Abou Ben Adhem

Today is National Poetry Day and what better way to celebrate it than with one of my favourite  poems.

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said.

'What writest thou?' The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, 'The names of those who love the Lord.'

'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerily still; and said, 'I pray thee, then,

Write me as one who loves his fellow men.'

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt

London

London by A.S.J. Tessimond (1902-1962)

I am the city of two-divided cities

Where the eyes of rich and poor collide and wonder;

Where the beggar's voice is low and unexpectant,

And in the clubs the feet of servants are soft on the carpet

And the world's wind scarcely stirs the leaves of The Times.

I am the reticent, the private city,

The city of lovers hiding wrapped in shadows,

The city of people sitting and talking quietly

Beyond shut doors and walls as thick as a century,

People who laugh too little and too loudly,

Whose tears fall inward, flowing back to the heart.

I am the city whose fog will fall like a finger gently

Erasing the anger of angles, the strident indecorous gesture,

Whose dusk will come like tact, like a change in conversation,

Violet and indigo, with strings of lemon streetlamps

Casting their pools into the pools of rain

As the notes of the piano are cast from the top-floor window

Into the square that is always Sunday afternoon.

2012

my own, my beautiful, my blossoming

There are a few precious puffs of blossoms left on the trees and so one last blossom quote


now all the fingers of this tree (darling) have

hands, and all the hands have people; and

more each particular person is (my love)

alive than every world can understand

and now you are and i am now and we're

a mystery which will never happen again,

a miracle which has never happened before -

and shining this our now must come to then

our then shall be some darkness during which

fingers are without hands; and i have no 

you;and all the trees are (any more than each

leafless) its silent in forevering snow

-but never fear (my own, my beautiful

my blossoming)for also then's until

e.e. cummings

blossom

Goodbye blossom - hello peonies

Carry her over the water

We haven't had a gratuitous wedding post recently. How about a spring Friday wedding? Let's take the day off work and celebrate amongst dear friends and family.

Carry Her Over the water

Carry her over the water,

And set her down under the tree,

Where the culvers white all day and all night,

And the winds from every quarter

Sing agreeably, agreeably, agreeably of love.

Put a gold ring on her finger,

And press her close to your heart,

While the fish in the lake their snapshots take,

And the frog, that sanguine singer,

Sing agreeably, agreeably of love.

The streets shall all flock to your marriage,

The houses turn round to look,

The table and chairs say suitable prayers,

And the horses drawing your carriage

Sing agreeably, agreeably of love.

W.H. Auden

The bride

smile

We'll be offered these drinks.

 drink


Hmm now what shall I wear?

How about this dress with a swish of red lips and the glimmer of a red sole?
What will you wear?

sad Andromache

Yes the boxes of school files keeps coming. Scribbled in the corner of an 'A' Level Classical Civilization file was this poem. I remember it and so am now storing it here for safe keeping.

Parting in war time Frances Cornford

How long ago Hector took off his plume,

Not wanting that his little sons should cry

Then kissed his sad Andromache goodbye -

And now we three in Euston waiting room.

goodbye

A change for you

I found this poem in amongst all the letters I was sorting through in the autumn. It's another one sent to me from my mother and fits with Friday's quote.

Black March by Stevie Smith

I have a friend

At the end 

Of the world,

His name is a breath

Of fresh air.

He is dressed in 

Grey chiffon. At least

I think it is chiffon.

It has a 

Peculiar look, like smoke.

It wraps him around

It blows out of place

It conceals him

I have not seen his face,

But I have seen his eyes, they are

As pretty and bright

As raindrops on black twigs

In March, and heard him say.

I am a breath

Of fresh air for you, a change

By and by.

Black March I call him

Because of his eyes

Being like March raindrops

On black twigs

(such a pretty time when the sky

Behind black twigs can be seen

Stretched out in one

Uninterrupted

Cambridge blue as cold as snow.)

But this friend

Whatever his new names I give him

Is an old friend. He says:

Whatever names you give me

I am

A breath of fresh air,

A change for you.

Stevie Smith

True Love

Wislawa Szymborska. Somewhere I read this poem. I loved it so much I searched for my own copy. When I read about the death of Polish Nobel Laureaute, Wislawa Szymborska I knew who she was, felt sad and reached for my book of her poems.

True Love

True Love. Is it normal,

is it serious, is it practical?

What does the world get from two people

who exist in the world of their own?

true love

..........

Look at the happy couple.

Couldn't they at least try to hide it,

fake a little depression for their friends' sake?

Listen to them laughing - it's an insult.

The language they use - deceptively clear.

And their little celebrations, rituals,

the elaborate mutual routines-

it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back!

true love

............

True love. Is it really necessary?

Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence,

like a scandal in Life's highest circles.

Perfectly good children are born without its help.

It couldn't populate the planet in a million years,

it comes along so rarely.

True Love

...............

Wislawsa Szymborska

Winter Night

Winter Night

Snow swept over the earth,

Swept it from end to end.

The candle on the table burned.

Like swarms of summer midges

Drawn to the flame 

The snowflakes

Flocked to the window.

The driven snow drew circles and arrows

On the window pane.

The candle on the table burned,

The candle burned.

window

.....

And everything was lost 

In the white-haired, white, snowy darkness.

The candle on the table burned,

The candle burned.

.....

snow

The snow swept all through February,

And now and again

The candle on the table burned,

The candle burned.

Boris Pasternak

Dr. Zhivago

How did you spend your snowy Sunday?

Stop all the clocks

A very very close friend of Twin, her husband and The Blessings has very sadly and suddenly died. I looked through my books and this blog for a passage to send. It was this poem that kept running through my mind. I think I understand it now.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever:

I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good

W.H.Auden

That this is the best time to dream

For, after the gospels,
After the human and divine comedies,
After the one thousand and one nights,
After crime and punishment,
War and peace, pride and prejudice,
The sound and the fury,
Between good and evil,
Being and nothingness,
After the tempest, the trial,
And the wasteland,
After things have fallen apart,
After the hundred years of solitude,
And the rememberance of things past,
In the kingdom of this world,
We can still astonish the gods in humanity
And be the stuff of legends,
If we but dare to be real,
And have the courage to see
That this is the best time to dream
The best dream of them all.
Ben Okri, last stanza 'Mental Fight'

With Christmas Love x

This time in December

Today it's Carol Ann Duffy's birthday and so any excuse for some Duffy. This piece comes from her 'Another Night before Christmas'.

Then she watched as the room filled with magic and light
As the spirit of Christmas made everything bright
And suddenly presents were heaped by the tree -
But she didn't wonder, which ones are for me?

For the best gift of all is to truly believe
In the wonderful night that we call Christmas Eve,
When adults remember, of all childhood's laws,
This time in December will bring Santa Claus.
presents

How will you be spending today?

Just another Autumn day

We haven't had any poetry for a while, I think we can just about still call it autumn and there's a lot going on in our world so here is

Just another Autumn day by Roger McGough

In Parliament, the Minister
for Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness
announces, that owing to
inflation and rising costs
there will be no Autumn
next year. September, October
and November are to be
cancelled, and the Government
to bring in the nine-month year instead.
Thus we will all live longer.

Emergency measures are to be
introduced to combat outbreaks
of well-being, and feelings
of elation inspired by the season.
Breathtaking sunsets will be
restricted to alternate Fridays
and gentle dusks prohibited.
Fallen leaves will be outlawed
and persons found in possession
of conkers, imprisoned without trial.
Thus we will all work harder.

The announcement caused little reaction.
People either way don't really care
No time have they to stand and stare
Looking for work or slaving away
Just another Autumn day.

1,2

How will our world be next autumn?

Last smiles of the year

'Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness, that season which has drawn from every poet, worthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling. 'Jane Austen Persuasion