Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)

[Tyke]

They are both very sensitive poems Nerine aren't they?-particularly The Lullaby-Kipling seems to have a reputation for being a jingoistic Imperialist. Perhaps that is unfair. Griff Rees-Jones did a piece on TV recently which sought to "rehabilitate" him somewhat-it was very interesting.

I remember an episode of "Morse" ( to which I was addicted) called " The Way through the Woods"

Colin

 

[Tranquility Base]

IMHO poetry and literature are meant to be read, reflected upon and possibly enjoyed. Not dissected. Everyone's response to a piece of poetry is individual: attempting to 'educate' other people about why you liked it is as futile as explaining why you enjoyed a joke that no-one else 'got'!
Sharing a piece of poetry (or a piece of art / music / memory / story) well that's different! (IMHO!)

 

[Tyke]

Can I just say -once again-what a joy your thread is Christine.
For my part I am learning about so much glorious poetry. Thanks to all for this late addition to my education!!

I just dredged this from the memory bank & remembered that I was struck by it from the first time I read it.

Not Waving but Drowning


Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Stevie Smith
________________________________________________

Colin

 

[scampo]

FIELDFARES

On the North Wind's waking breath
They come,
Drifting like the summer's dying leaves
In the moiling air.
Easing down to the majestic trees
Who wait in ragged shame,
To cede their noble heads
In deference.

Languidly in livery of grey and bronze
They claim the heights
Of oak and beech.
Chattering knowingly.
Heads high, this elegant elite
In clacking tongue,
Declaim across the valley
That winter comes.


Colin

Very well done, Colin - a fine poem.

 

[scampo]

I do like those Kipling poems, Nerine - he is much underrated as a poet. The ghostly ay through the wood reminds me of the famous, "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost - it, too, has a mystical quality:


The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I ever should come back
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Here's another, equally sombre, poem of much relevance to today:


THE FLOOD

Blood has been harder to dam than water.
Just when we think we have it impounded safe
Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),
It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.
We choose to say it is let loose by the devil;
But power of blood itself releases blood.
It goes by might of being such a flood
Held high at so unnatural a level.
It will have outlet, brave and not so brave.
Weapons of war and implements of peace
Are but the points at which it finds release.
And now it is once more the tidal wave
That when it has swept by, leaves summits stained,
Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained.

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

 

[scampo]

IMHO poetry and literature are meant to be read, reflected upon and possibly enjoyed. Not dissected. Everyone's response to a piece of poetry is individual: attempting to 'educate' other people about why you liked it is as futile as explaining why you enjoyed a joke that no-one else 'got'!
Sharing a piece of poetry (or a piece of art / music / memory / story) well that's different! (IMHO!)

Partly, I agree; but partly I don't! Some poetry is so dense in its meaning that some help with how those meanings are developed can 'open it up'. Here's a poem by Larkin - none too dense in its meanings - but I know many A-level students struggle with until it is 'dissected' and explained, after which, I'd say that many come to enjoy it and will never forget it:


MCMXIV

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;
And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day;
And the countryside not caring
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat’s restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;
Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word – the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.

Philip Larkin

 

[christineredgate]

Steve,one does have to read your poem several times(MXM) before understanding.Very good.Deep,but simple.

 

[Mickymouse]

Some more really nice poems thanks. I also partly agree with TB comments about not having to dissect a poem to enjoy it and like a joke, not being able to explain quite why but I also like reading explanations of the deeper parts, helps me to appreciate them.

Mick

 

[scampo]

Steve, one does have to read your poem several times(MXM) before understanding. Very good. Deep, but simple.

Even now, Christine, I wonder what Larkin means when he writes:

...Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word...


"As changed" - we so easily read it, wrongly, as "Has changed...". Interesting indeed.

 

[Merlin]

Scampo
Some great poems, keep them coming.
This one is a bit different?
Merlin

Just like a Bird

Just like a bird, I always wanted to fly
Just like a bird, High up in the sky

Flying all around through the clouds and the mist
Looking down at people thinking what they all miss

A blue tit or a robin that will suit me
With my own little garden in peace and tranquillity

I’ve been a bird now for only a few weeks
I’m alone yet again and lost eight chicks

I’ve had four partners, you can never relax
One in a hit and run and another two to the cats

The last one was the worst, I can’t say anymore
One day she was here, the next she’s with him next door

What with the mites and looking for food all the time
Needing eyes in your tail with only survival on your mind

I just wanted to fly, you know what I mean
If I get another chance, I’ll come back as a Peregrine

Must go now, sorry I must fly!
The Sparrowhawk has spotted me, Oh my!!

Even now, Christine, I wonder what Larkin means when he writes:

...Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word...


"As changed" - we so easily read it, wrongly, as "Has changed...". Interesting indeed.

 

[Tranquility Base]

...Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word...

Sorry! Can't see anything 'deep' in this! Admittedly Larkin uses words well, but (since we're in dissecting mode!) the imagery is sledge-hammer obvious! And trite! I'm amused by the idea that Britain was some kind of idyllic, innocent Utopia before the first World War! I think Owen made the point about unreasoned chauvinism much more powerfully in Dulce Et Decorum Est. And, of course, he was, in a sense, more entitled to voice an opinion than Larkin, having fought and died in the war.

 

[scampo]

Scampo
Some great poems, keep them coming.
This one is a bit different?
Merlin

Just like a Bird

Just like a bird, I always wanted to fly
Just like a bird, High up in the sky

...

Lovely. I always thought it odd how beautiful bird song sounds to our ears when, in fact, the singer of that song is probably being anything but pleasant, "Gerrowt of 'ere. This is my territory!".

 

[scampo]

...Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word...

... I'm amused by the idea that Britain was some kind of idyllic, innocent Utopia before the first World War...

Larkin, trite? Sledge-hammer obvious? Oh, I shouldn't think so not for a minute. You must be thinking Larkin was happy at "such innocence"? Not at all. What he wants, I suspect, as he makes clear in many other poems, is for us to stop being so easily deceived, so tragically innocent; he also wants us to take responsibility, too, for allowing ourselves to become so disastrously deceived. Larkin's second poetry collection was called 'The Less Deceived'.

I highlight just some of the words that I suspect have some ironic intent behind them. What Larkin actually meant, of course, we'll never know, and readings are always at least in part individual. For me, the linking of 'differently dressed servants" perhaps being thought of as no more than the 'dust behind limousines', for example, gives an idea of the complexity of Larkin's meanings in this most subtle and beautiful poem.

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;
And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day;
And the countryside not caring
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat’s restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;
Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word – the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.

 

[Tyke]

Hi Steve-thanks for MCMXIV-another terrific Larkin poem.
I had my own ideas of what he was driving at but -just in case-looked up some GCE Eng. Lit. notes on the poem-what an educational thread this is !

The idea of the poem is just as you perceived-not an exercise in nostalgia at all. That is to completely misunderstand the poem. It is a description of naivety -particularly of the volunteers. I also think he highlights all those features of life which are gone now -the hats, the farthings, etc..and "the differently dressed servants"-to say that the Great War changed everything here.

To my mind it is a beautifully crafted poem which makes two very important points-but with lovely ordinary, recognisable imagery. It is very accessible & not at all obtuse.

"The men leaving the gardens tidy" is the phrase which sums it all up for me...just popping out to biff the Bosch dear, ....back soon.
It brings to mind a similar image -The Lost Gardens of Heligan in Cornwall-the gardeners went off to The War...and never came back .

Colin

ps:Thanks for your kind comments too.

 

[Tranquility Base]

Steve: don't for one minute think I didn't 'understand' Larkin's poem! You'd have to be a cretin not to! Its 'message' is blindingly, painfully obvious. It is a kind of literary version of Pre-Rapharlite art: thematically transparent, too much colour, too bright and rejoicing in its own cleverness! I'm not trying to be contentious, here: but to me the Larkin poem is pretentious! Why title it MCMXIV? Why not '1914' if you intend every reader to grasp the 'message'?
And the phrases / words you highlight are, IMHO, for the most part obvious images! I mean: the sporting metaphor at the start is hardly cryptic or original, is it?
Now for powerful emotion, I don't think you can beat this:

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.

No hidden meanings: no pretention.... Just genuine anguish and the need for catharsis.
Auden is sharing something intimate and desperate with us, and, whatever our sexuality, we cannot help but reach out to him....

 

[scampo]

...

No hidden meanings: no pretention... Just genuine anguish and the need for catharsis.

Auden is sharing something intimate and desperate with us, and, whatever our sexuality, we cannot help but reach out to him....

Indeed. Brilliant words. I couldn't agree more about the Auden poem (although many of his poems are more than a little obscure). Here is one of his I like a lot:

Their Lonely Betters

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper the words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.
A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.
Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.
Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep,
Words are for those with promises to keep.

W H Auden


I still can't really understand why you feel Larkin is being trite or sledge-hammer obvious in MCMXIV: he uses no hackneyed imagery at all and it is a subtle and delicate poem in many ways. The formal Latin title is, like Owen's, intended to be ironic, surely; Larkin knew how such formality easily deceives.

 

[Tranquility Base]

Well-argued, Steve! We agree to differ, but I totally agree that the World would be a duller place without people like Messrs Larkin, Auden and Sassoon in it!

(PS: I love that Eliot quote, too!)

 

[scampo]

Well-argued, Steve! We agree to differ, but I totally agree that the World would be a duller place without people like Messrs Larkin, Auden and Sassoon in it!

(PS: I love that Eliot quote, too!)

Yes, Eliot can be marvellous, can't he? I just love the idea of the "music from a farther room". But you mention Sassoon. I don't know if you know this one. I hope others enjoy it, too. It tells of a scene that must have been a commonplace, and so tragically sad:


The Hero

‘JACK fell as he’d have wished,’ the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she’d read.
‘The Colonel writes so nicely.’ Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. ‘We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.’ Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how ‘Jack’, cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

Siegfried Sassoon

 

[Mickymouse]

That is a very touching verse, to say I enjoyed it just doesn't seem right some how but I did.

Mick

 

[Upland Birder]

Let's Think About Wild Geese

Last Friday I listened to a Radio 4 programme called Shared Earth. The presenter was on Islay. It got me thinking that we share the Earth with Wild Geese. During the programme a poem was recited and then I contacted the BBC to find out what the Poem was Called and the Poet. They got back to me.

Here it is:-

SOMETHING TOLD THE WILD GEESE

BY Rachel Field

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go,
Through the fields lay golden
Something whispered, "snow"

Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, "frost"

All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spices,
But each wild beast stiffened
At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

Here is another poem about wild geese

A HUNTER'S POEM

By Lem Ward Crisfield

A hunter shot at a flock of geese
That flew within his reach,
Two were stopped in their rapid flight
And fell on the sandy beach.

The male bird lay at the water's edge
And just before he died,
He faintly called to his wounded mate
And she dragged herself to his side.

She bent her head and crooned to him
In a way distressed and wild,
Caressing her one and only mate
As a mother would a child.

Then covering him with her broken wing
And gasping with failing breath,
She laid her head against his breast
A feeble honk ...then death!

This story is true though crudely told,
I was the man in this case,
I stood knee deep in snow and cold
And the hot tears burned my face.

I buried the birds in the sand where they lay,
Wrapped in my hunting coat,
And threw my gun and belt in the bay
When I crossed in the open boat.

Hunters will call me a right poor sport
And scoff at the thing I did,
But that day something broke in my heart ...
And shoot again??? God forbid!!!

The above poem was published in The Chronicle in Crested Butte.

When I heard the first poem and then read the second it generated a great deal of emotion in me. I will leave you to read and experience your own emotional response.

Cheers Dean

I am still working on my Redwing Poem.