Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)

[Bascar]

A seasonal offering:

To a Goose

If thou didst feed on western plains of yore;
Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor;
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat
From gipsy thieves, and foxes sly and fleet;
If thy grey quills, by lawyer guided, trace
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,
Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,
Wailing the rigour of his lady fair;
Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil,
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil,
Departed Goose! I neither know nor care.
But this I know, that thou wert very fine,
Season'd with sage and onions, and port wine.

Robert Southey

Merry Christmas everyone!

Andrew

 

[Nerine]

But this I know, that thou wert very fine,
Season'd with sage and onions, and port wine.

Robert Southey

Merry Christmas everyone!

Andrew

A Very Merry Christmas to you too, Andrew, and to all who read this thread

Great poem by Robert Southey! I have to admit I chuckled at the last 2 lines, poor old goose!

A few lines from Christmas past:

December

While snow the window-panes bedim,
The fire curls up a sunny charm,
Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
The flowering ale is set to warm;
Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,
Sits there, its pleasures to impart,
And children, 'tween their parent's knees,
Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.

John Clare

Nerine

 

[Tyke]

Happy Christmas everyone.

Colin

 

[Upland Birder]

A Poem about the weather and a Mardalian Lament

Hi all,

I have not posted anything on here for a while

I once lived in Broughton In Furness (Southern Lake District) some years ago and learned of a poet called Normon Nicholson who once lived near to Christine (the Christine responsible for starting this forum). I love his poetry and wish to dedicate one of my favourites by him to Christine at this festive time.

The poem is called 'Weather Ear' so here goes:-

WEATHER EAR

Lying in bed in the dark, I hear the bray
Of the furnace hooter rasping the slates, and say:
'The wind will be in the east, and frost on the nose, today.'

Or when, in the still, small, conscience hours, I hear
The market clock-bell clacking close to my ear:
'A north-west wind from the fell, and the sky-light swilled and clear.'

But now when the roofs are sulky as the dead,
With a snuffle and sniff in the gullies, a drip on the lead:
'No wind at all, and the street stone-deaf with a cold in the head.'

Normon Nicholson

I hope Christine and others who have read it enjoyed the poem. I once heard it read by someone who was being interviewed by Mike Harding and it sounded great.

Finally here are some words I found in a book from 1925 called 'A Backwater In Lakeland'. The backwater of course was a place called Mardale now under Hawswater in the North East Lakes.

It is called 'The Mardalian's Lament' so here goes:-

THE MARDALIAN LAMENT

The farmsteads are empty, there roof trees are gone;
The strong, hardy dalesman have left one by one.
There's nothing to show where the old dwellings stood,
Save whitening stones fathoms deep 'neath the flood.

Dear was the forrest where we wandered so free,
Or rested awhile on some old fallen tree;
Dear were the meadows reaching down to the shore,
But the fair maids of Mardale will tread them no more.

The quaint little church, nestling 'neath the old yews,
Has been plundered of altar, and pulpit. and pews;
The sacred dead laid to rest there for aye,
Will hear the trump in some place far away.

The Dun Bull has gone,-no more shall we rest there;
Its larders are empty, its cupboards are bare;
No more shall we feast, little recking the cost;
The rooms where we revelled for ever are lost.

So, Mardale, farewell ! The strangers have robbed thee
Of all that was dear to my comrades and me;
Of forest, and church, and Dun Bull we're bereft,
High Whelter's gaunt gables are all they have left.

Isaac Hinchcliffe

Isaac wrote these words in 1921 anticipating that Mardale would be flooded by Hawswater. He wrote them at this point as he thought he may not be around when all these things came to pass.

In 1925 he was still around and the work had not been completed but was to begin before the year ended.

If you are up in Haweswater in the future looking for the golden eagle above Rigginsdale then remind yourself of these words

Have a lovely christmas and all my best wishes for 2008.

Dean

 

[dolphinbride]

Merry Christmas to all!


Kristina

 

[Upland Birder]

Merry xmas to you Kristina.

Dean

 

[Merlin]

Merry Christmas to all 'our' compatriots on this thread. I am sorry that I have not participated recently, I hope to rejoin you soon?

kind regards
Merlin

 

[wiseb]

Merry Christmas to All!

 

[scampo]

Well, some of us will be hoping for a better New Year than the last, that's for sure, but for all, a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

As it was the first poem in a present I received today, and one that moved me so very much, here's one that I hope all - and maybe especially Merlin - will appreciate. What a wonderful writer Hardy is! The first verse is so utterly perfect and, as the poem progresses, so terribly poignant. Life, eh?

The Man He Killed

"Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

"But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him and he at me,
And killed him in his place.

"I shot him dead because –
Because he was my foe,
Just so – my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although

"He thought he'd 'list perhaps,
Off-hand like – just as I –
Was out of work – had sold his traps –
No other reason why.

"Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown."

Thomas Hardy

 

[scampo]

...So, Mardale, farewell ! The strangers have robbed thee
Of all that was dear to my comrades and me;

Two great poems, Dean. The Nicholson one is a rare thing indeed. Thanks and best wishes!

 

[Mickymouse]

Happy Christmas and enjoy your evening to all on the poetry thread.

Mick

 

[christineredgate]

Thanks,Dean,yes NN is very well known here.I have a photo of his statue on my website.Many thanks for giving him a mention.
A very Happy Xmas to all the posters on this site,especially Steve(Scampo) who keeps everything running.
Cannot believe this thread is still running,amazing.
Hope it goes from strength to strength for 2008,and again a Big Thankyou to all the posters.

 

[Bascar]

Steve, a wonderful and powerful poem from Thomas Hardy. Says it all really. (Btw, what a lovely word ‘nipperkin’ is! I must use it next time I am in my local!)

Nerine, that was a delightful Christmas poem from John Clare, thank you.

Dean, I enjoyed very much the poems from Norman Nicholson and Isaac Hinchcliffe. Nice to see Nicholson making another appearance – his poem ‘The Black Guillemot’ was of course the poem chosen by Christine to launch this thread nearly four years ago!

So another year bites the dust. I think EWW sums it up rather well:

The Year

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?
The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.
We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.
We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.
We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead.
We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of a year.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Best regards to everyone and all good wishes for 2008.

Happy New Year!

Andrew

 

[scampo]

Good poem, Andrew! A very happy and healthy new year to all!

 

[Nerine]

Andrew, your EWW is a perfect poem for rounding up the year.

My last poem of the year is by John Clare

Winter Walk

The holly bush, a sober lump of green,
Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey,
And smiles at winter be it eer so keen
With all the leafy luxury of May.
And O it is delicious, when the day
In winter's loaded garment keenly blows
And turns her back on sudden falling snows,
To go where gravel pathways creep between
Arches of evergreen that scarce let through
A single feather of the driving storm;
And in the bitterest day that ever blew
The walk will find some places still and warm
Where dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarm
To little birds that flirt and start away.

John Clare

Wishing all of you a very Happy New Year.

Nerine
(It's been a still and dark New Year's Eve and I've just been listening to a Song Thrush singing somewhere around my garden at dusk. Lovely end to the year!)

 

[Upland Birder]

Sea To The West

Well its 2008 and I thought I would post this poem to start off the year for what hopefully will be more fine poetry.

Again I have decided on a Norman Nicholson poem called 'Sea To The West' so here goes:-

SEA TO THE WEST

When the sea's to the west
The evenings are one dazzle-
You can find no sign of water.
Sun upflows the horizon:
Waves of Shine
Heave, crest, fracture,
Explode on the shore:
The wide day burns
In the incandescent mantle of the air.

Once, fifteen,
I would lean on handlebars,
Staring into the flare,
Blinded by looking,
Letting the gutterings and sykes of light
Flood into my skull.

Then, on the stroke of bedtime,
I'd turn to the town,
Cycle past purpling dykes
To a brown drizzle
Where black-scum shadows
Stagnated between backyard walls.
I pulled the warm dark over my head
Like an eiderdown.

Yet in that final stare when I
(five times, perhaps, fifteen)-
Creak protesting away-
The sea to the west
The land darkening-
Let my eyes at the last be blinded
Not by the dark
But by dazzle.

I will put some more of Nicholson's poems on here during the year. Many of his poetry books I think are now out of print but I managed to aquire a selection recently written between 1940 and 1982.

This poem you have to read again and again.

When I lived not far from Christine and the town where Norman Nicholson wrote his poetry I was always aware of the sea to the west and have been drawn there time and time again for the last 25 years. Time travels fast.

Well I've kicked off 2008 with this poem so let the new birds & poetry year roll towards 2009.

Hey perhaps Christine could organise a poetry evening at the Newfield pub in Seathwaite for all us BF members who post to this forum. An ideal setting in Wordsworths favourite Valley-The Duddon combined with some birding in the valley or on the coast. Just an idea:t:

Dean

 

[christineredgate]

Thanks ,Dean.The landlord of the Newfields has lots of bird feeders set up,Woodies and Nuthatches are regular visitors.

 

[dolphinbride]

Happy New Year to All!
Andrew and Nerine, beautiful poems to close the year, both so perfect in their way. Dean a lovely one to start the year!

Two from Mary Oliver from me...

Mindful

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?


Yes! No!

How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout
lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I
think serenity is not something you just find in the world,
like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.

The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like
small dark lanterns.

The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny.

How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out

Yes! No! The

swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants
only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier
is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy
rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better
than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work.

Mary Oliver

 

[Upland Birder]

Hi Dolphinbride,

Two nice poems by Mary Oliver. Thank you for bringing her to our attention.

Happy New Year to you.

Dean

 

[christineredgate]

Dean,thanks again for your NN poem last night.His poetry ,is I think,quite difficult to understand ,unless one is aware of the area in which he lived ,loved,and put pen to paper .He was aware of the stark reality of the iron ore mines,the bleak mountains,the harshness of the sea.He wrote several poems re Black Combe ,but unless anyone has seen this mountain,it will not really mean anything to them.Yet to all of us,in Cumbria,and indeed Lancs,who can see this amazing small mountain,which overlooks the Irish sea,has the most incredible cloud effects,due to its location re sea and mountain area,his poems have a special meaning.
Anyway here is one of his poems.Quite sorrowful,as indeed are lots of his works,but as with all of his writings everything has a meaning.
The Cocks Nest.
The spring my father died-it was winter ,really,
February fill-grave,but March was in
Before we felt the bruise of it and knew
How empty the rooms were-that spring
A wren flew to our yard,over Walter Willson's
Warehouse roof and the girls' school playground
From the old allotments that are now no more than a compost
For raising dockens and cats.It found a niche
Tucked behind the pipe of the bathroom outflow,
Caged in a wickerwork of creeper;then
Began to build:
Three times a minute,hour after hour,
Backward and forward to the backyard wall,
Nipping off neb-fulls of the soot -spored moss
Rooted between the bricks.In a few days
The nest was finished.They say the cock
Leases an option of sites and leaves the hen
To choose which nest she will.She didn't choose our yard.
And as March gambolled out,the fat King-Alfred sun
Blared down too early from its tinny trumpet
on new dug ptoato-beds,the still bare creeper,
The cock's nest with never an egg in,
And my father dead.

Norman Nicholson 1914-1987

To understand this poem,one does have to transport oneself to a small terraced house and a cobbled wall.
How different it would have been ,if the wren had chosen the nest,the father had died,but there would have been new life ,sadly nothing.Just to mention,Walter Wilsons was a small store,is now known as the Co'op.Before the days of supermarkets.The school mentioned was I think,Lapstone rd girls school in Millom,as indeed was the WW store.