A Poem a day keeps the melancholy away

Alice Milligan

One of the early inspirations for my love of poetry. I remember crying as a child the first time I read this. It still reminds me that good poetry should always evoke some sort of feeling.

Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin.
Who saw him die?
I, said the Fly, with my little eye, I saw him die.
Who caught his blood?
I, said the Fish, with my little dish, I caught his blood.
Who'll make the shroud?
I, said the Beetle, with my thread and needle,
I'll make the shroud.
Who'll dig his grave?
I, said the Owl, with my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave.
Who'll be the parson?
I, said the Rook, with my little book, I'll be the parson.
Who'll be the clerk?
I, said the Lark, if it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk.
Who'll carry the link?
I, said the Linnet, I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link.
Who'll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove, I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner.
Who'll carry the coffin?
I, said the Kite, if it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin.
Who'll bear the pall?
We, said the Wren, both the cock and the hen, We'll bear the pall. Who'll sing a psalm?
I, said the Thrush, as she sat on a bush, I'll sing a psalm.
Who'll toll the bell? I said the Bull, because I can pull, I'll toll the bell.
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing, when they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.

Da Shins Kelly

Daddy ~ Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

raah!

Here is one to make us all feel bad for sitting in front of screens

How To Be a Poet
BY WENDELL BERRY
(to remind myself)

i

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.

ii

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

iii

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

wayhey

One of my most favourite poems ever- feels so claustrophobic.

I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead,
Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.

And then a plank in reason, broke,
And I dropped down and down--
And hit a world at every plunge,
And finished knowing--then--

girlonfire

Nicotine
Ezra Pound

Hymn to the Dope


Goddess of the murmuring courts,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Houri of the mystic sports,
trailing-robed in gabardine,
Gliding where the breath hath glided,
Hidden sylph of filmy veils,
Truth behind the dream is veiléd
E'en as thou art, smiling ever, ever gliding,
Wraith of wraiths, dim lights dividing
Purple, grey, and shadow green
Goddess, Dream-grace, Nicotine.

Goddess of the shadow's lights,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Some would set old Earth to rights,
Thou I none such ween.
Veils of shade our dream dividing,
Houris dancing, intergliding,
Wraith of wraiths and dream of faces,
Silent guardian of the old unhallowed places,
Utter symbol of all old sweet druidings,
Mem'ry of witched wold and green,
Nicotine, my Nicotine:

Neath the shadows of thy weaving
Dreams that need no undeceiving,
Loves that longer hold me not,
Dreams I dream not any more,
Fragrance of old sweet forgotten places,
Smiles of dream-lit, flit-by faces
All as perfume Arab-sweet
Deck the high road to thy feet

As were Godiva's coming fated
And all the April's blush belated
Were lain before her, carpeting
The stones of Coventry with spring,
So thou my mist-enwreathéd queen,
Nicotine, white Nicotine,
Riding engloried in they hair
Mak'st by-road of our dreams
Thy thorough-fare.

Harry Angstrom

Not Waving But Drowning, Stevie Smith

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.

marienbad

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

Buddah

Was taught this poem when I was tiny by the granny, now I'm a granny myself how come despite a life filled with so much I have never forgotten it.

Under a toadstool crept a wee elf
Out of the rain to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool fast asleep
Sat a big dormouse all in a heap.

Trembled the wee elf, frightened and yet
Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.
To the next shelter, surely a mile.
Suddenly the wee elf smiled a wee smile.

He tugged 'til the toadstool toppled in two
And holding it over him away he flew.
Soon he was home, dry as could be
Soon woke the dormouse "Good Gracious Me,
Where is my toadstool", loud he lamented.
And that's how umbrellas were first invented.

Bet you didn't know that?

Fragglefur

MISE EIRE

Eavan Boland


I won't go back to it-
my nation displaced
into old dactyls,
oaths made
by the animal tallows
of the candle


land of the Gulf Stream,
the small farm,
the scalded memory,
the songs
that bandage up the history,
the words
that make a rhythm of the crime


where time is time past.
A palsy of regrets.
No. I won't go hack.
My roots are brutal:


I am the woman
a sloven's mix
of silk at the wrists,
a sort of dove-strut
in the precincts of the garrison


who practices
the quick frictions,
the rictus of delight
and gets cambric for it,
rice-colored silks.


I am the woman
in the gansy-coat
on board the Mary Belle,
in the huddling cold,


holding her half-dead baby to her
as the wind shifts east
and north over the dirty
water of the wharf


mingling the immigrant
guttural with the vowels
of homesickness who neither
knows nor cares that


a new language
is a kind of scar
and heals after a while
into a passable imitation
of what went before.

implausible

marienbad wrote: »

Ithaca

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

I only discovered this poem recently myself and it's a revelation - here's Sean Connery reading it.

Gordon Gecko

Filling Station


Oh, but it is dirty!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color--
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO

to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.


Elizabeth Bishop

mikeyboy

Beautiful Aberfoyle

The mountains and glens of Aberfoyle are beautiful to sight,
Likewise the rivers and lakes are sparkling and bright;
And its woods were frequented by the Lady of the Lake,
And on its Lakes many a sail in her boat she did take.

The scenery there will fill the tourist with joy,
Because 'tis there once lived the bold Rob Roy,
Who spent many happy days with his Helen there,
By chasing the deer in the woods so fair.

The little vale of Aberfoyle and its beautiful river
Is a sight, once seen, forget it you'll never;
And romantic ranges of rock on either side
Form a magnificent background far and wide.

And the numerous lochs there abound with trout
Which can be had for the taking out,
Especially from the Lochs Chon and Ard,
There the angler can make a catch which will his toil reward.

And between the two lochs the Glasgow Water Works are near,
Which convey water of Loch Katrine in copious streams clear
To the inhabitants of the Great Metropolis of the West,
And for such pure water they should think themselves blest.

The oak and birch woods there are beautiful to view,
Also the Ochil hills which are blue in hue,
Likewise the Lake of Menteith can be seen far eastward,
Also Stirling Castle, which long ago the English beseiged very hard.

Then away to Aberfoyle, Rob Roy's country,
And gaze on the magnificent scenery.
A region of rivers and mountains towering majestically
Which is lovely and fascinating to see.

But no words can describe the beautiful scenery.
Aberfoyle must be visited in order to see,
So that the mind may apprehend its beauties around,
Which will charm the hearts of the visitors I'll be bound.

As for the clachan of aberfoyle, little remains but a hotel,
Which for accomodation which will suit the traveller very well.
And the bedding thereis clean and good,
And good cooks there to cook the food.

Then away to the mountains and lakes of bonnie Aberfoyle,
Ye hard-working sons and daughters of daily toil;
And traverse its heathery mountains and viewits lakes so clear,
When the face of Nature's green in the spring of the year

William Topaz McGonagall

sally2

The magnitude inside of me
Shakes and trembles.
It stirs up the mountains and gravel
All begining with a pebble.

My fiery heat can melt a diamond
Yet, managable by you.
The way you hold it
And sing to it captures the intensity.

The ziz-zag rays penetrate and bury
They dissapear throughout their walk
Now if only I could see them in any sort of way…

The race hasn’t yet begun
But already, the winds march towards their goal.
The massive stormy waves,
Swing and turn into the ocean bay.

All in all.
This is just the start.

Now magnetic pulls may break apart,
They someday lose their force
But I’ll continue to attracted while at the same time repelled.
By somebody called yourself.

Read more: http://www.blessedwithlove.com/#ixzz1Wz9CHNqU

marienbad

deemark wrote: »

I only discovered this poem recently myself and it's a revelation - here's Sean Connery reading it.

One of the truly great poets, really should be better known in the english speaking world.

marienbad

The Retreat

Happy those early days, when I
Shin'd in my angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walk'd above
A mile or two from my first love,
And looking back (at that short space)
Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flow'r
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense,
A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.

O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain,
Where first I left my glorious train,
From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
That shady city of palm trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way.
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.

Henry Vaughan

mickgotsick

...

Amirani

There Are Days

There are days when
one should be able
to pluck off one's head
like a dented or worn
helmet, straight from
the nape and collarbone
(those crackling branches!)

and place it firmly down
in the bed of a flowing stream.
Clear, clean, chill currents
coursing and spuming through
the sour and stale compartments
of the brain, dimmed eardrums,
bleared eyesockets, filmed tongue.

And then set it back again
on the base of the shoulders:
well tamped down, of course,
the laved skin and mouth,
the marble of the eyes
rinsed and ready
for love; for prophecy?

John Montague

guitarzero

Its more plain spoken word.

So what happens to you when your dreams have been destroyed?
When you have chased cornered and ripped them limb from limb?
When you walk away to a desert inside yourself
I fell into the vacuum of my room
The darkness tortured me
Sucked the air through the cracks in the floor
Time scars my thoughts
I have thought about calling or writing one of you
Trying to reach out and touch one of you
I never get to it
I can't get out of myself
I couldn't find the right words to show you where I am
It used to be terrifying
Talking myself out of shooting myself in the head
Now it's just conversation
The night brings the silence and lies
With which keep myself alive
I hold myself in fragile arms
I'm not strong
I'm a rat holding on one handed to the screen of the drain

mikeyboy

Two of my favourite ways to keep melancholy away, Ogden Nash and PG Wodehouse.

PG Wooster, Just as he Useter

Bound to your bookseller, leap to your library,
Deluge your dealer with bakshish and bribary,
Lean on the counter and never say when,
Wodehouse and Wooster are with us again.

Flourish the fish-slice, your buttons unloosing,
Prepare for the fabulous browsing and sluicing,
And quote, til you're known as the neighborhood nuisance,
The gems that illumine the browsance and sluicance.

Oh, fondle each gem, and after you quote it,
Kindly inform me just who wrote it.

Which came first, the egg or the rooster?
P.G.Wodehouse or Bertram Wooster?
I know hawk from handsaw, and Finn from Fiji,
But I can't disentangle Bertram from PG.

I inquire in the school room, I ask in the road house
Did Wodehouse write Wooster, or Wooster Wodehouse?
Bertram Wodehouse and PG Wooster,
They are linked in my mind like Simon and Schuster.

No matter which fumbled in '41,
Or which the woebegone figure of fun.
I deduce how the faux pas came about,
It was clearly Jeeves's afternoon out.

Now Jeeves is back, and my cheeks are crumply
From watching him glide through Steeple Bumpleigh.

Ogden Nash

FreezeUp

bnt wrote: »

Sarah Williams: The Old Astronomer to His Pupil

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obliquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You "have none but me," you murmur, and I "leave you quite alone"?

Well then, kiss me, -- since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, -- that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I "have never failed in kindness"? No, we lived too high for strife,
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, "Patience, Patience," is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

Heard this before in audio form, but for the life of me I can't think where from?!?

marienbad

An Oldie but a goodie !


No Second Troy

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?


W.B.Yeats 1916

The Princess Bride

I am like a book,
You shouldn't judge me by the cover.
I am like my Ugg boots,
Fluffy and soft on the inside.
I am like a mouse,
I can be quiet at times.

I am like the ocean,
If you look deep enough,
You'll find some beautiful treasures.

I am unique,
No-one is the same.

Obliq

Hmmm, topical. Thankyou Marienbad......
Perhaps he should not be afraid to love her and her not afraid to say she does. Sigh!
"What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire," Answer: Three words. I....LOVE....YOU.

marienbad

Obliq wrote: »

Hmmm, topical. Thankyou Marienbad......
Perhaps he should not be afraid to love her and her not afraid to say she does. Sigh!
"What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire," Answer: Three words. I....LOVE....YOU.

Alas I think not Obliq as he said those words to her many times .

Obliq

Ah me. Well, then she was in the business of lying to herself and others. That'll have you burning many, many Troys I reckon. Still, those three words from the right person eh?

marienbad

Obliq wrote: »

Ah me. Well, then she was in the business of lying to herself and others. That'll have you burning many, many Troys I reckon. Still, those three words from the right person eh?

Indeed and John MacBride seemed to have said them with enough conviction to convice Maud Gonne and leave poor Yeats with his four marriage proposals to her out in the cold. He eventually proposed to and was rejected by her daughter Iseult.

Seems much as she admired Yeats she preferred the man of action, though that ended in tears also.

Obliq

Quite the woman of action then, too. So she remained convinced Yeats was not the one to keep her honest, but got her heart broke by superman, who probably did. Yup, that'll happen.

I have vague memories of people telling me about Maud Gonne and Yeats. Thanks for awakening an interest marienbad - must go look up that story (might make mine look better!) Got any book recommendations?

marienbad

Obliq wrote: »

Quite the woman of action then, too. So she remained convinced Yeats was not the one to keep her honest, but got her heart broke by superman, who probably did. Yup, that'll happen.

I have vague memories of people telling me about Maud Gonne and Yeats. Thanks for awakening an interest marienbad - must go look up that story (might make mine look better!) Got any book recommendations?

Loads of book recommendation Obliq- what kind of stuff do you like ?

I will read anything and everything

marienbad

From the depths of the crypt at St Giles,

From the depths of the crypt at St Giles,
Came a scream that resounded for miles.
Said the Vicar,'Good gracious!
Has Father Ignatius
Forgotten the Bishop has piles?'

Anon.

CaoimH_in

This is Just to Say (1934)

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

William Carlos Williams