Birds and poetry (7 Viewers)

[scampo]

Thanks, Annie

Larkin's line:

Like something almost being said...

I find almost haunting in its power.

I teach Larkin at A-level and I have achieved outstanding results - the students soon grow to understand that he is not the dour pessimist that some call him, but an un usually perspicacious and intelligent writer.

Here is a poem that I find so wonderful - it has been criticised as "anti-women", as Larkin has by a few. It's not the case. This is not an "easy" poem, none of Larkin's poems are - I hope you and others find it speaks to them...

FAITH HEALING

Philip Larkin

Slowly the women file to where he stands
Upright in rimless glasses, silver hair,
Dark suit, white collar. Stewards tirelessly
Persuade them onwards to his voice and hands,
Within whose warm spring rain of loving care
Each dwells some twenty seconds. Now, dear child,
What’s wrong, the deep American voice demands,
And scarcely pausing, goes into a prayer
Directing God about this eye, that knee.
Their heads are clasped abruptly; then, exiled

Like losing thoughts, they go in silence; some
Sheepishly stray, not back into their lives
Just yet; but some stay stiff, twitching and loud
With deep horse tears, as if a kind of dumb
And idiot child within them still survives
To re-awake at kindness, thinking a voice
At last calls them alone, that hands have come
To lift and lighten; and such joy arrives
Their thick tongues blort, their eyes squeeze grief, a crowd
Of huge unheard answers jam and rejoice –

What’s wrong! Moustached in flowered frocks they shake:
By now, all’s wrong. In everyone there sleeps
A sense of life lived according to love.
To some it means the difference they could make
By loving others, but across most it sweeps
As all they might have done had they been loved.
That nothing cures. An immense slackening ache,
As when, thawing, the rigid landscape weeps,
Spreads slowly through them – that, and the voice above
Saying Dear child, and all the time disproved.

 

[AnnieW]

Here is a poem that I find so wonderful - it has been criticised as "anti-women", as Larkin has by a few. It's not the case. This is not an "easy" poem, none of Larkin's poems are - I hope you and others find it speaks to them...

I'll have to think about that one tomorrow - I think it's a bit too late for me to take in !!! So here's something nice and simple

The Vulture
​

The Vulture eats between his meals,
And that's the reason why
He very, very, rarely feels
As well as you and I.

His eye is dull, his head is bald,
His neck is growing thinner.
Oh! what a lesson for us all
To only eat at dinner!

Hilaire Belloc​

 

[tracker]

Our Robin

The robin sits and stares at me,
I wonder what he thinks
Just now and then he sings his song
Between a crafty wink

I wonder where he flies off to
I wonder if he sleeps
I heard him call at half past ten
Awakened all the peeps!

He really is a cheeky bird,
Fighting all his foes
He even sits and waits for me
The cheeky bugger knows!

:t:

tracker

 

[tracker]

Sorry, maybe i shouldnt have used the word 'bugger' in that one. The lilt of AnnieW's last poem got me thinking of a new poem to write and that one came to me............

tracker

 

[Adey Baker]

When smoke stood up from Ludlow

When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
Against the morning beam
I strode beside my team,
The blackbird in the coppice
Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
The trampling team beside,
And fluted and replied:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
Yet down at last he lies,
And then the man is wise."

I heard the tune he sang me,
And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it,
And threw it with a will:
Then the bird was still.

Then my soul within me
Took up the blackbird's strain,
And still beside the horses
Along the dewy lane
It sang the song again:

"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
The sun moves always west;
The road one treads to labour
Will lead one home to rest,
And that will be the best."

A E Housman, A Shropshire Lad

 

[AnnieW]

Sorry, maybe i shouldnt have used the word 'bugger' in that one. The lilt of AnnieW's last poem got me thinking of a new poem to write and that one came to me............

tracker

Of course up North in Lancashire `bugger' is a term of affection. I remember when I first went to college referring to an uncle of mine as `a bit of an old bugger' .... my new friend from Bolton new exactly what I meant but the other from Surrey had to be stopped from calling the police

Great poem by the way :t: --- we'll definately have to set up a poet's corner.

Annie

 

[scampo]

When smoke stood up from Ludlow

When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
And mist blew off from Teme... ...
A E Housman, A Shropshire Lad

Thanks, Adey - there is a very special quality to Housman's poetry, a very special "voice" that he has captured. A deep and poignant sadness is evident even in the lilting rhythm. I have a beautifully illustrated copy of "A Shropshire Lad" - one of many British poets that are outstanding. You might also like this poem from a contemporary of Housman, Edward Thomas. Sadly, he was killed in action in WWI - but in just a few years he left us with some of the best poetry ever written about the English countryside.

As the Team’s Head-Brass

As the team’s head-brass flashed out on the turn
The lovers disappeared into the wood.
I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm
That strewed the angle of the fallow, and
Watched the plough narrowing a yellow square
Of charlock. Every time the horses turned
Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned
Upon the handles to say or ask a word,
About the weather, next about the war.
Scraping the share he faced towards the wood,
And screwed along the furrow till the brass flashed
Once more.

The blizzard felled the elm whose crest
I sat in, by a woodpecker’s round hole,
The ploughman said. “When will they take it away?”
“When the war’s over.” So the talk began
One minute and an interval of ten,
A minute more and the same interval.
“Have you been out ?” “No.” “And don’t want to, perhaps?”
“If I could only come back again, I should.
I could spare an arm. I shouldn’t want to lose
A leg. If I should lose my head, why, so,
I should want nothing more . . . Have many gone
From here?” “Yes.” “Many lost?” “Yes, a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates is dead. The second day
In France they killed him. It was back in March,
The very night of the blizzard, too. Now if
He had stayed here we should have moved the tree.”
“And I should not have sat here. Everything
Would have been different. For it would have been
Another world.” “Ay, and a better, though
If we could see all all might seem good.” Then
The lovers came out of the wood again:
The horses started and for the last time
I watched the clods crumble and topple over
After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.


Edward Thomas

 

[AnnieW]

When smoke stood up from Ludlow

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

A E Housman, A Shropshire Lad

Adey, of course Housman ... how could I forget. I love the simplicity of his verse. It never fails to capture the imagination & penetrate the heart. Somewhere I have a recording of Ted Hughes reading `On Wenlock Edge' and it never ceases to make me shiver, as indeed, does the Vaughan Williams song cylce inspired by the same .... not bird related but I think worth reproducing !!

On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble
​

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood;
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare;
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
Today the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.

A.E. Housman


I also rather like this one ... which does at least have a passing reference to birds :

I Hoed and Trenched and Weeded​

I hoed and trenched and weeded,
And took the flowers to fair:
I brought them home unheeded;
The hue was not the wear.

So up and down I sow them
For lads like me to find,
When I shall lie below them,
A dead man out of mind.

Some seed the birds devour,
And some the season mars,
But here and there will flower,
The solitary stars,

And fields will yearly bear them
As light-leaved spring comes on,
And luckless lads will wear them
When I am dead and gone.

Alfred Edward Housman​

​

 

[scampo]

"When I shall lie below them,
A dead man out of mind..."
Well - I doubt he'll ever be "out of mind" owing to his wonderful proetry, Annie. Thanks for that.

 

[Beverlybaynes]

Well, I've passed by this thread for a week or so, and look at all I've missed. This has turned into some marvelous reading!

So I'm currently setting the printer to smokin' as I'm printing everything off . . .

This is so enjoyable! Thanks again, Christine, for starting it off!

 

[scampo]

And you've not commented on the postings about old Walt Whitman, Beverley - I was looking forward to an American response! Here's one you might know:

Dust of Snow

THE way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Robert Frost

 

[AnnieW]

And you've not commented on the postings about old Walt Whitman, Beverley - I was looking forward to an American response! Here's one you might know:

Dust of Snow

THE way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Robert Frost

Thanks for that Steve. I'd not heard of Robert Frost - but I've just looked him up. This one really made me smile - anyone who has read my posts complaining about the cuckoo will understand :

A Minor Bird
​

I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.

Robert Frost​

 

[AnnieW]

Having not heard of Robert Frost, I just looked up a biography of him (the internet really is an amazing resource !!) ... it mentioned his freindship with Edward Thomas (who Steve referred to earlier) and the fact that he was influenced by Rupert Brooke. So here's a wonderful Brooke poem with a passing bird reference :

Pine-Trees and the Sky: Evening
​

I'd watched the sorrow of the evening sky,
And smelt the sea, and earth, and the warm clover,
And heard the waves, and the seagull's mocking cry.

And in them all was only the old cry,
That song they always sing -- "The best is over!
You may remember now, and think, and sigh,
O silly lover!"
And I was tired and sick that all was over,
And because I,
For all my thinking, never could recover
One moment of the good hours that were over.
And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die.

Then from the sad west turning wearily,
I saw the pines against the white north sky,
Very beautiful, and still, and bending over
Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky.
And there was peace in them; and I
Was happy, and forgot to play the lover,
And laughed, and did no longer wish to die;
Being glad of you, O pine-trees and the sky!

Rupert Brooke​

 

[scampo]

Thanks for that snippet on Thomas and Brooke (two fine poets - have you read 'The Soldier' and Brooke's other sonnets, as well as his evocative and beautiful, "Grantchester Meadows"? But, for me, Edward Thomas (the closest of friends with Frost, by the way - it was Frost who gave him the courage to switch from his job as a poorly paid reviewer to writing what is now regarded as amongst the most honest and faithful poetry in our language).

And, Annie - you'll surprise the Americans on the forum: Frost is their national treasure. I expect you might have read these two - his most well known and hauntingly dark poems:



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.


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 

[Nerine]

Great poems and poets above! I love Housman, so sad somehow. Most of the poems by Housman that I know don't mention birds. Here is another Robert Frost:

TO THE THAWING WIND

Come with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snow-bank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do to-night,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.​

And thanks all for an interesting Sunday afternoon.

Nerine

 

[AnnieW]

And, Annie - you'll surprise the Americans on the forum: Frost is their national treasure. I expect you might have read these two - his most well known and hauntingly dark poems:

No ... I'm ashamed to say I've really never heard of him :stuck: But, I loved the 2 works you quoted above, so I will make a point of reading some more of his !!

I hope the American's will forgive me for my ignorance :flowers:

Will it appease you if I quote a bit of Emily Dickinson ??

Hope is the thing with feathers

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.

Emily Dickinson

A feather from the Whippoorwill

A feather from the Whippoorwill
That everlasting—sings!
Whose galleries—are Sunrise—
Whose Opera—the Springs—
Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
Of mellow—murmuring thread—
Whose Beryl Egg, what Schoolboys hunt
In "Recess"—Overhead!

Emily Dickinson

 

[scampo]

She's my American friend's favourite poet - my son's just having to write an essay on her for his English degree, too. I can't say I've ever been able to "get into" her poetry. I must try harder!

 

[gordon hamlett]

WARNING - LYRICS MAY OFFEND
scroll down for message












Someone has to lower the tone of this thread so I'll do it! Apologies if you don't like bawdy. Needless to say, it has little to do with cuckoos.

For those interested in the musical side, Steeleye Span do a version on one of their earlier albums (now we are six or parcel of rogues IIRC and there is a wonderfully earthy version in thick Aberdonian accent by the Gaugers on No more Forever (Sleepytown records slpycd009)

For anyone interested in a searchable database of folk lyrics, plus discussions etc, there is a superb website http://www.mudcat.org/

Searching for the likes of cuckoo, wren, lark, goose etc should give you plenty to get your teeth into.

Gordon



THE CUCKOO's NEST (2)

There's a thornbush in the garden where the lads and lassies meet
For it wouldna' do to do the do they're doin' i' the street
The first time that I went there I was very much impressed
To see the young folks rumplin' i' the cuckoo's nest.

cho: It's hi! the cuckin' ho! the cuckin'
Hi! the cuckoo's nest,
Hi! the cuckin' ho! the cuckin'
Hi! the cuckoo's nest,
I'll give any man a shilling and a bottle of the best
Who'll rumple up the feathers of the cuckoo's nest.

I met her in the mornin' and I had her i' the night
I'd never gone that way before and had to do it right
I never would have found it and I never would have guessed
If she hadn't showed me where to find the cuckoo's nest.

She showed me where to find it and she showed me where to go
Through the prickles and the brambles where the little cuckoo's grow,
From the moment that I found it she would never let me rest
Till I'd rumpled up the feathers of the cuckoo's nest.

It was thorny, it was prickled, it was feathered all around
It was tucked into a corner where it wasn't easy found,
She said, "Young man, you're blundering." I said it wasn't true
I left her with the makings of a young cuckoo.

 

[scampo]

A sad ending, Gordon.

 

[christineredgate]

Thankyou again for all who are still replying to this thread,yes,Beverley my printer is going strong.Annie I have another Norman Nicholson poem about a small boy who is frightened of the Big Grey Lag Geese,who wander around the iron ore sidings.That area has now been made into the RSPB reserve.Will sort it within the next couple of days