scampo
Steve Campsall
Thanks again, Christine. He's rallied a little to take some water by himself but he's so weak that sometimes he can't get himself up and that distresses him. Life eh?
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Birds and poetry (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter christineredgate
- Start date
Thanks again, Christine. He's rallied a little to take some water by himself but he's so weak that sometimes he can't get himself up and that distresses him. Life eh?
Mickymouse
Ubuntu Linux user
Sorry to hear about the cat Steve, it breaks your heart to see them like that, I know because I have been there a few times.
I haven't been in the mood for poetry for a while and it saddens me that just as my interest is perking up again to revisit this thread I find you in such a sad position. Hope you find some lines that help.
Mick
I haven't been in the mood for poetry for a while and it saddens me that just as my interest is perking up again to revisit this thread I find you in such a sad position. Hope you find some lines that help.
Mick
scampo
Steve Campsall
Thanks for the thoughts, Mick - and good to see you back in the thread. Poetry, and reading in general for that matter, are like that, I know - the mood has to be right.
Nerine
Well-known member
"We are Seven" - I didn't know this one, Steve. As you say, a lovely and poignant poem, thank you.
Nerine
Purrsonally Speaking
In this world of hustle-bustle
You may have your this and that;
But there's nothing quite so pleasing
As the purring of a cat.
~ Marcy Stewart Froemke ~
For more cat poems, you can find a large selection here: http://www.sniksnak.com/poems.html
Sorry to hear about your special cat, Steve. It's been just over a year ago when I lost one of mine, Emale, my big black cat. I still have little Shadow and a new feisty lady named Cato, who is part Maine coon cat.
In this world of hustle-bustle
You may have your this and that;
But there's nothing quite so pleasing
As the purring of a cat.
~ Marcy Stewart Froemke ~
For more cat poems, you can find a large selection here: http://www.sniksnak.com/poems.html
Sorry to hear about your special cat, Steve. It's been just over a year ago when I lost one of mine, Emale, my big black cat. I still have little Shadow and a new feisty lady named Cato, who is part Maine coon cat.
scampo
Steve Campsall
It's one of his most famous from the early works. It reveals more and more each time I read it, I find. There are a number of great poems like this in his early collection - "Michael" is another.
Wordsworth was far more radical in his early days: " Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!" as he so brilliantly wrote. But then he didn't know that still to come was the aftermath of the French Revolution with its "terreur".
scampo
Steve Campsall
Very risky on a bird forum, eh? (-;
Misty slipped peacefully into the cat paradise and is now a few feet beneath English clay.
christineredgate
Winner of the Copeland Wildlife Photographer of th
Steve,so sorry to hear you have lost Misty.A special friend.
I’m afraid I haven’t been able to post anything recently due to various preoccupations. But it has been good to read more wonderful poems from you all. I was sorry though to hear about your cat, Steve.
I am off to the Highlands for a week and hope to resume more regular contributions on my return.
In the meantime:
The Spring And The Fall
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Best regards to all,
Andrew
I am off to the Highlands for a week and hope to resume more regular contributions on my return.
In the meantime:
The Spring And The Fall
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Best regards to all,
Andrew
dolphinbride
Bean Éanlaithe na Coillte
SONG OF A SECOND APRIL
April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.
There rings a hammering all day,
And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.
The larger streams run still and deep,
Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
Go up the hillside in the sun,
Pensively,--only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Kristina
April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.
There rings a hammering all day,
And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.
The larger streams run still and deep,
Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
Go up the hillside in the sun,
Pensively,--only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Kristina
Nerine
Well-known member
Two beautiful poems by Edna St Vincent Millay. Thank you Andrew and Kristina.
I'd like to add a third, also a love poem.
Sonnet III
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird’s wings too high in air to view,—
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,—and the long year remembers you.
Edna St Vincent Millay
Nerine
Hope you have a great time in the Highlands, Andrew.
I'd like to add a third, also a love poem.
Sonnet III
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
And all the nests that the bared branches show,
And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet
Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
Of a bird’s wings too high in air to view,—
But you were something more than young and sweet
And fair,—and the long year remembers you.
Edna St Vincent Millay
Nerine
Hope you have a great time in the Highlands, Andrew.
Nerine
Well-known member
Thanks for the info, Steve. " Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!" What fine words!
Nerine
Sorry about Misty.
Nerine
Well-known member
Much of the poetry written by John Clare was a celebration of life. Here's one for today (and I'm so glad to say the sun is shining. I hope its shining for all of you too!)
From
Poesy A-Maying
Now comes the bonny May dancing and skipping
Accross the stepping stones of meadow streams
Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping
But constant sunshine as her servant seems
Her heart is up – her sweetness all amaying
Streams in her face like gems on beauty’s breast
The swains are sighing all and well-a-daying
Love-sick and gazing on their lovely guest
The Sunday paths to pleasant places leading
Are graced by couples linking arm in arm
Sweet smiles enjoying or some book areading
Where love and beauty are the constant charm
For while the bonny May is dancing by
Beauty delights the ear and beauty fills the eye
The birds they sing and build and nature scorns
On May’s young festival to keep a widow
There childern too have pleasures all their own
A-plucking ladysmocks along the meadow
The little brook sings loud among the pebbles
So very loud that water-flowers which lie
Where many a silver curdle boils and dribbles
Dance too with joy as it goes singing bye
Among the pasture-molehills maidens stoop
To pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms
The greensward’s smothered o’er with buttercups
And whitethorns they are breaking down with blossoms
“Tis nature’s livery for the bonny May
Who keeps her court and all have holiday
John Clare
Nerine
From
Poesy A-Maying
Now comes the bonny May dancing and skipping
Accross the stepping stones of meadow streams
Bearing no kin to April showers a-weeping
But constant sunshine as her servant seems
Her heart is up – her sweetness all amaying
Streams in her face like gems on beauty’s breast
The swains are sighing all and well-a-daying
Love-sick and gazing on their lovely guest
The Sunday paths to pleasant places leading
Are graced by couples linking arm in arm
Sweet smiles enjoying or some book areading
Where love and beauty are the constant charm
For while the bonny May is dancing by
Beauty delights the ear and beauty fills the eye
The birds they sing and build and nature scorns
On May’s young festival to keep a widow
There childern too have pleasures all their own
A-plucking ladysmocks along the meadow
The little brook sings loud among the pebbles
So very loud that water-flowers which lie
Where many a silver curdle boils and dribbles
Dance too with joy as it goes singing bye
Among the pasture-molehills maidens stoop
To pluck the luscious marjoram for their bosoms
The greensward’s smothered o’er with buttercups
And whitethorns they are breaking down with blossoms
“Tis nature’s livery for the bonny May
Who keeps her court and all have holiday
John Clare
Nerine
scampo
Steve Campsall
A fine celebration of spring, Nerine. Clare must have used some of his poems to lift his spirits - as he has succeeded in lifting mine with this one. He certainly paints a snapshot of May that excludes much of what poor rural folk's lives were like in the 1800s. I suspect this is one of his early poems written before he gained the confidence to write in more of his own voice.
I do like the simile in the final line of this poem (in the second half you haven't included), "And day goes blushing like a bride to rest".
I do like the simile in the final line of this poem (in the second half you haven't included), "And day goes blushing like a bride to rest".
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scampo
Steve Campsall
I know this one has been included earlier, but having been watching, and listening to! nightingales this past two days, I thought this was rather special:
Nightingales
BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.
Robert Bridges
Nightingales
BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.
Robert Bridges
Nerine
Well-known member
Ah yes, Steve, I love it too. I should have included that part. Here we go, and isn't this just beautiful!
from the final part
Poesy A-Maying
Up like a princess starts the merry morning
In draperies of many-coloured cloud
And skylarks, minstrels of the early dawning,
Pipe forth their hearty anthems long and loud
The bright enarmoured sunshine goes a-maying
And every flower his laughing eye beguiles
And on the milkmaid’s rosey face a-playing
Plays court to beauty in its softest smiles
For May’s divinity of joy begun
Adds life and lustre to the golden sun
And all of life beneath its glory straying
Is by May’s beauty into worship won
Till golden eve ennobles all the West
And day goes blushing like a bride to rest
John Clare
Nerine
and thanks for "Nightingales". Wonderful to read it again.
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Atricapilla
Still Wandering
My sister has just sent me this poem by RSThomas,
sorry if its been listed before:~
Summer is here.
Once more the house has its
Spray of martins,Proust's fountain
Of small birds, whose light shadows
Come and go in the sunshine
Of the lawn as thoughts do
In the mind. Watching them fly
Is my business, not as a man vowed
To science, who counts their returns
To the rafters, or sifts their droppings
For facts, recording the wave-length
Of their screaming; my method is so
To have them about myself
Through the hours of this brief
Season and to fill with their
Movement, that it is they build
In and bring up their young
To return to after the bitter
Migrations, knowing the site
Inviolate through outward changes.
sorry if its been listed before:~
Summer is here.
Once more the house has its
Spray of martins,Proust's fountain
Of small birds, whose light shadows
Come and go in the sunshine
Of the lawn as thoughts do
In the mind. Watching them fly
Is my business, not as a man vowed
To science, who counts their returns
To the rafters, or sifts their droppings
For facts, recording the wave-length
Of their screaming; my method is so
To have them about myself
Through the hours of this brief
Season and to fill with their
Movement, that it is they build
In and bring up their young
To return to after the bitter
Migrations, knowing the site
Inviolate through outward changes.
dolphinbride
Bean Éanlaithe na Coillte
Spenser's Ireland
has not altered;--
a place as kind as it is green,
the greenest place I've never seen.
Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect
the culprit; nor blows, but it
is torture to him to not be spoken to.
They're natural,--
the coat, like Venus'
mantle lined with stars,
buttoned close at the neck,-the sleeves new from disuse.
If in Ireland
they play the harp backward at need,
and gather at midday the seed
of the fern, eluding
their "giants all covered with iron," might
there be fern seed for unlearn-
ing obduracy and for reinstating
the enchantment?
Hindered characters
seldom have mothers
in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers.
It was Irish;
a match not a marriage was made
when my great great grandmother'd said
with native genius for
disunion, "Although your suitor be
perfection, one objection
is enough; he is not
Irish." Outwitting
the fairies, befriending the furies,
whoever again
and again says, "I'll never give in," never sees
that you're not free
until you've been made captive by
supreme belief,--credulity
you say? When large dainty
fingers tremblingly divide the wings
of the fly for mid-July
with a needle and wrap it with peacock-tail,
or tie wool and
buzzard's wing, their pride,
like the enchanter's
is in care, not madness. Concurring hands divide
flax for damask
that when bleached by Irish weather
has the silvered chamois-leather
water-tightness of a
skin. Twisted torcs and gold new-moon-shaped
lunulae aren't jewelry
like the purple-coral fuchsia-tree's. Eire--
the guillemot
so neat and the hen
of the heath and the
linnet spinet-sweet-bespeak relentlessness? Then
they are to me
like enchanted Earl Gerald who
changed himself into a stag, to
a great green-eyed cat of
the mountain. Discommodity makes
them invisible; they've dis-
appeared. The Irish say your trouble is their
trouble and your
joy their joy? I wish
I could believe it;
I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.
Marianne Moore
has not altered;--
a place as kind as it is green,
the greenest place I've never seen.
Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect
the culprit; nor blows, but it
is torture to him to not be spoken to.
They're natural,--
the coat, like Venus'
mantle lined with stars,
buttoned close at the neck,-the sleeves new from disuse.
If in Ireland
they play the harp backward at need,
and gather at midday the seed
of the fern, eluding
their "giants all covered with iron," might
there be fern seed for unlearn-
ing obduracy and for reinstating
the enchantment?
Hindered characters
seldom have mothers
in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers.
It was Irish;
a match not a marriage was made
when my great great grandmother'd said
with native genius for
disunion, "Although your suitor be
perfection, one objection
is enough; he is not
Irish." Outwitting
the fairies, befriending the furies,
whoever again
and again says, "I'll never give in," never sees
that you're not free
until you've been made captive by
supreme belief,--credulity
you say? When large dainty
fingers tremblingly divide the wings
of the fly for mid-July
with a needle and wrap it with peacock-tail,
or tie wool and
buzzard's wing, their pride,
like the enchanter's
is in care, not madness. Concurring hands divide
flax for damask
that when bleached by Irish weather
has the silvered chamois-leather
water-tightness of a
skin. Twisted torcs and gold new-moon-shaped
lunulae aren't jewelry
like the purple-coral fuchsia-tree's. Eire--
the guillemot
so neat and the hen
of the heath and the
linnet spinet-sweet-bespeak relentlessness? Then
they are to me
like enchanted Earl Gerald who
changed himself into a stag, to
a great green-eyed cat of
the mountain. Discommodity makes
them invisible; they've dis-
appeared. The Irish say your trouble is their
trouble and your
joy their joy? I wish
I could believe it;
I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.
Marianne Moore
scampo
Steve Campsall
Beautiful words and sentiments, Bob. Thomas wrote well, for sure and this is him at his finest. How light and airy he makes the poem.
scampo
Steve Campsall
A fine and complex poem - thanks for posting it. Moore certainly paints a picture I recognise.
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