Two favourite poems.

[georgew]

There is always a sadness about Christmas.

The visit

This time when she came
I asked her to give me a hug...
a thing I've never done before...
but I needed to hold her again
as I did so long ago.....
when I would scoop her up..
and breathe her in
and know that in this moment
nothing in the world could mean more
than this wriggling bundle.

But now I am old
and certainty is a stranger to me
days pass without me knowing their name...
I doubt....everything
and so I asked... though this was hard for me
knowing she would mark this well and see the why of it....
this need to hold her close..to be certain
of this one thing.

[Yvonned]

So beautiful Georgew, this poem spoke deep to my heart. Thank you

[pete75]

Not a poem but a song by Jez Lowe.

LAST OF THE WIDOWS
(J.Lowe / Lowe Life Music)

The last of the widows of the Duck Bill seam
Is lying tonight with her young man again
They’re clinging fast together soothing sighs and pain
And coaxing back the love their loss survived

The last of the widows of the Duck Bills flare
Is brushing back dust from his strong brown hair
And he’s stretched on her bosom with his love laid fair
And making up for time fate stole away

Parting words were never spoken last kisses never broken
She never even watched him walk away
Now the last of the widows of the Duck Bill’s seam
Reached out and took his hand again today

The last of the widows of the Duck Bill’s fire
Stood bleak and bewildered as the count climbed higher
Then she wept for the world across a newsroom wire
When she heard his name called out across the crowd

But when the world had turned to leave eighty women turned to grieve
And cursed their compensation through their tears
Now the last of the widows of the Duck Bills seam
Can close her eyes and wipe away the years

The last of the widows of the Duck Bill’s flame
Is free of the lonely nights of bitterness and blame
And there’s some who’ll remember as they speak her name
The reason why she lived so long alone

And in the fields above the dangers of Gresford, Trimdon Grange
Haswell, Hartley Beam and Markham Main
The last of the widows of the Duck Bill’s seam
Is walking with her miner lad again


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IHC71hFA230

[georgew]

So beautiful Georgew, this poem spoke deep to my heart. Thank you

Thank you.......I find growing old difficult.

[yakdiver]

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

[Mike Sales]

Western Wind

Westron wind, when will thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, if my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again.

Anon.

[reohn2]

So beautiful Georgew, this poem spoke deep to my heart. Thank you

+1 very heartfelt for me too.

[Mike Sales]

Song:
Go and catch a falling star
By John Donne

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

[Cyril Haearn]

Een hond gaat op reis
Gedicht van Willem Wilmink, gevonden door Johan Koning in Het Spoorwegmuseum in Utrecht

Een hond gaat op reis

Een hond verdwaalde op een keer
en hij verdwaalde steeds maar meer.

Op alle straten scheen de zon.
De hond kwam aan op een station.

Dat lange ding, wat zou dat zijn?
Hij wist het niet. Het was een trein.

Hij zocht een plaatsje eerste klas,
omdat het daar zo rustig was.

Die avond had het Jeugdjournaal
een vreemd verhaal:

een hond ging helemaal alleen
en eerste klas naar Heerenveen.

Nu heeft zijn baas hem afgehaald
en ook de lange reis betaald

en zit de hond op zijn gemak
weer bij zijn eigen etensbak

en hij vertelt aan ieder beest:
‘Ik ben in Heerenveen geweest!’

Willem Wilmink, Een hond gaat op reis
uit: Een hond gaat op reis: gedichten voor verstandige vijfjarigen, Bert Bakker, 1992

hope others can sort of read Dutsch too, it is a lovely poem for smart five-year olds about a dog who gets on a train by accident

[profpointy]

Bagpuss, dear Bagpuss
Old fat furry cat-puss
Wake up and look at this thing that I bring
Wake up, be bright
Be golden and light
Bagpuss, Oh hear what I sing

[Stradageek]

Fascinating that so many song lyrics have been chosen under the heading 'poems' and I happily support their inclusion.

Given this, why has no one mentioned the amazing lyrics of Clive James, put to music and sung by Pete Atkin.

I've just discovered a new song that escaped their earlier career recordings and which brought me to tears; it concerns Auschwitz. Clive was challenged by the realisation that he was the same age as the children would have been, whose 'little shoes' were piled high.

Read and weep, or, even better listen here to 'A Hill of Little Shoes' https://www.peteatkin.com/play/i66w.htm

I live in the shadow of a hill
A hill of little shoes
I love but I shiver with a chill
A chill I never lose
I live, I love, but where are they?
Where are their lives, their loves?
All blown away
And every little shoe's a foot that never grew another day

If you could find a pair
And put them on the floor
Make a mark in the air
Like the marks beside your door
When you were growing
You'd see how tall they were

And the buckles and the laces
They could do up on their own
Or almost could
With their tongue tips barely showing
Tell you how small they were

And then you think of little faces
Looking fearfully alone
And how they stood
In their bare feet being tall for the last time
Just to be good
And that was all they were

They were like you in the same year
But you grew up
They were scarcely even here
Before they suddenly weren't there
And while you got dressed for bed
They did the same but they were led
Into another room instead

I live in the shadow of a hill
A hill of little shoes
I love, but I shiver with a chill
A chill I never lose
And I caught this cold
When I was chosen to grow old
In the shadow of a hill of little shoes

[Cyril Haearn]

AS through the wild green hills of Wyre
The train ran, changing sky and shire,
And far behind, a fading crest,
Low in the forsaken west
Sank the high-reared head of Clee,
My hand lay empty on my knee.
Aching on my knee it lay:
That morning half a shire away
So many an honest fellow’s fist
Had well-nigh wrung it from the wrist.
Hand, said I, since now we part
From fields and men we know by heart,
For strangers’ faces, strangers’ lands,—
Hand, you have held true fellows’ hands.
Be clean then; rot before you do
A thing they’d not believe of you.
You and I must keep from shame
In London streets the Shropshire name;
On banks of Thames they must not say
Severn breeds worse men than they;
And friends abroad must bear in mind
Friends at home they leave behind.
Oh, I shall be stiff and cold
When I forget you, hearts of gold;
The land where I shall mind you not
Is the land where all ’s forgot.
And if my foot returns no more
To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore,
Luck, my lads, be with you still
By falling stream and standing hill,
By chiming tower and whispering tree,
Men that made a man of me.
About your work in town and farm
Still you’ll keep my head from harm,
Still you’ll help me, hands that gave
A grasp to friend me to the grave.

A E Housman

[Cyril Haearn]

THE LADS in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair,
There’s men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold,
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there,
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old.

There’s chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart,
And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave,
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart,
And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave.

I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
And watch them depart on the way that they will not return.

But now you may stare as you like and there’s nothing to scan;
And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man,
The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

A E Housman

[Cyril Haearn]

Tomorrow 25.1 is Burns Night
(St Dwynwens Day in Wales)
Here is a poem by the master, with English translation below

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
An' ev'n devotion!
..
Oh, would some Power give us the gift
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress and gait would leave us,
And even devotion!

[Cyril Haearn]

To a Mouse by Robert Burns

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request;
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o’ mice an ‘men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!