A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

B00!

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

Harry Angstrom

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

Lady Chatterton

Thank you very much Harry for posting this poem ^^^^

It's one that means a lot to me at the moment

Lady Chatterton

For James (RIP) He had a great love of poetry and literature throughout his life x

Funeral Blues

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 forever: 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 woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden

B00!

Ta LC ^ one of my absolute favourites, hits close to my heart and always very touching.

(with apologies to fluent Czech speakers)

OBITUARY KNELL FOR OTOKAR BŘEZINA

When in death lost the soul encircling closed and whole
by which God ever holds his Temple Blue becalming
in golden gnat-swarm shoal the coffin's ribboned scroll
to its sleep heedless goal by holy Grail embalming

The priest prays on his knees as bone dry rattling peas
by lengthy vesper pleas the rosaries are tolling
possessed by drawn out fears godly dust kissing sees
the royal bier appeased by the quad gate extolling

The King is without heir though long processions share
a sobbing silent care struck down by blow unseemly
the lunar Grail is there and light now plies the prayer
and tolling everywhere to all four corners dimly

Now the throne vacant owed to heartstrings mournful bowed
as crownless king's heads slow now into dust are crumbling
the septilunar glow that guards the runes bestowed
caught on the portal's snare fades out in scattered tumbling

The King is without heir so whither herald, where
to heavy shadowed go on death's horse loping doleful
in coronations bare hall sparkling rainbowed flair
the holy Grail in air bestarred by poet soulful

marienbad

Silent Noon

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, --
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: --
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

https://youtu.be/2FGeLUQQH6w

donegal_man

D G Rossetti

Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Buried all of his libretti,
Thought the matter over - then
Went and dug them up again.

Dorothy Parker

Following the death of Rossetti's wife Elizabeth Siddal in 1862 he placed his unpublished manuscripts in her coffin. Telling a friend, “I have often been writing at these poems when Lizzie was ill and suffering, and I might have been attending to her, and now they shall go.” Some seven years later his agent Charles Augustus Howell, with Rossetti's consent, arranged for them to exhumed and published.

B00!

A Poison Tree
By William Blake

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

feargale

Resumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

- Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)

marienbad

While We Were Fearing It

While we were fearing it, it came—
But came with less of fear
Because that fearing it so long
Had almost made it fair—
There is a Fitting—a Dismay—
A Fitting—a Despair
’Tis harder knowing it is Due
Than knowing it is Here.
They Trying on the Utmost
The Morning it is new
Is Terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through.

Emily Dickinson

Lady Chatterton

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann

B00!

Release

Does it matter who I am?
To have a Definition
to make me stand out
or blend in
to have a set Life Plan.

Walking in the storm
sky breaking overhead
it is easier if "I" am simply here
on the pavement walking
in the company of leaves
blowing about.

It is easier if I am not Someone
fighting against the wind
talking to myself about how
soaked my new boots are getting
kicking myself for not bringing
an umbrella.

If I don't have to be Someone
I don't have anything to cling to
or defend.
This used to scare me
I can't be nothing!
I can't be no one!

But now?
Give me Nobody
over Somebody
any day.

After the storm
the leaves will settle,
fall where they will,
their curled browned
bodies will greet us
in the morning
drops of grace on
our way to school and work.

A colleague asks me,
Hey, what's new?
and I reply,
Everything.

— Tammy Hanna

Harry Angstrom

Poetry Day Ireland 2017

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

- WB Yeats

B00!

A Man In His Life

A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.

-Yehuda Amichai

Professor Moriarty

The Door

Miroslav Holub

Go and open the door.
Maybe outside there’s
a tree, or a wood,
a garden,
or a magic city.

Go and open the door.
Maybe a dog’s rummaging.
Maybe you’ll see a face,
or an eye,
or the picture
of a picture.

Go and open the door.
If there’s a fog
it will clear.

Go and open the door.
Even if there’s only
the darkness ticking,
even if there’s only
the hollow wind,
even if
nothing
is there,
go and open the door.

At least
there’ll be
a draught.

Harry Angstrom

Wife Who Smashed Television Gets Jail

'She came home, my Lord, and smashed in the television;
Me and the kids were peaceably watching Kojak
When she marched into the living room and declared
That if I didn't turn off the television immediately
She'd put her boot through the screen;
I didn't turn it off, so instead she turned it off -
I remember the moment exactly because Kojak
After shooting a dame with the same name as my wife
Snarled at the corpse - Goodnight, Queen Maeve -
And then she took off her boots and smashed in the television;
I had to bring the kids round to my mother's place;
We got there just before the finish of Kojak;
(My mother has a fondness for Kojak, my Lord):
When I returned home my wife had deposited
What was left of the television into the dustbin,
Saying - I didn't get married to a television
And I don't see why my kids or anybody else's kids
Should have a television for a father or mother,
We'd be much better off all down in the pub talking
Or playing bar-billiards -
Whereupon she disappeared off back down again to the pub.'
Justice O'Brádaigh said wives who preferred bar-billiards to
family television
Were a threat to the family which was the basic unit of society
As indeed the television itself could be said to be a basic unit of
the family
And when as in this case wives expressed their preference in
forms of violence
Jail was the only place for them. Leave to appeal was refused

Paul Durcan

Lady Chatterton

I first read this poem a few weeks ago and I can't seem to get it out of my head. I'm haunted by its sadness. I think the poet's brutal honesty makes it particularly moving.

The Last Part

They say ‘I don’t know how you do it.
No one can do it like you’.
I’ve made this part my own.
This is not the role I would have chosen, you know
I could be the supportive friend
Not the falling star.
I’d rather be up there – draped in Issey Miyake
Or perfectly belted in Prada –
Than down here boxed, never to be unwrapped.
But – fill in the cliché as appropriate –
God never sends us anything we cannot cope with
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
Of course, it could do both
In either order.

I count my blessings. I am lucky and skilful.
Happiness glistens in my life like jewels under lights.
I have a talent for finding, seizing, holding on to joy.
Friends and family are too small, as words, for this
perfect harvest.

The parting is bitter though.
Sometimes, in the darkest hours, pre-dawn
I hear taxi engines churning
Maybe a limo to the airport, such as used to come for me.
And I think it’s time
For me to head to a more unknown destination
Slim again, furred and painted
I will slip into the back
And catch the driver’s eye.
‘What time do we need to be there?’ he says.
Any time now, I say.
Any time now.

Deborah Keily

‘The Last Part’ from Goodbye by Deborah Keily. Copyright © 2015 The Keily estate.

Deborah passed away from cancer shortly after writing this poem.

Harry Angstrom

Thank You Thank You
(following a series of lectures on poetry)

We are not alone in our loneliness
Others have been here and known
Griefs we thought our special own,
Problems that we could not solve,
Lovers that we could not have,
Pleasures that we missed by inches…
I thank you and I say how proud
That I have been by fate allowed
To stand here having the joyful chance
To claim my inheritance.
For most have died the day before
The opening of that holy door.

Patrick Kavanagh

Lady Chatterton

Harry, What are we like? We are making a habit of posting simultaneously in the various fora we frequent Happy Friday Harry!

Harry Angstrom

Lady Chatterton wrote: »

Harry, What are we like? We are making a habit of posting simultaneously in the various fora we frequent Happy Friday Harry!

It's déjà vu all over again, Lady C
Happy Friday to you too!

Professor Moriarty

Evidently Chickentown

John Cooper Clarke


The focking cops are focking keen
To focking keep it focking clean
The focking chief's a focking swine
Who focking draws a focking line
At focking fun and focking games
The focking kids he focking blames
Are nowehere to be focking found
Anywhere in Chickentown

The focking scene is focking sad
The focking news is focking bad
The focking weed is focking turf
The focking speed is focking surf
The focking folks are focking daft
Don't make me focking laugh
It focking hurts to look around
Everywhere in Chickentown

The focking train is focking late
You focking wait you focking wait
You're focking lost and focking found
Stuck in focking Chickentown

The focking view is focking vile
For focking miles and focking miles
The focking babies focking cry
The focking flowers focking die
The focking food is focking muck
The focking drains are focking focked
The colour scheme is focking brown
Everywhere in Chickentown

The focking pubs are focking dull
The focking clubs are focking full
Of focking girls and focking guys
With focking murder in their eyes
A focking bloke is focking stabbed
Waiting for a focking cab
You focking stay at focking home
The focking neighbors focking moan
Keep the focking racket down
This is focking Chickentown

The focking train is focking late
You focking wait you focking wait
You're focking lost and focking found
Stuck in focking Chickentown

The focking pies are focking old
The focking chips are focking cold
The focking beer is focking flat
The focking flats have focking rats
The focking clocks are focking wrong
The focking days are focking long
It focking gets you focking down
Evidently Chickentown

Lady Chatterton

An Epilogue

I have seen flowers come in stony places
And kind things done by men with ugly faces,
And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races,
So I trust, too.

John Masefield (1878 - 1967)

Lady Chatterton

Those who are near me do not know

Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are
Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words
Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you
They who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart.

Ravindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941)

Ipso

Professor Moriarty wrote: »

Evidently Chickentown

John Cooper Clarke


The focking cops are focking keen
To focking keep it focking clean
The focking chief's a focking swine
Who focking draws a focking line
At focking fun and focking games
The focking kids he focking blames
Are nowehere to be focking found
Anywhere in Chickentown

The focking scene is focking sad
The focking news is focking bad
The focking weed is focking turf
The focking speed is focking surf
The focking folks are focking daft
Don't make me focking laugh
It focking hurts to look around
Everywhere in Chickentown

The focking train is focking late
You focking wait you focking wait
You're focking lost and focking found
Stuck in focking Chickentown

The focking view is focking vile
For focking miles and focking miles
The focking babies focking cry
The focking flowers focking die
The focking food is focking muck
The focking drains are focking focked
The colour scheme is focking brown
Everywhere in Chickentown

The focking pubs are focking dull
The focking clubs are focking full
Of focking girls and focking guys
With focking murder in their eyes
A focking bloke is focking stabbed
Waiting for a focking cab
You focking stay at focking home
The focking neighbors focking moan
Keep the focking racket down
This is focking Chickentown

The focking train is focking late
You focking wait you focking wait
You're focking lost and focking found
Stuck in focking Chickentown

The focking pies are focking old
The focking chips are focking cold
The focking beer is focking flat
The focking flats have focking rats
The focking clocks are focking wrong
The focking days are focking long
It focking gets you focking down
Evidently Chickentown

They had this in an episode of The Sopranos, probably one of the best uses of a "song" in tv or film.

Lady Chatterton

Miles Away

I want you and you are not here. I pause
in this garden, breathing the colour thought is
before language into still air. Even your name
is a pale ghost and, though I exhale it again
and again, it will not stay with me. Tonight
I make you up, imagine you, your movements clearer
than the words I have you say you said before.

Wherever you are now, inside my head you fix me
with a look, standing here whilst cool late light
dissolves into the earth. I have got your mouth wrong,
but still it smiles. I hold you closer, miles away,
inventing love, until the calls of nightjars
interrupt and turn what was to come, was certain,
into memory. The stars are filming us for no one.

Carol Ann Duffy

marienbad

The Folly Of Being Comforted

W.B. Yeats

One that is ever kind said yesterday:
'Your well-beloved's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience.'
Heart cries, 'No,
I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.
Time can but make her beauty over again:
Because of that great nobleness of hers
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways
When all the wild Summer was in her gaze.'
Heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.

https://youtu.be/rI5MF4CU1oE

Professor Moriarty

Overheard in County Sligo

Gillian Clarke


I married a man from County Roscommon
and I live in the back of beyond
with a field of cows and a yard of hens
and six white geese on the pond.

At my door’s a square of yellow corn
caught up by its corners and shaken,
and the road runs down through the open gate
and freedom’s there for the taking.

I had thought to work on the Abbey stage
or have my name in a book,
to see my thought on the printed page,
or still the crowd with a look.

But I turn to fold the breakfast cloth
and to polish the lustre and brass,
to order and dust the tumbled rooms
and find my face in the glass.

I ought to feel I’m a happy woman
for I lie in the lap of the land,
but I married the man from County Roscommon
and I live at the back of beyond.

Lady Chatterton

Standing Female Nude

Six hours like this for a few francs.
Belly nipple arse in the window light,
he drains the color from me. Further to the right,
Madame. And do try to be still.
I shall be represented analytically and hung
in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo
at such an image of a river-whore. They call it Art.

Maybe. He is concerned with volume, space.
I with the next meal. You're getting thin,
Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang
slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea-leaves
I can see the Queen of England gazing
on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs,
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name

is Georges. They tell me he's a genius.
There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth.
He possesses me on canvas as he dips the brush
repeatedly into the paint. Little man,
you've not the money for the arts I sell.
Both poor, we make our living how we can.
I ask him Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There's no choice. Don't talk.
My smile confuses him. These artists
take themselves too seriously. At night I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it's finished
he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs and get my shawl. It does not look like me.

Carol Ann Duffy

Lady Chatterton

I'm dedicating this poem to Elizabeth Taylor & Richard Burton


For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

You are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn't you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can't make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

Warsan Shire