General Chat

Another new page

Here lies the body of our Anna
Done to death by a Banana
It wasn't the fruit that made her low
But the skin of the thing that laid her go.
Anna Hopkins
Vermont

Here lies the body
Of Jonathon Blake
Stepped on the gas
Instead of the brake

Pensylvania.



Here lies Ezeckial Aikle
Aged 102
The good die young!

All three on real tombstones!

Bridget

I see His Blood Upon the Rose. (Joseph Plunkett 1887 - 1916)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dermot, you have done it again!
I recall this one from school, I found it evocative and did again this morning.

I am hoping that as the autumn begins we may have more people join us


Bridget :-)

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death (W B Yeats 1865-1939)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yeats wrote the poem in honor of Major Gregory, who fought and died in the air war against Germany in World War One.

Major Gregory was the son of Lady Gregory, an Irish aristocrat who was a strong supporter of the arts (especially Irish arts) and a very close friend of Yeats.

Kiltartan, mentioned in the poem refers to the region that Lady Gregory lived in.

I haven't been on the site for quite a while as we have been moving house and all the trauma that entails!! However, we have now settled (well sort of) and I shall be getting out my poetry books and posting again very soon. Liz

The Travelling People (Ewan MacColl)

I'm a freeborn man of the travelling people
Got no fixed abode with nomads I am numbered
Country lanes and bye ways were always my ways
I never fancied being lumbered.

Well we knew the woods and all the resting places
The small birds sang when winter time was over
Then we'd pack our load and be on the road
They were good old times for the rover.

In the open ground where a man could linger
Stay a week or two for time was not your master
Then away you'd jog with your horse and dog
Nice and easy no need to go faster.

And sometimes you'd meet up with other travellers
Hear the news or else swop family information
At the country fairs we'd be meeting there
All the people of the travelling nation.

I've made willow creels and the heather besoms
And I've even done some begging and some hawkin'
And I've lain there spent rapped up in my tent
And I've listened to the old folks talking.

All you freeborn men of the travelling people
Every tinker rolling stone and gypsy rover
Winds of change are blowing old ways are going
Your travelling days will soon be over.

I'm a freeborn man of the travelling people
Got no fixed abode with nomads I am numbered
Country lanes and bye ways were always my ways
I never fancied being lumbered.

Here lies the body of Emily White,
Who put out her left hand ,
and turned to the right!!!!



I'm afraid that this is the best that I can do for the time being!!

Lizlynes and Dermot

Thank you both for resurrecting this post. I guess that the summer time is not the best for threads similar to this.
I shal try to put my brain in gear and see what I can come up with in the next few days.

Bridget

Just seen an interesting saying, apparently it is Swedish.

Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow.

Horses & Plough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, many the breezes that blow in the spring
and as sweet is the music the song thrushes bring,
but I sigh for a scene that I seldom see now,
a man in the fields with his horses and plough.

Farewell to the days of my youth long ago,
when I harnessed my team near the valley below.
Then away to the highland we scythed all around
To turn the hard green sod with horses and plough.

Invoking a blessing I started the day,
I yearn for another that's what I would say,
asking for guidance to keep my know how
and strike a straight furrow with horses and plough.

Then up at the headland every once in a while
I rested my body all aching with toil,
the sleeve of my shirt swept the sweat from my brow
as I gazed at the work of my horses and plough.

Whistling and lilting the words of a song
lightened my labour all the day long,
with the seagulls around me and the rooks on the bough
all searching for the bounty of horses and plough.

But the clatter of tractors, pollution and all,
has crippled the cobble and sad was his fall,
while far away OPEC we richly endow
Not counting the value of horses and plough.

Very soon I'll be called from this valley of woe,
to the fair fields of Heaven I hope I will go.
One request from St. Peter I hope he'll allow:
Eternal employment with horses and plough.

'The Listener' By Walter de la Mare

'Is anybody there'? said the traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass of the forest's ferny floor,
And a bird flew out of the turret,
Above the traveller's head:
As he smote upon the door a second time,
'Is anybody there'? he said.
But no-one decended to the traveller;
No head from the leaf fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners that dwelt in that lone house then,
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair
That goes down to the empty hall;
Hearkening in an air strirred and shaken by the lonely travellers call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness
Their stillness answering their cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For suddenly, he smote upon the door,even louder, and lifted his head:
Tell them I came and no-one answered,
That I kept my word, he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake fell echoing through the shadowness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Aye they heard his foot upon the stirrup, and the sound of the iron on stone
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hooves were gone.

What a good page so far! Well done to everyone. Thank you for keeping this this thread so informative.

I will be adding some time next week

Bridget in Spain :-)

Back again. Another one learned in school.

The Stolen Child (W.B.YEATS)

Where dips the rocky highland
Of slueth wood in the lake
There lies a a Feary Island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats
There we,ve hid our feary vats
Full of berries
And of Reddest Stolen Cherries.

Come away O human child,
To the waters and the wild,
With a feary hand in hand,
For the world,s more full of weeping
Than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses,
The dim grey sands with light,
By far off the furthest roses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight.
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles
Whist the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.

Come away, O human child
To the waters and the wild
With a feary, hand in hand
For the World,s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering waters gushes
From the hills above Glen-car,
In pools amoung the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek from slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears,
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out from ferns that drop their tears,
Over the young streams.

Come away, O human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a feary, hand in hand,
For the world,s more full of weeping than you can understand.


Away with us he,s going,
The solemn-eyed,
He,ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the hillside
Or the Kettle on the hob
Sing peace into the breast
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest
For he comes, the human child,
To the water,s and the wild
With a feary, hand in hand
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.

Clover, thanks for the new entry. I have not known this one before.

Bridget

PS I have a migraine which I am trying to shift so will be back later, I hope.

Bridget

Theres quite an art to falling apart
as the years go by
and we know life didn't begin at 40
We all know thats a lie

Our hair is getting thinner
But our waists are not
the few teeth we have
Are beginning to rot

We smell of Vicks Vapour rub
Not Chanel No 5
Our doggedness is the only thing
Thats keeping us alive

When asked of our past
Every detail we'll know
Except what we were doing 10 minutes ago

Well you get the idea
What more can I say ?
Why not read the obituaries
Like you do every day

If your name is not there
You'll once again start
perfecting the art of falling apart

So I'm able to to say this
as an old friend to you
A very old friend
Who is falling apart too

Despite theres only half of me left
These birthday wishes I send
Not at all half heartedly
All the very best, my very dear old friend


Hope you all enjoy this ...found it when looking for a suitably rude verse for a friend who has reached 65...will post that one another day

Jan

Old Maid In The Garrett
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now I've often heard it said from my father and my mother
That going to a wedding was the makings of another
Well, if this be so, then I'll go without a biddance
Oh kind providence, won't you send me to a wedding

Chorus:
And it's oh, dear me, how would it be
If I died an old maid in the garrett?

Well, now there's my sister Jean, she's not handsome or good-looking
Scarcely fifteen and a fellow she was courting
Now, she's twenty-four with a son and a daughter
Here am I at forty-five and I've never had an offer.

I can cook and I can sew, I can keep the house right tidy
And wake up in the morning to get the breakfast ready
There's nothing in this wide world would make me half so cheery
As a wee, fat man who would call me his own deary.

So come landsman or come kingsman, come tinker or come tailor
Come fiddler or come dancer, come ploughboy or come sailor
Come rich man, come poor man, come bore or come witty
Come any man at all who will marry me for pity.

Well, now I the way home, for nobody's heeding
Oh, nobody's heeding to poor Annie's bleeding
So, I the way home to my own pity garret
If I can't have a man, then I'll have to get a parrot.

THE DAWNING OF THE DAY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As I walked out one morning fair, it being in the month of June
The dew was sparkling on the grass and the small birds in full tune
And when returning from a walk, by the fields I chanced to stray
It was there I met my heart's delight by the dawning of the day.

Her head and beautiful neck were bare and mantle none she wore
Her golden hair, in ringlets fair, it hung her shoulders o'er
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips, they stole my heart away
And I stood to stare at that Venus fair at the dawning of the day.

"Where are you going my pretty fair maid, where are you going so soon?"
"I'm going a milking my cow, kind sir, it being in the month of June
The pasture that my cow feeds on, it lies so far away
And I've got to be there each morning fair at the dawning of the day".

"Come sit you down, my pretty fair maid, supposing it was a mile
Come sit you down on this primrose bank and we will chat a while
With the lambs all sporting on every side and the meadows blooming gay
I'll pledge to you my heart and hand at the dawning of the day".

"Oh no, kind sir" the maid replied, "I cannot tarry now
My parents wait for my return from the milking of my cow
But perhaps we'll meet some other time, if you chance to pass this way"
She gently glided from my sight at the dawning of the day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Tommy Makem sings this beautifully.)

This lady was mentioned in a book I read and I googled and found this out . She was born in Northampton, married at 16 and had 8 children. Her husband and self before children went to USA, in 1630 to what we know as Salem. Eventually she became the uSA's first published poet, and is considered now as a bit of a suffragette. Her name was Anne Bradstreet

Here is one of her poems

To my dear and loving husband

If ever two were one, then surely we,
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can,
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold
Or all the riches that the East doth hold
My love is such that rivers cannot quench;
Nor ought but love from thee give recompence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay.
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray..
Then while we live, in love lets so persevere
That when we live no more, we may live forever


I think that this is quite lovely

Jan

Jan, this is a delight ful poem. Will you be searcing for more of her work?

I do hope so.

Bridget :-)

Thanks Bridget...plan to look at another

Jan