The knuckles reddened, rough from scrubbing hard<br />
At saucepan, frying pan, cup and plate<br />
And giving love the only way she knew,<br />
In each cheap cut of meat, in roast and stew,<br />
Old-fashioned food she cooked and we ate;<br />
And I saw that they had taken off her rings,<br />
The rings she kept once in her dressing-table drawer<br />
With faded snapshots, long-forgotten things<br />
(scent-sprays, tortoise-shell combs, a snap or two<br />
From the time we took a holiday “abroad”)<br />
But lately had never been without, as if<br />
She wanted everyone to know she was his wife<br />
Only now that he was dead. And her watch? – <br />
Classic ladies’ model, gold strap – it was gone,<br />
And I’d never known her not have that on,<br />
Not in all the years they sat together<br />
Watching soaps and game shows I’d disdain<br />
And not when my turn came to cook for her,<br />
Chops or chicken portions, English, bland,<br />
Familiar flavours she said she preferred<br />
To whatever “funny foreign stuff”<br />
Young people seemed to eat these days, she’d heard;<br />
Not all the weeks I didn’t come, when she sat<br />
Night after night and stared unseeing at<br />
The television, at her inner weather,<br />
Heaved herself upright, blinked and poured<br />
Drink after drink, and gulped and stared – the scotch<br />
That, when he was alive, she wouldn’t touch,<br />
That was her way to be with him again;<br />
Not later in the psychiatric ward,<br />
Where she blinked unseeing at the wall, the nurses<br />
(Who would steal anything, she said), and dreamt<br />
Of when she was a girl, of the time before<br />
I was born, or grew up and learned contempt,<br />
While the TV in the corner blared<br />
To drown some “poor soul’s” moans and curses,<br />
And she took her pills and blinked and stared<br />
As the others shuffled around, and drooled, and swore…<br />
But now she lay here, a thick rubber band<br />
With her name on it in smudged black ink was all she wore<br />
On the hand I held, a blotched and crinkled hand<br />
Whose fingers couldn’t clasp at mine any more<br />
Or falteringly wave, or fumble at my sleeve –<br />
The last words she had said were<br />
Please don’t leave<br />
But of course I left; now I was back, though she<br />
Could not know that, or turn her face to see<br />
A nurse bring the little bag of her effects to me.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Shorter-Life-Alan-Jenkins/dp/0701178086/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=A+Shorter+Life+Alan+Jenkins&qid=1614159577&s=books&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy A Shorter Life by Alan Jenkins</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRIy2VvOQi9dr3AMQvJOCiiXl0lTo8-wduf8kaWV5Oze1Ft1IX1a8mVH8XPjv_LTx_8PhQLjBnibIE36oTgHoilAUMe-o2ZRj48b20B5xOYoRcaBx-8zDGDHvzkFkY3DP-HVdSI7F_fY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="219" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRIy2VvOQi9dr3AMQvJOCiiXl0lTo8-wduf8kaWV5Oze1Ft1IX1a8mVH8XPjv_LTx_8PhQLjBnibIE36oTgHoilAUMe-o2ZRj48b20B5xOYoRcaBx-8zDGDHvzkFkY3DP-HVdSI7F_fY/w197-h320/image.png" width="197" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-61700210741307896252021-02-12T16:03:00.004+00:002021-02-12T16:50:56.864+00:00from How to Wash a Heart by Bhanu Kapil<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuD0ad4FZqW2KTc_aZphIJ2DVEr9vJLYd-NYpzCnZ-6LI46EepoToG_UPqLmsBEQcjkW3lyr0lSWUxxYpqcbMuFt6rCKx6-0ivYC0sZOFkuJXkc_hbOfacrOocZ_2B3OwwyH0xz7DLfw/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="210" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuD0ad4FZqW2KTc_aZphIJ2DVEr9vJLYd-NYpzCnZ-6LI46EepoToG_UPqLmsBEQcjkW3lyr0lSWUxxYpqcbMuFt6rCKx6-0ivYC0sZOFkuJXkc_hbOfacrOocZ_2B3OwwyH0xz7DLfw/w300-h320/image.png" width="300" /></a></p><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Don’t forget me, I whisper to my<br />Father.<br />Give me something to eat, I’m<br />So hungry, I call out to my<br />Mother.<br />The conditional care<br />Of even these<br />Imaginary parents<br />Excretes a hormonal load.<br />Am I safe with you?<br />Or like a baby crawling on the bumpy<br />Carpet, am I my own<br />Mother, actually?<br />Imagine a baby developing so rapidly<br />That by nightfall<br />It has ripped through the pale blue<br />Smock to evolve<br />Beyond the limits of the human.<br />I remember<br />How my mother woke me up<br />So early<br />To look at the bloody stars.<br /><br /><br />My grandfather fermented the yoghurt<br />With rose petals<br />And sugar then buried it<br />In the roots of a mango tree.<br />Come here, he said, extending<br />The sweetest fruit I have ever tasted<br />Come June.<br />On the far side of the orchard<br />He grew saffron and the mangoes there<br />Were red and pink.<br />In the dry well<br />He planted a pomegranate tree.<br />This is where they threw<br />The bodies<br />Come August<br />Noon.<br />Can you find your way home<br />By smell?<br />Metallic, the air tilts along a diagonal line.<br />I smell the pollen of the flowers of the mango tree<br />Which once concealed<br />A kill.<br /><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">For lunch, my mother made okra<br />With caramelized onions,<br />A feat! The wet caps<br />She stuck to my forehead, cheeks<br />And nose.<br />Grimacing as the gates of the school<br />Swung open, I was<br />A joke.<br />The children who were children<br />Like me<br />Fled.<br />I was alone with the slime<br />Dripping down the neck<br />Of my red and white dress,<br />Nettle bites lucid on my shins.<br />Because I ran through the alleyways<br />And not the streets<br />To get here:<br />A hot yard.<br />Shame invites the sun<br />To live in the anus, the creases<br />Of the throat.<br /><br /><br />The priest brought my mother home.<br />My father fell over in the snow<br />After drinking his guts out.<br />The world<br />Was falling down around my ears.<br />When our neighbours<br />Said go, we fled,<br />Our hearts beating<br />Like a fish.<br />Hello, sang Lionel Richie, on the taxi’s orange<br />Radio.<br />My grandfather burned his notebooks<br />Then scraped the ash<br />Into a hole<br />He could button up.<br />Don’t ask me to remember<br />The word for zip.<br />My secret is this:<br />Though we lost all our possessions,<br />I felt<br />A strange relief<br />To see my home explode in the rearview mirror.<br /><br /><br />Monoracial, we fetched up<br />In a place without<br />Discrete racial categories.<br />Our hair<br />No longer felt like our hair<br />No matter how long<br />We combed it<br />With milk.<br />The messages we received<br />Were as follows:<br />You are a sexual object, I have a right<br />To sexualize you.<br />You are not an individual.<br />You are here<br />For my entertainment.<br />You complain too much.<br />Your sexual identity is not<br />Important.<br />The way you talk about what happened to you<br />Is a catastrophic representation.<br />Merry Christmas,<br />Little pig.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Bhanu-Kapil/How-To-Wash-A-Heart/25474661" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy How to Wash a Heart</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSMBkZ3_ohWlqvVOcE7v7fnjAF-kbniuhzRlDDOdRh4zPJoq0tkdZJn7PhGnIcKsg74rM7aLOBU-_pxti27wUp8x8W6mNb0cBYaWme05aSY7vDosAxuc0xMTSdY52bNMMyvp6xQd1y-0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSMBkZ3_ohWlqvVOcE7v7fnjAF-kbniuhzRlDDOdRh4zPJoq0tkdZJn7PhGnIcKsg74rM7aLOBU-_pxti27wUp8x8W6mNb0cBYaWme05aSY7vDosAxuc0xMTSdY52bNMMyvp6xQd1y-0/w199-h320/image.png" width="199" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BONE_Q4rdQY&t=26s" target="_blank">Click here</a> to watch Bhanu Kapil reading from her collection How to Wash a Heart. It comes with a three-minute introduction.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Or click the link below</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BONE_Q4rdQY" width="320" youtube-src-id="BONE_Q4rdQY"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-16057648875918015472021-02-11T14:24:00.004+00:002021-02-11T14:24:36.591+00:00A Portable Paradise by Roger Robinson<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8z-Noeo2qQxJi_APxwOFQstb2V3_o-0vADOoyZ9XTiWdlnE0vy_IURXKBJKw_dM_1DkvmwiEXYoWXQMoRrgErOA5tvZ-pX-ci4n1qp2qouFSNJMRxWTlu8aDq6ny4lm5Uid2ez4gDwI/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8z-Noeo2qQxJi_APxwOFQstb2V3_o-0vADOoyZ9XTiWdlnE0vy_IURXKBJKw_dM_1DkvmwiEXYoWXQMoRrgErOA5tvZ-pX-ci4n1qp2qouFSNJMRxWTlu8aDq6ny4lm5Uid2ez4gDwI/w320-h320/image.png" width="320" /></a></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And if I speak of Paradise,<br />then I’m speaking of my grandmother<br />who told me to carry it always<br />on my person, concealed, so<br />no one else would know but me.<br />That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.<br />And if life puts you under pressure,<br />trace its ridges in your pocket,<br />smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,<br />hum its anthem under your breath.<br />And if your stresses are sustained and daily,<br />get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,<br />hostel or hovel – find a lamp<br />and empty your paradise onto a desk:<br />your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.<br />Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope<br />of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.</span></p><p><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Roger-Robinson/Portable-Paradise/23301438" style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;" target="_blank">Click here</a><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> to buy A Portable Paradise by Roger Robinson </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKgGHgpPccGnLI1cNlNLP68-t5FT1xQM8uQdedrjihZTvFQG39118KYQCQuIfzPv_q494DWC9VZMQJQ4nAzStpU9ULx37wGBK1s5Urwcqag0HuKA-XtTCislwTAPQvUGZIg_8XWO1X40/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="419" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKgGHgpPccGnLI1cNlNLP68-t5FT1xQM8uQdedrjihZTvFQG39118KYQCQuIfzPv_q494DWC9VZMQJQ4nAzStpU9ULx37wGBK1s5Urwcqag0HuKA-XtTCislwTAPQvUGZIg_8XWO1X40/w209-h320/image.png" width="209" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0iaU5xDUcoQ&t=5s" target="_blank">Click here</a> to listen to Roger Robinson reading from his collection A Portable Paradise, including a reading of the poem A Portable Paradise. It's about 12 minutes long and begins with an introduction by Ian MacMillan. You'll find the poem A Portable Paradise at 8 minutes.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you listen very carefully you can hear me applauding in the audience.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Or just click on the YouTube video below.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0iaU5xDUcoQ" width="320" youtube-src-id="0iaU5xDUcoQ"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-41494340279371345122021-02-10T16:45:00.003+00:002021-02-10T16:45:34.987+00:00What the Thunder Said by T. S. Eliot<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_EImDhlAdI0NytOyp4293b2aDY09tvhyVIHAxeEPclFr9c0Dqnl0u6-fXR9enXUtDtf5wHlFHEbTt6rfxEbpkA6673XzoCCkGumD9swUrDTLlPYD7f9Pv8R8fbxbQXokbTIwLTZCzJU/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="496" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS_EImDhlAdI0NytOyp4293b2aDY09tvhyVIHAxeEPclFr9c0Dqnl0u6-fXR9enXUtDtf5wHlFHEbTt6rfxEbpkA6673XzoCCkGumD9swUrDTLlPYD7f9Pv8R8fbxbQXokbTIwLTZCzJU/w213-h320/image.png" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">T. S. Eliot</div><br /><br /> <span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">After the torchlight red on sweaty faces<br />After the frosty silence in the gardens<br />After the agony in stony places<br />The shouting and the crying<br />Prison and palace and reverberation<br />Of thunder of spring over distant mountains<br />He who was living is now dead<br />We who were living are now dying<br />With a little patience<br /><br />Here is no water but only rock<br />Rock and no water and the sandy road<br />The road winding above among the mountains<br />Which are mountains of rock without water<br />If there were water we should stop and drink<br />Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think<br />Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand<br />If there were only water amongst the rock<br />Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit<br />Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit<br />There is not even silence in the mountains<br />But dry sterile thunder without rain<br />There is not even solitude in the mountains<br />But red sullen faces sneer and snarl<br />From doors of mudcracked houses<br /> If there were water<br /> And no rock<br /> If there were rock<br /> And also water<br /> And water<br /> A spring<br /> A pool among the rock<br /> If there were the sound of water only<br /> Not the cicada<br /> And dry grass singing<br /> But sound of water over a rock<br /> Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees<br /> Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop<br /> But there is no water<br /><br />Who is the third who walks always beside you?<br />When I count, there are only you and I together<br />But when I look ahead up the white road<br />There is always another one walking beside you<br />Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded<br />I do not know whether a man or a woman<br />—But who is that on the other side of you?<br /><br />What is that sound high in the air<br />Murmur of maternal lamentation<br />Who are those hooded hordes swarming<br />Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth<br />Ringed by the flat horizon only<br />What is the city over the mountains<br />Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air<br />Falling towers<br />Jerusalem Athens Alexandria<br />Vienna London<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Unreal<br /><br />A woman drew her long black hair out tight<br />And fiddled whisper music on those strings<br />And bats with baby faces in the violet light<br />Whistled, and beat their wings<br />And crawled head downward down a blackened wall<br />And upside down in air were towers<br />Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours<br />And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.<br /><br />In this decayed hole among the mountains<br />In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing<br />Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel<br />There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.<br />It has no windows, and the door swings,<br />Dry bones can harm no one.<br />Only a cock stood on the rooftree<br />Co co rico co co rico<br />In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust<br />Bringing rain<br /><br />Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves<br />Waited for rain, while the black clouds<br />Gathered far distant, over Himavant.<br />The jungle crouched, humped in silence.<br />Then spoke the thunder<br />DA<br />Datta: what have we given?<br />My friend, blood shaking my heart<br />The awful daring of a moment’s surrender<br />Which an age of prudence can never retract<br />By this, and this only, we have existed<br />Which is not to be found in our obituaries<br />Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider<br />Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor<br />In our empty rooms<br />DA<br />Dayadhvam: I have heard the key<br />Turn in the door once and turn once only<br />We think of the key, each in his prison<br />Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison<br />Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours<br />Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus<br />DA<br />Damyata: The boat responded<br />Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar<br />The sea was calm, your heart would have responded<br />Gaily, when invited, beating obedient<br />To controlling hands<br /><br /> I sat upon the shore<br />Fishing, with the arid plain behind me<br />Shall I at least set my lands in order?<br />London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down<br />Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina<br />Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow<br />Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie<br />These fragments I have shored against my ruins<br />Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.<br />Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.<br /> Shantih shantih shantih</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/T-S-Eliot/The-Waste-Land-and-Other-Poems/1512415" style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;" target="_blank">Click here</a><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> to buy The Waste Land and Other Poems by T. S. Eliot</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5mwY4BUsipJIglsYT8LMu_FgPDhtVhtgjSgzAJwlyg9DvSJdv2Gh9nwDLFu2221GULhyphenhyphenNcb-ThGbmHqv1RNahWgUJJ5UjOS3TN28ypSXQ32zeSMGAFJAqHyg9vZGEwzn44acAayIPjsg/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="417" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5mwY4BUsipJIglsYT8LMu_FgPDhtVhtgjSgzAJwlyg9DvSJdv2Gh9nwDLFu2221GULhyphenhyphenNcb-ThGbmHqv1RNahWgUJJ5UjOS3TN28ypSXQ32zeSMGAFJAqHyg9vZGEwzn44acAayIPjsg/w208-h320/image.png" width="208" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-85544119608353072572021-02-10T14:33:00.001+00:002021-02-10T14:33:50.356+00:00Death by Water by T. S. Eliot<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFntsbRSWDSQCx8HeNS1wnTOFM45s2MNkqnTEvPB1eTxHT01UfLw6QStAA2YsbQk7pY49ELP3nejjBQocMDz_yD16v_qj9CSSK9ZVjMYSz45wwG-X0h50TdKX-NLpdGbBRpBiyIPRlQKk/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="768" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFntsbRSWDSQCx8HeNS1wnTOFM45s2MNkqnTEvPB1eTxHT01UfLw6QStAA2YsbQk7pY49ELP3nejjBQocMDz_yD16v_qj9CSSK9ZVjMYSz45wwG-X0h50TdKX-NLpdGbBRpBiyIPRlQKk/w400-h265/image.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">T. S. Eliot</span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I</span><b style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">V. Death by Water</span></i></b></p><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">And the profit and loss.</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> A current under sea</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">He passed the stages of his age and youth</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Entering the whirlpool.</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> Gentile or Jew</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.</span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-size: large;"><br /></div><div style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/T-S-Eliot/The-Waste-Land-and-Other-Poems/1512415" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy The Waste Land and Other Poems by T. S. Eliot</span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-44867279948352309532021-02-10T13:10:00.030+00:002021-02-10T16:30:50.259+00:00The Burial of the Dead by T. S. Eliot<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQMdCGLtVh1U1HV_WCZSvBcr1hFpw3vjbiBqIh4nOfLJqdnhOCDepVtzcwZOLLInQKfuXg7ZXOnKBayJ25dplEzgxthF3EytHZmhBvo65eG_zb-FCMMgOTZNiMBimnCjIg3ioa3oM258/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1245" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQMdCGLtVh1U1HV_WCZSvBcr1hFpw3vjbiBqIh4nOfLJqdnhOCDepVtzcwZOLLInQKfuXg7ZXOnKBayJ25dplEzgxthF3EytHZmhBvo65eG_zb-FCMMgOTZNiMBimnCjIg3ioa3oM258/w284-h320/image.png" width="284" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">T. S. Eliot</div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b>The Burial of the Dead </b>by T. S. Eliot</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">April is the cruellest month, breeding<br />Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing<br />Memory and desire, stirring<br />Dull roots with spring rain.<br />Winter kept us warm, covering<br />Earth in forgetful snow, feeding<br />A little life with dried tubers.<br />Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee<br />With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,<br />And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,<br />And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.<br />Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.<br />And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,<br />My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,<br />And I was frightened. He said, Marie,<br />Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.<br />In the mountains, there you feel free.<br />I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.<br /><br /> What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow<br />Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,<br />You cannot say, or guess, for you know only<br />A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,<br />And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,<br />And the dry stone no sound of water. Only<br />There is shadow under this red rock,<br />(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),<br />And I will show you something different from either<br />Your shadow at morning striding behind you<br />Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;<br />I will show you fear in a handful of dust.<br /> Frisch weht der Wind<br /> Der Heimat zu<br /> Mein Irisch Kind,<br /> Wo weilest du?<br />“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;<br />“They called me the hyacinth girl.”<br />—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,<br />Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not<br />Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither<br />Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,<br />Looking into the heart of light, the silence.<br />Oed’ und leer das Meer.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,<br />Had a bad cold, nevertheless<br />Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,<br />With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,<br />Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,<br />(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)<br />Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,<br />The lady of situations.<br />Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,<br />And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,<br />Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,<br />Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find<br />The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.<br />I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.<br />Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,<br />Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:<br />One must be so careful these days.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> Unreal City,<br />Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,<br />A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,<br />I had not thought death had undone so many.<br />Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,<br />And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.<br />Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,<br />To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours<br />With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.<br />There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson!<br />“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!<br />“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,<br />“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?<br />“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?<br />“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,<br />“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!<br />“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yf16-iCOBxM" target="_blank">Click here</a> to hear Fiona Shaw reading The Burial of the Dead</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hcj4G45F9pw" target="_blank">Click here</a> to hear Alec Guinness reading the whole of The Waste Land </span></p><p><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/T-S-Eliot/The-Waste-Land-and-Other-Poems/1512415" style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;" target="_blank">Click here</a><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> to buy The Waste Land and Other Poems by T. S. Eliot</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaHEnhyDpl8S2ciOfxI28peSqEq6yJDtECzLqQcngD0BrNySJx_iR-JOeYu-66CtwTCGE4PfyKPtcB0nQuqlvCX4EJTuUYz59fkHEFWREVwhCJouf71qWvqF3lmotUANLQi6O6Y3FzbyQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="417" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaHEnhyDpl8S2ciOfxI28peSqEq6yJDtECzLqQcngD0BrNySJx_iR-JOeYu-66CtwTCGE4PfyKPtcB0nQuqlvCX4EJTuUYz59fkHEFWREVwhCJouf71qWvqF3lmotUANLQi6O6Y3FzbyQ/w208-h320/image.png" width="208" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-50691090350072107932021-02-10T10:19:00.011+00:002021-02-10T16:32:10.286+00:00An Easy Passage by Julia Copus<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMm3oCJbVw7hjTYFAYqebL-c_4rTZwQhVg6L0kDswgzGOkYBUKrx8YPDnGCAX6PV0T-QbvBhOLAZtk_pD4deYngZidylX29sQOAdXPzhQCG4EVcqSequs2yXStzfYsP7uqRQ_8fdVaoU/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="193" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMm3oCJbVw7hjTYFAYqebL-c_4rTZwQhVg6L0kDswgzGOkYBUKrx8YPDnGCAX6PV0T-QbvBhOLAZtk_pD4deYngZidylX29sQOAdXPzhQCG4EVcqSequs2yXStzfYsP7uqRQ_8fdVaoU/w236-h320/image.png" width="236" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Julia Copus</div><p></p><p><b style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">An Easy Passage</b><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"> by Julia Copus<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Once she is halfway up there, crouched in her bikini<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">on the porch roof of her family's house, trembling,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">she knows that the one thing she must not do is to think<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">of the narrow windowsill, the sharp<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">drop of the stairwell; she must keep her mind<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">on the friend with whom she is half in love<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">and who is waiting for her on the blond<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">gravel somewhere beneath her, keep her mind<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">on her and on the fact of the open window,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">the flimsy, hole-punched, aluminium lever<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">towards which in a moment she will reach<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">with the length of her whole body, leaning in<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">to the warm flank of the house. But first she<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">steadies herself, still crouching, the grains of the asphalt<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">hot beneath her toes and fingertips,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">a square of petrified beach. Her tiny breasts<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">rest lightly on her thighs. – What can she know<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">of the way the world admits us less and less<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">the more we grow? For now both girls seem<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">lit, as if from within, their hair and the gold stud<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">earrings in the first one's ears; for now the long, grey<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">eye of the street, and far away from the mother<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">who does not trust her daughter with a key,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">the workers about their business in the drab<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">electroplating factory over the road,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">far too, most far, from the flush-faced secretary<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">who, with her head full of the evening class<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">she plans to take, or the trip of a lifetime, looks up now<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">from the stirring omens of the astrology column<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">at a girl – thirteen if she's a day – standing<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">in next to nothing in the driveway opposite,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">one hand flat against her stomach, one<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">shielding her eyes to gaze up at a pale calf,<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">a silver anklet and the five neat shimmering<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">oyster-painted toenails of an outstretched foot<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">which catch the sunlight briefly like the<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">flash of armaments before<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;">dropping gracefully into the shade of the house.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Julia-Copus/Girlhood/23289132" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy the book Girlhood by Julia Copus</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbVP9II1hCueyvJ_Q01xnMVs1Ru5mHnzRWh3sEcfI0jrFN3FqFA34z-2iRVjEHURBjAvRA6GVZI6vNJIgEkttueBV_jEbIItgvRzvXPblizFziDjmeu6UeWeyYXSFotbXjrb8E6MlA1Y/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbVP9II1hCueyvJ_Q01xnMVs1Ru5mHnzRWh3sEcfI0jrFN3FqFA34z-2iRVjEHURBjAvRA6GVZI6vNJIgEkttueBV_jEbIItgvRzvXPblizFziDjmeu6UeWeyYXSFotbXjrb8E6MlA1Y/w204-h320/image.png" width="204" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-19380842513901801282021-02-04T14:27:00.014+00:002021-02-10T16:33:52.792+00:00History by John Burnside<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8rgfrt2dFA0CA2u7T6KJ6kIJMAHQTcXL8JGr6Odisf0hB-q4vRNHNGHjHJ2ppNxmzZukPJZjXVnND37IpRCWshnfUEd6wSvpp7CDDOqtTaW6xc6l9PFw-g3fX2LDQbPNiQ7dZRr_8-I/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="321" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8rgfrt2dFA0CA2u7T6KJ6kIJMAHQTcXL8JGr6Odisf0hB-q4vRNHNGHjHJ2ppNxmzZukPJZjXVnND37IpRCWshnfUEd6wSvpp7CDDOqtTaW6xc6l9PFw-g3fX2LDQbPNiQ7dZRr_8-I/w400-h374/image.png" width="400" /></a></b></span></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><b>History</b> by John Burnside</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><i>St Andrews: West Sands; September 2001</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Today </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"> as we flew the kites<br />- the sand spinning off in ribbons along the beach<br />and that gasoline smell from Leuchars gusting across<br />the golf links;<br /> the tide far out<br />and quail-grey in the distance;<br /> people<br />jogging, or stopping to watch<br />as the war planes cambered and turned<br />in the morning light –</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">today<br /> - with the news in my mind, and the muffled dread<br />of what may come – <br /> I knelt down in the sand</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">with Lucas<br /> gathering shells<br />and pebbles<br /> finding evidence of life in all this<br />driftwork:<br /> snail shells; shreds of razorfish;</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">smudges of weed and flesh on tideworn stone.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">At times I think what makes us who we are<br />is neither kinship nor our given states<br />but something lost between the world we own</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">and what we dream about behind the names<br />on days like this<br /> our lines raised in the wind<br />our bodies fixed and anchored to the shore<br /><br />and though we are confined by property<br />what tethers us to gravity and light<br />has most to do with distance and the shapes<br />we find in water<br /> reading from the book<br />of silt and tides<br /> the rose or petrol blue<br />of jellyfish and sea anemone<br />combining with a child’s<br />first nakedness.<br /><br />Sometimes I am dizzy with the fear<br />of losing everything – the sea, the sky,<br />all living creatures, forests, estuaries:<br />we trade so much to know the virtual<br />we scarcely register the drift and tug<br />of other bodies<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> scarcely apprehend<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">the moment as it happens: shifts of light<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">and weather<br /> and the quiet, local forms<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">of history: the fish lodged in the tide<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">beyond the sands;<br /> the long insomnia<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">of ornamental carp in public parks<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">captive and bright<br /> and hung in their own<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">slow-burning<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> transitive gold<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> jamjars of spawn<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">and sticklebacks<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> or goldfish carried home<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">from fairgrounds</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> to the hum of radio<br /><br />but this is the problem: how to be alive<br />in all this gazed-upon and cherished world<br />and do no harm<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> a toddler on a beach<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">sifting wood and dried weed from the sand<br /></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">and puzzled by the pattern on a shell</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">his parents on the dune slacks with a kite<br />plugged into the sky<br /> all nerve and line</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">patient; be afraid; but still, through everything<br />attentive to the irredeemable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/John-Burnside/Selected-Poems/577557" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy Selected Poems by John Burnside</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R50LfscrPQA1YeiWmK3LY0KqUYtKXEUn9NJS4GTMx4Y72hdn3GokmQmGI8cy2pF-_evCGISuApdftwEbAz2WCXb3X86EPUv4V4G0TqsmzVQ3aVH2Pd9CF9JYLsxwOJbx3ECXiANCK5c/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="220" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R50LfscrPQA1YeiWmK3LY0KqUYtKXEUn9NJS4GTMx4Y72hdn3GokmQmGI8cy2pF-_evCGISuApdftwEbAz2WCXb3X86EPUv4V4G0TqsmzVQ3aVH2Pd9CF9JYLsxwOJbx3ECXiANCK5c/w260-h400/image.png" width="260" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-86735597398506781062021-02-03T12:20:00.005+00:002021-02-10T16:35:18.245+00:00The Horses by Pablo Neruda<span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gs25WtGmyrwMOotk7NbxB0S-ScLc-P-eHXuInL9iP1uHIFNb8fSjfs3WgLCE2bT6J_MYwQC4WseZ1r0fQde2sl6FYgE2CK3hQxDUOqpCfDZ6_mVUqT_AAY8Vziz3OqvnH8NGWfRJSyU/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3gs25WtGmyrwMOotk7NbxB0S-ScLc-P-eHXuInL9iP1uHIFNb8fSjfs3WgLCE2bT6J_MYwQC4WseZ1r0fQde2sl6FYgE2CK3hQxDUOqpCfDZ6_mVUqT_AAY8Vziz3OqvnH8NGWfRJSyU/w320-h320/image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><b> Horses</b> by Pablo Neruda<br /><br />From the window I saw the horses.<br /><br />I was in Berlin, in winter. The light<br />had no light, the sky had no heaven.<br /><br />The air was white like wet bread.<br /><br />And from my window a vacant arena,<br />bitten by the teeth of winter.<br /><br />Suddenly driven out by a man,<br />ten horses surged through the mist.<br /><br />Like waves of fire, they flared forward<br />and to my eyes filled the whole world,<br />empty till then. Perfect, ablaze,<br />they were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,<br />with manes like a dream of salt.<br /><br />Their rumps were worlds and oranges.<br /><br />Their colour was honey, amber, fire.<br /><br />Their necks were towers<br />cut from the stone of pride,<br />and behind their transparent eyes<br />energy raged, like a prisoner.<br /><br />There, in silence, at mid-day,<br />in that dirty, disordered winter,<br />those intense horses were the blood<br />the rhythm, the inciting treasure of life.<br /><br />I looked. I looked and was reborn:<br />for there, unknowing, was the fountain,<br />the dance of gold, heaven<br />and the fire that lives in beauty.<br /><br />I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.<br /><br />I will not forget the light of the horses.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Pablo-Neruda/Th-Essential-Neruda--Selected-Poems/7097341" target="_blank"><br /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Pablo-Neruda/Th-Essential-Neruda--Selected-Poems/7097341" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HfxPPGIABR_oOZQFKVpbG4tr1Dwj5zCa9bFkncYmsZ63AEIzyTgbGCQYnJ7YQ7atyc37xuDSLgCb3RBlTmvZ_OTOLugShmvFYlCnjKkoqxPM5QoMGMc77cGd0NKJuFuCjnXsi4GWbQU/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="220" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HfxPPGIABR_oOZQFKVpbG4tr1Dwj5zCa9bFkncYmsZ63AEIzyTgbGCQYnJ7YQ7atyc37xuDSLgCb3RBlTmvZ_OTOLugShmvFYlCnjKkoqxPM5QoMGMc77cGd0NKJuFuCjnXsi4GWbQU/" width="156" /></a></div><br /><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-88272558778558710362020-08-26T14:42:00.016+01:002021-02-10T16:37:03.662+00:00Crossing from Guangdong by Sarah Howe<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjU_IMX962ncz7oc_vlMEDQgUbd7w4CYKH9AbWyzzs1AQYpMGWu4Fl531wgOrl8uOV7UWQ396uRJE2lvXLno7Jwzr7dEKwOg7IuIaNkSrYNyYD-HyzBGUHGFHpSqaZMLdBr1LFK2skfp0/s259/Sarah+Howe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjU_IMX962ncz7oc_vlMEDQgUbd7w4CYKH9AbWyzzs1AQYpMGWu4Fl531wgOrl8uOV7UWQ396uRJE2lvXLno7Jwzr7dEKwOg7IuIaNkSrYNyYD-HyzBGUHGFHpSqaZMLdBr1LFK2skfp0/w405-h304/Sarah+Howe.jpg" width="405" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Something sets us looking for a place.<br />For many minutes every day we lose<br />ourselves to somewhere else. Even without<br />knowing, we are between the enveloping sheets<br />of a childhood bed, or crossing<br />that bright, willow-bounded weir at dusk.<br />Tell me, why have I come? I caught<br />the first coach of the morning outside<br />the grand hotel in town. Wheeled my case<br />through the silent, still-dark streets of the English<br />quarter, the funereal stonework facades<br />with the air of Whitehall, or the Cenotaph,<br />but planted on earth’s other side. Here<br />no sign of life, save for street hawkers, solicitous,<br />arranging their slatted crates, stacks of bamboo<br />steamers, battered woks, to some familiar<br />inward plan. I watch the sun come up<br />through tinted plexiglas. I try to sleep<br />but my eyes snag on every flitting, tubular tree,<br />their sword-like leaves. Blue metal placards<br />at the roadside, their intricate brooch-like<br />signs in white, which no one disobeys.<br />I am looking for a familiar face. There is<br />some symbol I am striving for. Yesterday<br />I sat in a cafe while it poured, drops<br />like warm clots colliding with the perspex<br />gunnel roof. To the humid strains of Frank<br />Sinatra, unexpectedly strange, I fingered<br />the single, glossy orchid – couldn’t decide<br />if it was real. I picked at anaemic<br />bamboo shoots, lotus root like<br />the plastic nozzle of a watering can,<br />over-sauced – not like you would make at home.<br />I counted out the change in Cantonese.<br />Yut, ye, sam, sei. Like a baby. The numbers<br />are the scraps that stay with me. I hear<br />again your voice, firm at first, then almost<br />querulous, asking me not to go.<br />I try to imagine you as a girl –<br />a street of four-storey plaster buildings,<br />carved wooden doors, weathered, almost shrines<br />(like in those postcards of old Hong Kong you loved) –<br />you, a child in bed, the neighbours always in<br />and out, a terrier dog, half-finished bowls<br />of rice, the ivory Mah Jong tablets<br />clacking, like joints, swift and mechanical,<br />shrill cries – ay-yah! fah! – late into the night.<br />My heart is bounded by a scallop shell –<br />this strange pilgrimage to home.<br /><br /><br />*<br /><br />The bus sinks<br />with a hydraulic sigh. So, we have crossed<br />the imaginary line. The checkpoint<br />is a concrete pool. The lichen-green uniformed<br />official, with his hat brimmed in black gloss,<br />his elegant white-gloved hands, his holstered<br />gun, slowly mounts the rubber steps,<br />sways with careful elbows down the aisle. I lift<br />this crease-marred passport, the rubbed<br />gold of the lion crest – a mute offering.<br />Two fingers brace the pliant spine, the thumb<br />at the edge – an angle exact as a violinist’s<br />wrist – fanning through stamps to halt at the last<br />laminated side. He lifts his eyes to read<br />my face. They flicker his uncertainty<br />as he makes out eyes, the contour of a nose:<br />half-recognition. These bare moments –<br />something like finding family.<br />The mild waitress in Beijing. Your mother…<br />China… worker? she asked, at last, after<br />many whispers spilling from the kitchen.<br />Or the old woman on the Datong bus,<br />doubtless just inviting a foreigner to dinner,<br />but who could have been my unknown<br />grandmother, for all I knew or understood.<br />She took a look at me and reached up<br />to grasp my shoulders, loosing a string<br />of frantic, happy syllables, in what<br />dialect I don’t even know. She held my<br />awkward hands, cupped in her earthenware<br />palms, until the general restlessness showed<br />we neared the stop. As the doors lurched open,<br />she smiled, pressed a folded piece of paper,<br />blue biro, spidery signs, between my fingers,<br />then joined in the procession shuffling off. Some,<br />I realised then, were in hard hats, as they<br />dwindled across the empty plain, shadowed<br />by the blackened, soaring towers of the mine.<br /><br /><br />*<br /><br /><br />Something sets us looking for a place.<br />Old stories tell that if we could only<br />get there, all distances would be erased.<br />Wheels brace themselves against the ground<br />and we are on our way. Soon we will reach<br />the fragrant city. The island rising<br />into mist, where silver towers forest<br />the invisible mountain, across that small<br />span of cerulean sea. I have made<br />the crossing. The journey you, a screaming<br />baby, made, a piercing note among grey,<br />huddled shapes, some time in nineteen-forty-<br />nine (or year one of the fledgling People’s<br />State). And what has changed? The near-empty<br />bus says enough. And so, as we approach,<br />stop-start, by land, that once familiar scene –<br />the warm, phthalo-green, South China tide –<br />I can make out rising mercury<br />pin-tips, distinct against the blue<br />as the outspread primaries at the edge<br />of a bird’s extending wing. So much<br />taller now than when I left<br />fifteen years ago. Suddenly, I know –<br />from the Mid-Levels flat where I grew up,<br />set in the bamboo grove – from the kumquat-<br />lined windows on the twenty-fifth floor,<br />tinted to bear the condescension’s glare –<br />you can no longer see the insect cars<br />circling down those jungle-bordered boulevards.<br />The low-slung ferry, white above green,<br />piloting the harbour’s carpet of stars,<br />turned always home, you can no longer see.</span><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFIQyPEnfLg" target="_blank">Click here</a> for a link to a performance of the poem by Sarah Howe</span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Sarah-Howe/Loop-of-Jade/16507527" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy Loop of Jade by Sarah Howe</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizK3xO5VNCy8z_SjT6vzYFq2PUZMk1_FNkKMI6vPXPje1IsUY9lIvvEG4urazKEeyf2Yah3bgvxS5346oPyEqkaLyR-2719Rvaudt82C6wWHnq82DKQ0A_glg_RuEDJqGrZBhhON4hvig/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="178" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizK3xO5VNCy8z_SjT6vzYFq2PUZMk1_FNkKMI6vPXPje1IsUY9lIvvEG4urazKEeyf2Yah3bgvxS5346oPyEqkaLyR-2719Rvaudt82C6wWHnq82DKQ0A_glg_RuEDJqGrZBhhON4hvig/w200-h320/image.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-35111286447607623312020-08-26T13:47:00.013+01:002021-02-10T16:38:24.960+00:00An Ordinary Morning by Philip Levine<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsS0XCYQavAElbihKxKZklIG5mJsUMo_C9CRCIgOx-s9fvp-YHd5CBTrjM2TCcSk8tA7A890wrkonOVyWn6aa8WdiiMbu1b0LOh6ksJwMNPz2CST_ORBq6HnTboeHnvUB1Tpabsumg-g/s275/Philip+Levine.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVsS0XCYQavAElbihKxKZklIG5mJsUMo_C9CRCIgOx-s9fvp-YHd5CBTrjM2TCcSk8tA7A890wrkonOVyWn6aa8WdiiMbu1b0LOh6ksJwMNPz2CST_ORBq6HnTboeHnvUB1Tpabsumg-g/w430-h286/Philip+Levine.jpg" width="430" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">A man is singing on the bus<br />coming in from Toledo.<br />His voice floats over the heads<br />that bow and sway with each<br />turn, jolt, and sudden slowing.<br />A hoarse, quiet voice, it tells<br />of love that it true, of love<br />that endures a whole weekend.<br />The driver answers in a tenor<br />frayed from cigarettes, coffee,<br />and original curses thrown<br />down from his seat of command.<br />He answers that he has time<br />on his hands and it’s heavy.<br />O heavy hangs the head, he<br />improvises, and the man<br />back in the very last row,<br />bouncing now on the cobbles<br />as we bump down the boulevard,<br />affirms that it is hanging,<br />yes, and that it is heavy.<br />This is what I waken to.<br />One by one my near neighbors<br />open their watering eyes<br />and close their mouths to accept<br />this bright, sung conversation<br />on the theme of their morning.<br />The sun enters from a cloud<br />and shatters the wide windshield<br />into seventeen distinct shades<br />of yellow and fire, the brakes<br />gasp and take hold, and we are<br />the living, newly arrived<br />in Detroit, city of dreams,<br />each on his own black throne.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Philip-Levine/New-Selected-Poems/14055335" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy New Selected Poems by Philip Levine<br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKSMaae0MWE" target="_blank">Click here</a> for a great reading of the poem by the poet</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYn-5Qs-Ly1-Zzht6CdI1Lbx1FmR8O2UuwXSbObI1Hw7DJUuKvpZE6NDy5l60l6CKymTPp6wcnQ5t-dbZ_zKxelvJk9YzlrJJK8_oNis7Zyi_ekzTJ3WsIIQsTkA7Xs_l3zE7CiN73gA/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="220" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYn-5Qs-Ly1-Zzht6CdI1Lbx1FmR8O2UuwXSbObI1Hw7DJUuKvpZE6NDy5l60l6CKymTPp6wcnQ5t-dbZ_zKxelvJk9YzlrJJK8_oNis7Zyi_ekzTJ3WsIIQsTkA7Xs_l3zE7CiN73gA/" width="156" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-60790726781017772722020-06-14T13:43:00.014+01:002021-02-03T13:38:43.892+00:00Christabel by Samuel Taylor Coleridge<div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjS93s1EoisIjF1CYs26FCsvAhhmWv6Kf2o5LBr_QjloCtFRGP6PiXfPazZ2xK4PVEdr8fRRWaUTgaZt-EOgtBH0-nuPtY8hpf0RBnfoi1EutRnLaZlx1sW7HwZLyFeo0sNmJpxGQZwis/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjS93s1EoisIjF1CYs26FCsvAhhmWv6Kf2o5LBr_QjloCtFRGP6PiXfPazZ2xK4PVEdr8fRRWaUTgaZt-EOgtBH0-nuPtY8hpf0RBnfoi1EutRnLaZlx1sW7HwZLyFeo0sNmJpxGQZwis/w256-h320/image.png" width="256" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div>Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Tu—whit! Tu—whoo!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And hark, again! the crowing cock,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">How drowsily it crew.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">From her kennel beneath the rock</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She maketh answer to the clock,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ever and aye, by shine and shower,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sixteen short howls, not over loud</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Is the night chilly and dark?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The night is chilly, but not dark.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The thin gray cloud is spread on high,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">It covers but not hides the sky.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The moon is behind, and at the full;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And yet she looks both small and dull.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The night is chill, the cloud is gray:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">'Tis a month before the month of May,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And the Spring comes slowly up this way.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lovely lady, Christabel,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Whom her father loves so well,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">What makes her in the wood so late,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A furlong from the castle gate?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She had dreams all yesternight</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Of her own betrothèd knight;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And she in the midnight wood will pray</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">For the weal of her lover that's far away.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She stole along, she nothing spoke,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The sighs she heaved were soft and low,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And naught was green upon the oak</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But moss and rarest misletoe:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And in silence prayeth she.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lady sprang up suddenly,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lovely lady Christabel!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">It moaned as near, as near can be,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But what it is she cannot tell.—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">On the other side it seems to be,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The night is chill; the forest bare;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">There is not wind enough in the air</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">To move away the ringlet curl</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">From the lovely lady's cheek—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">There is not wind enough to twirl</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The one red leaf, the last of its clan,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">That dances as often as dance it can,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Hanging so light, and hanging so high,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Hush, beating heart of Christabel!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Jesu, Maria, shield her well!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She folded her arms beneath her cloak,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And stole to the other side of the oak.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">What sees she there?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">There she sees a damsel bright,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Drest in a silken robe of white,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">That shadowy in the moonlight shone:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The neck that made that white robe wan,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Her stately neck, and arms were bare;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Her blue-veined feet unsandl'd were,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And wildly glittered here and there</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The gems entangled in her hair.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I guess, 'twas frightful there to see</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A lady so richly clad as she—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Beautiful exceedingly!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Mary mother, save me now!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">(Said Christabel) And who art thou?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lady strange made answer meet,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And her voice was faint and sweet:—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Have pity on my sore distress,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I scarce can speak for weariness:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Said Christabel, How camest thou here?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Did thus pursue her answer meet:—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My sire is of a noble line,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And my name is Geraldine:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Five warriors seized me yestermorn,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me, even me, a maid forlorn:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">They choked my cries with force and fright,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And tied me on a palfrey white.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The palfrey was as fleet as wind,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And they rode furiously behind.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">They spurred amain, their steeds were white:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And once we crossed the shade of night.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I have no thought what men they be;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Nor do I know how long it is</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">(For I have lain entranced I wis)</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Since one, the tallest of the five,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Took me from the palfrey's back,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A weary woman, scarce alive.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Some muttered words his comrades spoke:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">He placed me underneath this oak;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">He swore they would return with haste;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Whither they went I cannot tell—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I thought I heard, some minutes past,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sounds as of a castle bell.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she).</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And help a wretched maid to flee.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And comforted fair Geraldine:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">O well, bright dame! may you command</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The service of Sir Leoline;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And gladly our stout chivalry</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Will he send forth and friends withal</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">To guide and guard you safe and free</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Come to your noble father's hall.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She rose: and forth with steps they passed</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">That strove to be, and were not, fast.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Her gracious stars the lady blest,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And thus spake on sweet Christabel:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">All our household are at rest,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The hall as silent as the cell;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sir Leoline is weak in health,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And may not well awakened be,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But we will move as if in stealth,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And I beseech your courtesy,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">This night, to share your couch with me.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">They crossed the moat, and Christabel</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Took the key that fitted well;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A little door she opened straight,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">All in the middle of the gate;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The gate that was ironed within and without,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Where an army in battle array had marched out.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lady sank, belike through pain,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And Christabel with might and main</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Lifted her up, a weary weight,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Over the threshold of the gate:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Then the lady rose again,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And moved, as she were not in pain.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So free from danger, free from fear,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">They crossed the court: right glad they were.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And Christabel devoutly cried</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">To the lady by her side,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Praise we the Virgin all divine</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Alas, alas! said Geraldine,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I cannot speak for weariness.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So free from danger, free from fear,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">They crossed the court: right glad they were.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Outside her kennel, the mastiff old</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The mastiff old did not awake,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Yet she an angry moan did make!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And what can ail the mastiff bitch?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Never till now she uttered yell</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Beneath the eye of Christabel.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">For what can ail the mastiff bitch?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">They passed the hall, that echoes still,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Pass as lightly as you will!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The brands were flat, the brands were dying,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Amid their own white ashes lying;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But when the lady passed, there came</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A tongue of light, a fit of flame;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And Christabel saw the lady's eye,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And nothing else saw she thereby,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">O softly tread, said Christabel,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My father seldom sleepeth well.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And jealous of the listening air</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">They steal their way from stair to stair,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And now they pass the Baron's room,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As still as death, with stifled breath!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And now have reached her chamber door;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And now doth Geraldine press down</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The rushes of the chamber floor.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The moon shines dim in the open air,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And not a moonbeam enters here.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But they without its light can see</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The chamber carved so curiously,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Carved with figures strange and sweet,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">All made out of the carver's brain,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">For a lady's chamber meet:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lamp with twofold silver chain</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Is fastened to an angel's feet.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The silver lamp burns dead and dim;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But Christabel the lamp will trim.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And left it swinging to and fro,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">While Geraldine, in wretched plight,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sank down upon the floor below.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">O weary lady, Geraldine,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I pray you, drink this cordial wine!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">It is a wine of virtuous powers;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My mother made it of wild flowers.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And will your mother pity me,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Who am a maiden most forlorn?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Christabel answered—Woe is me!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She died the hour that I was born.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I have heard the grey-haired friar tell</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">How on her death-bed she did say,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">That she should hear the castle-bell</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">O mother dear! that thou wert here!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I would, said Geraldine, she were!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But soon with altered voice, said she—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I have power to bid thee flee.'</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Why stares she with unsettled eye?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Can she the bodiless dead espy?</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And why with hollow voice cries she,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Though thou her guardian spirit be,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.'</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Alas! said she, this ghastly ride—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Dear lady! it hath wildered you!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lady wiped her moist cold brow,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And faintly said, ' 'tis over now!'</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Again the wild-flower wine she drank:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And from the floor whereon she sank,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The lofty lady stood upright:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">She was most beautiful to see,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Like a lady of a far countrèe.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And thus the lofty lady spake—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">'All they who live in the upper sky,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Do love you, holy Christabel!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And you love them, and for their sake</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And for the good which me befel,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Even I in my degree will try,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Fair maiden, to requite you well.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But now unrobe yourself; for I</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Quoth Christabel, So let it be!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And as the lady bade, did she.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Her gentle limbs did she undress,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And lay down in her loveliness.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">But through her brain of weal and woe</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So many thoughts moved to and fro,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">That vain it were her lids to close;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So half-way from the bed she rose,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And on her elbow did recline</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">To look at the lady Geraldine.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And slowly rolled her eyes around;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Then drawing in her breath aloud,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Like one that shuddered, she unbound</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The cincture from beneath her breast:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Her silken robe, and inner vest,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Dropt to her feet, and full in view,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Behold! her bosom and half her side—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A sight to dream of, not to tell!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ah! what a stricken look was hers!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Deep from within she seems half-way</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">To lift some weight with sick assay,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And eyes the maid and seeks delay;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Then suddenly, as one defied,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Collects herself in scorn and pride,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And lay down by the Maiden's side!—</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And in her arms the maid she took,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> Ah wel-a-day!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And with low voice and doleful look</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">These words did say:</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> But vainly thou warrest,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> For this is alone in</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> Thy power to declare,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> That in the dim forest</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Thou heard'st a low moaning,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'</span></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><a href="https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Samuel-Coleridge/Lyrical-Ballads/350490" target="_blank">Click here</a> to buy Lyrical Ballads by Samuel Taylor Coleridge</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYInuP8nxogMw2aXKtM5Fhmg-2F5-NhJajHKKeXRmUOCzi0Z8vA0R4PYvb0yonNEJP1pEllRHs9qKMZm7-qLYH4IZMw9oLCejEd05zgxAhdoGpBuAPnt086yIEt_aQJyllJ2vbxWjWNe0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYInuP8nxogMw2aXKtM5Fhmg-2F5-NhJajHKKeXRmUOCzi0Z8vA0R4PYvb0yonNEJP1pEllRHs9qKMZm7-qLYH4IZMw9oLCejEd05zgxAhdoGpBuAPnt086yIEt_aQJyllJ2vbxWjWNe0/w208-h320/image.png" width="208" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></span></div>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2436894303354058967.post-26575826982351844952020-06-14T13:39:00.000+01:002020-06-14T13:39:15.168+01:00This Lime-tree Bower by Samuel Taylor Coleridge<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><i>Addressed to Charles Lamb, of the India House, London</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Beauties and feelings, such as would have been</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Most sweet to my remembrance even when age</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Friends, whom I never more may meet again,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To that still roaring dell, of which I told;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And only speckled by the mid-day sun;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of the blue clay-stone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Now, my friends emerge</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The many-steepled tract magnificent</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And hunger'd after Nature, many a year,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the great City pent, winning thy way</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Less gross than bodily; and of such hues</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Spirits perceive his presence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> A delight</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I myself were there! Nor in this bower,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The shadow of the leaf and stem above</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Through the late twilight: and though now the bat</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yet still the solitary humble-bee</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No waste so vacant, but may well employ</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That we may lift the soul, and contemplate</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With lively joy the joys we cannot share.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Beat its straight path along the dusky air</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.</span>Davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14343643387576533616noreply@blogger.com0