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Words -- Edward Thomas

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:
(Poem #1032) Words
 Out of us all
 That make rhymes
 Will you choose
 Sometimes -
 As the winds use
 A crack in a wall
 Or a drain,
 Their joy or their pain
 To whistle through -
 Choose me,
 You English words?

 I know you:
 You are light as dreams,
 Tough as oak,
 Precious as gold,
 As poppies and corn,
 Or an old cloak:
 Sweet as our birds
 To the ear,
 As the burnet rose
 In the heat
 Of Midsummer:
 Strange as the races
 Of dead and unborn:
 Strange and sweet
 Equally,
 And familiar,
 To the eye,
 As the dearest faces
 That a man knows,
 And as lost homes are:
 But though older far
 Than oldest yew, -
 As our hills are, old, -
 Worn new
 Again and again:
 Young as our streams
 After rain:
 And as dear
 As the earth which you prove
 That we love.

 Make me content
 With some sweetness
 From Wales
 Whose nightingales
 Have no wings, -
 From Wiltshire and Kent
 And Herefordshire, -
 And the villages there, -
 From the names, and the things
 No less.
 Let me sometimes dance
 With you,
 Or climb
 Or stand perchance
 In ecstasy,
 Fixed and free
 In a rhyme,
 As poets do.
-- Edward Thomas
I liked this poem because the image of a poet beseeching words to accept
him, and using a poem as a medium to do so, appealed to me. I also liked the
way he describes words in the second section of the poem.

Zenobia.

Wild Strawberries -- Robert Graves

       
(Poem #1031) Wild Strawberries
 Strawberries that in gardens grow
    Are plump and juicy fine,
 But sweeter far as wise men know
    Spring from the woodland vine.

 No need for bowl or silver spoon,
    Sugar or spice or cream,
 Has the wild berry plucked in June
    Beside the trickling stream.

 One such to melt at the tongue's root,
    Confounding taste with scent,
 Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
    Which points my argument.

 May sudden justice overtake
    And snap the froward pen,
 That old and palsied poets shake
    Against the minds of men.

 Blasphemers trusting to hold caught
    In far-flung webs of ink,
 The utmost ends of human thought
    Till nothing's left to think.

 But may the gift of heavenly peace
    And glory for all time
 Keep the boy Tom who tending geese
    First made the nursery rhyme.
-- Robert Graves
Graves fires another salvo in the long-running battle between the craftsman
and the mystic, and it's quite clear on which side his sympathies lie. He
prefers the natural, unaffected ease of the nursery rhyme to the
artificiality of the "far-flung webs of ink" penned by "old and palsied
poets"; he contends that the constraints of the latter strangle both thought
and word.

I disagree.

Overly deliberate verse can be a frightful bore at times - plodding, insipid
and dull. But the opposite tendency can be (and often is) just as bad -- far
too many poets use 'naturalness' as an excuse for laziness. The answer?
Simple: recognize that there is no 'right way' and no 'wrong way' to write
poetry; there are merely good and bad poems.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

This particular opposition has been explored on the Minstrels before:
Poem #186, By-the-Way  -- Patrick MacGill
Poem #187, Poetry for Supper  -- R. S. Thomas
Poem #190, Young Poets  -- Nicanor Parra

Robert Graves:
Poem #55, Welsh Incident
Poem #298, The Cool Web
Poem #467, Like Snow
Poem #515, The Persian Version
Poem #564, Warning to Children
Poem #663, A Child's Nightmare
Poem #763, Love Without Hope
Poem #840, The Travellers' Curse after Misdirection
Poem #1031, Wild Strawberries

And finally, strawberries:
Poem #274, This Is Just To Say  -- William Carlos Williams
Poem #827, Strawberries -- Edwin Morgan
Poem #1031, Wild Strawberries -- Robert Graves

Everyone Sang -- Siegfried Sassoon

Guest poem sent in by "Dave, Hash"
(Poem #1030) Everyone Sang
 Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
 And I was filled with such delight
 As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
 Winging wildly across the white
 Orchards and dark-green fields; on - on - and out of sight.

 Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;
 And beauty came like the setting sun:
 My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
 Drifted away ... O, but Everyone
 Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.
-- Siegfried Sassoon
      April 1919

The poem speaks to me of a deeper, underlying reality - the closing lines
bring that into focus for me. Given what I know of Sassoon's war-service in
France during WW1 (he was a contemporary of Wilfred Owen) I'm torn between
deciding what drove him to write it - was it the idea of a dying serviceman
surrounded by the horror of war who hears a song, as if birds flying out of
sight, and the horror drops away as he realises the song never ends? Or was
it his love of nature, the wider, realer world that he saw as he wrote this
poem - realer and more deep than the man-made hell that he had witnessed and
fought in?

The one thing the poem has without a doubt - hope. The song will never end.

Hash

Links:

  Biography of Sassoon: http://www.sassoonery.demon.co.uk/

  Sassoon poems on Minstrels:
     Poem #385, Base Details
     Poem # 535, The Working Party

Prayer (to the sun above the clouds) -- Piet Hein

       
(Poem #1029) Prayer (to the sun above the clouds)
 Sun that givest all things birth
 Shine on everything on earth!

 If that's too much to demand
 Shine at least on this our land

 If even that's too much for thee
 Shine at any rate on me
-- Piet Hein
Indeed.

-martin

Links:

  We've run a couple of Hein's grooks:
    Poem #668, "On Problems"
    Poem #823, "Astro-Gymnastics"

  The former also has a biography and several links attached.

The Diplomatic Platypus -- Patrick Barrington

Thanks to Frank O'Shea for introducing me to today's
poem
(Poem #1028) The Diplomatic Platypus
 I had a duck-billed platypus when I was up at Trinity,
 With whom I soon discovered a remarkable affinity.
 He used to live in lodgings with myself and Arthur Purvis,
 And we all went up together for the Diplomatic Service.
 I had a certain confidence, I own, in his ability,
 He mastered all the subjects with remarkable facility;
 And Purvis, though more dubious, agreed that he was clever,
 But no one else imagined he had any chance whatever.

 I failed to pass the interview, the board with wry grimaces
 Took exception to my boots and then objected to my braces,
 And Purvis too was failed by an intolerant examiner
 Who said he had his doubts as to his sock-suspender's stamina.
 Our summary rejection, though we took it with urbanity
 Was naturally wounding in some measure to our vanity;
 The bitterness of failure was considerably mollified,
 However, by the ease with which our platypus had qualified.

 The wisdom of the choice, it soon appeared, was undeniable;
 There never was a diplomat more thoroughly reliable.
 The creature never acted with undue precipitation O,
 But gave to every question his mature consideration O.
 He never made rash statements his enemies might hold him to,
 He never stated anything, for no one ever told him to,
 And soon he was appointed, so correct was his behaviour,
 Our Minister (without Portfolio) to Trans-Moravia.

 My friend was loved and honoured from the Andes to Esthonia,
 He soon achieved a pact between Peru and Patagonia,
 He never vexed the Russians nor offended the Rumanians,
 He pacified the Letts and yet appeased the Lithuanians,
 Won approval from his masters down in Downing Street so wholly, O,
 He was soon to be rewarded with the grant of a Portfolio,
 When on the Anniversary of Greek Emancipation,
 Alas! He laid an egg in the Bulgarian Legation.

 This untoward occurrence caused unheard-of repercussions,
 Giving rise to epidemics of sword-clanking in the Prussians.
 The Poles began to threaten, and the Finns began to flap at him,
 Directing all the blame for this unfortunate mishap at him;
 While the Swedes withdrew entirely from the Anglo-Saxon dailies
 The right of photographing the Aurora Borealis,
 And, all efforts at rapprochement in the meantime proving barren,
 The Japanese in self-defence annexed the Isle of Arran.

 My platypus, once thought to be more cautious and more tentative
 Than any other living diplomatic representative,
 Was now a sort of warning to all diplomatic students
 Of the risks attached to negligence, the perils of imprudence,
 Beset and persecuted by the forces of reaction, O,
 He reaped the consequences of his ill-considered action, O,
 And, branded in the Honours List as 'Platypus, Dame Vera',
 Retired, a lonely figure, to lay eggs in Bordighera.
-- Patrick Barrington
I was delighted to receive today's poem - its brand of inspired silliness is
rare, and even rarer when this well done. There's a very understated, almost
deadpan quality to Barrington's humour here that is hard to pinpoint, but
definitely recognisable. I am reminded of Shel Silverstein for some reason,
though, again, I can't exactly say why.

As for the form - as Frank said when he sent in the poem, "Its sustained
collection of triple rhymes puts the author right up there with Gilbert."
There is a difference, though - Barrington's rhymes are far less obtrusive,
their perfection blending them seamlessly into the poem rather than
highlighting them. The mix of double and triple rhymes is unexpected, but
(once I squelched the urge to sing the poem to Modern Major General)
remarkably smooth.

Links:

   Biography: Patrick Barrington, 1908-1990

   The other poem of Barrington's that seems to be popular on the net is his
   'I Had a Hippopotamus',
   http://members.aol.com/HippoPage/hipppoem.htm#barrington

   The 'triple rhyme' theme:
      Poem #1023, W. S. Gilbert, 'The Soldiers of our Queen'
      Poem #1025, Newman Levy, 'Thais'
      Poem #1026, Rudyard Kipling, 'The Prodigal Son'

Postscript:
  I have a distinct feeling I'm missing some of the references in the poem,
  particularly the 'Dame Vera' bit in the last verse. If anyone spots an
  allusion, do write in. Likewise, if anyone has more of a biography please
  add it on.

-martin