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| Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too (Keats) |
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| Can I forget the sweet days that have been (W H Davies) |
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A blog featuring whatever I fancy, often on the Christian faith but not exclusively
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Recent Pics
10 Poets Buried in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey
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| National Library of Wales, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons Bain News Service, publisher, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons |
- Geoffrey Chaucer c. 1343 1400 Author and poet
- Edmund Spenser c. 1552 1599 Poet
- Abraham Cowley 1618 1667 Poet
- John Dryden 1631 1700 Poet and playwright
- Samuel Johnson 1709 1784 Author, poet and lexicographer
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1809 1892 Poet
- Robert Browning 1812 1889 Poet and playwright
- Thomas Hardy 1840 1928 Author and poet
- John Masefield 1878 1967 Poet and author
- Rudyard Kipling 1865 1936 Author and poet
Day Off Week 50 2024
A more formal day off this week. I went for a walk on the Heath, which is part of my usual routine these days. I had a coffee at Kenwood House. Two new books arrived - Jonathan Landry Cruse's Sing in exultation! (now going cheap at ICM). This is a devotional for Christmas making use of lines from Christmas hymns. It is nicely done with room to write your own thoughts (which I have begun doing). It gives no information about the hymns themselves. I also got the 2008 P&R hardback The Incarnation in the Gospels (Reformed Expository Commentary) which turns out to be the relevant comments from the respective commentaries plus a few extras. I am also dipping into A poem for everyday of Christmas an anthology chiefly with children in mind. Good to read poems well known and obscure. Also reading Christmas Carol as I try to every year and Nutcracker which I don't think I've read all the way through before. Plus some John Fawcett for a project I have on. I also watched the Martin Scorsese documentary on The Beatles just out (more elsewhere) and then in the evening we watched the final episodes of Anthony Horowitz's Moonflower Murders. This dramatises the second of three novels he has done in the Agatha Christie style. All very clever. The solution not that good sadly but lots of fun on the way (apart from the over acting of Mark Gatiss).
Another grandson
Wonderful news. At 7.58 am ast Thursday April 6 a 7lb 7 oz little boy arrived in Cardiff to Esther and Dewi, my third son. The pregnancy and birth have not been without difficulties but he's here now and for that we thank the Lord from our hearts. This is a brother to Betsan and sixth grandson and eighth grandchild. His name is Solomon Dewi Liu Brady.
Solomon Dewi Liu
There's no-one quite like you.
We pray that as you grow
God's grace you'll always know.
Solomon Brady
Born on a Thursday
In icu on Friday
Better on Saturday
Prayed for on Sunday
With mum on Monday
Improving by Tuesday
Home by Wednesday.*
That is the beginning of Solomon Brady
*We hope
Alffi
I've never written an eclogue
But if I did, I know,
I would write it about our dog -
In Autumn fog, in snow,
In Summer sun or Spring time rain,
When it's dark or frosty,
Alffi asleep or awake again,
Dull or Pentecosty,
In heat, in cold, when skies are blue,
Our ball of white and brown.
Good dog Alffi - cocking your head,
And bad dog Alffi - Down!
A Word to the elect by Anne Brontë
I came across this anti-Calvinist poem by Anne Brontë recently. It is worth reading and you can see her point. I particularly like the fact she knows we do not deserve salvation. That strengthens here argument. However, she starts from the wrong end. If you start with God it is not that it all becomes clear but at least you begin to see why what she offers here is a false hope.
You may rejoice to think yourselves secure;
You may be grateful for the gift divine --
That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure,
And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to shine.
But, is it sweet to look around, and view
Thousands excluded from that happiness,
Which they deserved, at least, as much as you, --
Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less?
And, wherefore should you love your God the more,
Because to you alone his smiles are given;
Because he chose to pass the many o'er,
And only bring the favoured few to Heaven?
And, wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove,
Because for ALL the Saviour did not die?
Is yours the God of justice and of love
And are your bosoms warm with charity?
Say, does your heart expand to all mankind?
And, would you ever to your neighbour do --
The weak, the strong, the enlightened, and the blind -
As you would have your neighbour do to you?
And, when you, looking on your fellow-men,
Behold them doomed to endless misery,
How can you talk of joy and rapture then? --
May God withhold such cruel joy from me!
That none deserve eternal bliss I know;
Unmerited the grace in mercy given:
But, none shall sink to everlasting woe,
That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven.
And, Oh! there lives within my heart
A hope, long nursed by me;
(And, should its cheering ray depart,
How dark my soul would be!)
That as in Adam all have died,
In Christ shall all men live;
And ever round his throne abide,
Eternal praise to give.
That even the wicked shall at last
Be fitted for the skies;
And, when their dreadful doom is past,
To life and light arise.
I ask not, how remote the day,
Nor what the sinner's woe,
Before their dross is purged away;
Enough for me, to know
That when the cup of wrath is drained,
The metal purified,
They'll cling to what they once disdained,
And live by Him that died.
You may be grateful for the gift divine --
That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure,
And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to shine.
But, is it sweet to look around, and view
Thousands excluded from that happiness,
Which they deserved, at least, as much as you, --
Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less?
And, wherefore should you love your God the more,
Because to you alone his smiles are given;
Because he chose to pass the many o'er,
And only bring the favoured few to Heaven?
And, wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove,
Because for ALL the Saviour did not die?
Is yours the God of justice and of love
And are your bosoms warm with charity?
Say, does your heart expand to all mankind?
And, would you ever to your neighbour do --
The weak, the strong, the enlightened, and the blind -
As you would have your neighbour do to you?
And, when you, looking on your fellow-men,
Behold them doomed to endless misery,
How can you talk of joy and rapture then? --
May God withhold such cruel joy from me!
That none deserve eternal bliss I know;
Unmerited the grace in mercy given:
But, none shall sink to everlasting woe,
That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven.
And, Oh! there lives within my heart
A hope, long nursed by me;
(And, should its cheering ray depart,
How dark my soul would be!)
That as in Adam all have died,
In Christ shall all men live;
And ever round his throne abide,
Eternal praise to give.
That even the wicked shall at last
Be fitted for the skies;
And, when their dreadful doom is past,
To life and light arise.
I ask not, how remote the day,
Nor what the sinner's woe,
Before their dross is purged away;
Enough for me, to know
That when the cup of wrath is drained,
The metal purified,
They'll cling to what they once disdained,
And live by Him that died.
The Warlock of Love
Desire is a strange thing. In 2 Samuel 13 we read of Amnon that first he fell in love with his half sister Tamar but that after he had raped her he hated her with intense hatred. Having given in to an inordinate desire he then feels an opposite emotion - hatred.
Normally, the desire is not so strong and so the reaction is not so strong either. When I was a student I used to see copies of Tabletalk magazine produced by Ligonier around and it seemed to me to be very desirable but when I investigated costs it was quite expensive having to come from America. As a poor student, I could not afford it. When I became a minister and was as rich as I had ever been I rather forgot about Tabletalk. Now I am sixty and Ligonier are giving us free copies. Somehow I am not that excited.
Some while ago I tracked down a copy of Archie and the Strict Baptists. I had seen a copy again as a student and tried to find one from time to time. When I eventually tracked one down at a price I was happy to pay and I enjoyed reading it again.
Last week another book from my teenage years arrived at my door. This time I had never seen a copy but was aware of it and knew it was one of the best selling poetry books of 1970. It has rarely been reprinted and so when I have looked for a copy the price has been exorbitant. This year it has been printed once again and so I bought a copy, The book is Marc Bolan's Warlock of Love. The new edition comes with a nice CD of four songs and one poem in mono. As for the poems themselves, well I might have got mildly excited years ago but not today really. So there it sits as I try and get something out of it.
Is like the withered yolk
Of a weathered egg.
The Old Rising Sun
Recently placed on one of my other blogs
There was a pub in
Newport town
They called the Rising
Sun
They changed it to
the Harlequin;
It's now a restaurant.
My mother was a Thomas
She sewed my old blue
jeans,
My father came from
Corpor Road
They lived up in
Cwmbran.
I once met gransha in
that pub,
Into that haunt he'd
slunk.
He looked so very
satisfied,
He was a little drunk.
Oh mother tell your
children
Why the name of
Harlequin
Is still found on the
roundabout
And how it was The
Rising Sun
I have one foot on the
platform
The other on a train
And I'm goin' back to
Newport town,
It looks like it might
rain.
Yeah, there was a pub
in Newport town
They called The Rising
Sun,
I remember it from when
a boy
And I'm not the only
one.
No longer under copyright
The new year means that certain times under copyright in America, due to Sonny Bono's law affecting items from 1923 forward are now in the public domain. These include Robert Frost's Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening previously featured on this blog in 2007. See here.The Highwayman
The Highwayman
BY ALFRED NOYES
PART ONEThe wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
PART TWO
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
PART TWO
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
...
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Alfred Noyes
I was walking through the streets of Aber today when I spotted this plaque noting that Alfred Noyes lived here 1881-1898. He was a minor poet and writer and the author of The Highwayman, which I remember doing in Junior School. In 1995 it was voted 15th in a BBC poll for Britain's favourite poem.
10 Poets named Thomas
1.Thomas Chatterton Almighty Framer of the Skies! O let our pure devotion rise, Like Incense in thy Sight!
2. Thomas Hardy And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.
3. Thomas Gray The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
4. Sir Thomas Wyatt Farewell love and all thy laws forever; Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
5. Thomas Moore 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone
6. Thomas Blackburn The unleavened man did not cry out Or turn his face away; through such men in a turnip field What is it that you say?
7. Thomas Nashe Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss; This world uncertain is; Fond are life’s lustful joys; Death proves them all but toys
8. T S Eliot Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity, He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
9. Thomas Traherne In all Things, all Things service do to all: And thus a Sand is Endless, though most small. And every Thing is truly Infinite, In its Relation deep and exquisite.
10. Thomas Hood I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn.
10 Poets called John
1. John Keats ("Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”– that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know)
2. John Dryden (Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own)
3. John Clare (Language has not the power to speak what love indites: The soul lies buried in the ink that writes)
4. John Donne (Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, tolls, It tolls for thee)
5. John Gray (The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns. Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings)
6. John Masefield (I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky; and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by)
7. John Betjeman (Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death!)
8. John Milton (They also serve who only stand and wait)
9. John Updike (The sky is low. The wind is grey. The radiator Purrs all day)
10. John Newton (That I am hers, and she is mine, Invites my feeble lays; But Saviour, that we both are thine, Demands my highest praise)
Another Idris Davies poem
I thought I might just throw in another Idris Davies poem at this point.
High summer on the mountains
And on the clover leas,
And on the local sidings,
And on the rhubarb leaves.
Brass bands in all the valleys
Blaring defiant tunes,
Crowds, acclaiming carnival,
Prize pigs and wooden spoons.
Dust on shabby hedgerows
Behind the colliery wall,
Dust on rail and girder
And tram and prop and all.
High summer on the slag heaps
And on polluted streams,
And old men in the morning
Telling the town their dreams.
Gwalia Deserta by Idris Davies
One further feature of PSB's Every Valley is part of a poem by the Monmuthshire poet Idris Davies (1905-1953) sung by James Dean Bradfield (also from Monmouthshire or Gwent, like myself). I have mentioned him here before and how I discovered him studying Anglo-Welsh poetry in university. The piece is from Davies's Gwalia Deserta, which includes the part made famous by Pete Seeger, the Byrds, the Alarm, etc - The Bells of Rhymney.
In the places of my boyhood
The pit-wheels turn no more
Nor any furnace lightens
The midnight as of yore.
The slopes of slag and cinder
Are sulking in the rain
And in derelict valleys
The hope of youth is slain.
And yet I love to wander
The early ways I went
And watch from doors and bridges
The hills and skies of Gwent.
In Gwalia, my Gwalia,
The vandals out of hell
Ransacked and marred forever
The wooded hill and dale.
They grabbed and bruised and plundered
Because their greed was great
And slunk away and purchased
The medals of the state.
And yet I love to wander
The early ways I went
And watch from doors and bridges
The hills and skies of Gwent.
Though blighted be the valleys
Where man meets man with pain
The things by boyhood cherished
Stand firm and shall remain.
(Repeated several times)
Emily Dickinson
I have mentioned Emily Dickinson before now and how I discovered her in University. She wrote 1800 poems in her life time but only had ten or eleven published. She has been brought to mind again by two media events. First, I persuaded Eleri to join me in the Phoenix, East Finchley to see A Quiet Passion the other week. I think her comment at the end "That's two hours we'll never get back again" was a trifle harsh but it is fair to say that the life of Emily Dickinson of Amherst, New England is not the stuff of movie blockbusters and so, despite valiant efforts, the film struggled to keep the interest up. More recently, on Radio 4, Melvyn Bragg has had some experts in to do an In our time on her. (See here). This was a much better format for looking at this interesting woman. I found the suggestion that not all her first person poems are about her a new angle to explore. Here is an example of her simple genius.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Extract from the Cotter's Saturday Night
This is an extract form the poem by Robert Burns, The Cotter's Saturday night (from 12 to the last but one stanza)
The chearful supper done, wi serious face,
 |
| David Wilkie Public Domain via Wikimedia |
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing.'
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart,
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way,
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.
From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
'An honest man's the noblest work of God';
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.
The sire turns o'er, wi patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride.
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And 'Let us worship God!' he says with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme:
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing.'
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart,
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way,
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.
From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
'An honest man's the noblest work of God';
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.
Poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
In a final letter to his wife before his execution Sir Walter Raleigh apparently wrote these sound words quoted in Aberystwyth this evening by Bill Bygroves
From
thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,
Where
no corrupted voices brawl,-
No
conscience molten into gold;
No
forged accuser bought or sold;
No
cause deferr'd, no vain-spent journey,
For
there Christ is the king s attorney;
Who
pleads for all without degrees,—
And
he hath angels - but no fees.
And
when the grand twelve-million jury
Of
our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst
our souls black verdicts give,
Christ
pleads his death; and then we live.
Be
Thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted
lawyer, true proceeder!
Thou
givest salvation even for alms,
Not
with a bribed lawyer's palms.
Then
this is mine eternal plea,
To
him that made heaven, earth, and sea;
Seeing
my flesh must die so soon,
And
want a head to dine next noon,
Just
at the stroke of death, my arms being spread,
Set
on my soul an everlasting head,
So
shall I ready, like a palmer fit,
Tread
those blessed paths shown in thy Holy Writ.
i thank You God for most this amazing day
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:
for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;
and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;
this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:
and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any - lifted from the no
of all nothing –
human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake
and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
e.e. cummings
1894-1962
I don't know much about old e e cummings except his penchant for small letters. I like this poem though. (Everything in me wants to change that first line but that is what he wrote). See here too.
10 Interesting facts about Dylan Thomas
 |
| Nora Summers, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons |
2. His middle name was Marlais, which means 'voice of the Sea'. Dyaln also menas something like son of the wave and so both names are apt as the sea was to be a recurring theme throughout much of his work, especially in 'Under Milk Wood'.
3. His father was Senior English Master at Swansea Grammar School.
4. His wife's name was Caitlin Macnamara. Born in Hammersmith, London, in 1913, she was of Irish descent. They married in 1937 and had three children (Llewelyn, Aeronwy and Colum). It was a very stormy relationship. They lived in Laugharne 1938-1940 and New Quay in 1944 and 1945.
5. They were introduced by Welshman Augustus John, who painted Thomas's portrait in 1937 and 1938 (Alfred Janes and Rupert Shephard also produced portraits).
6. He is one of the Beatles' heroes (John's?) on the cover for the Sgt Pepper album, gave Bob Dylan part of his name and has had his poems set to music by Welshman John Cale.
7. His 1940 work 'Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog' humorously parodies the title of James Joyce's 'A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man' published 24 years earlier.
8. His most celebrated work was 'Under Milk Wood', subtitled a play for voices. It was in fact commissioned as a radio play. It was broadcast in January 1954 (having been previously performed on stage in New York in May 1953).
9. Under Milk Wood was narrated famously by Richard Burton. Sir Anthony Hopkins later did it too. Burton and Hopkins, born 1925 and 1937 respectively, were both from the Port Talbot area of South Wales.
10. Dylan Thomas died in New York in 1953. He was only 39. He was undertaking a lecture tour of the USA at the time. Caitlin arrived at the hospital shortly before his death. She was institutionalised for a while after. His excessive drinking led to pneumonia. (Nick Cave's 2012 song "There She Goes, My Beautiful World" includes the line "Dylan Thomas/he died drunk/in St. Vincent's Hospital".)
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