ASF Poetry Thread

[2020hindsight]

sorry folks this is a long one - Just shows how versatile was Australia's first poet. " Printed in 1864...Gordon met friends in the Mt Gambier Hotel, and during the evening his attentoin was drawn to a set of 6 plates illustrative of the old Border ballad "The Downie Dens o' Yarrow". Gordon was much pleased with the plates and intimated to one of the company his intention of using them as the subjecvt of some verses. A day or two later he showed the poem to the gentleman he had spoken to .. printed etc...
http://www.rangerjohn.com/thefeud.html

THE FEUD : A BORDER BALLAD
PLATE I - Rixa super mero

They sat by their wine in the tavern that night, But not in good fellowship true:
The Rhenish was strong and the Burgundy bright, And hotter the argument grew.

'I asked your consent when I first sought her hand, Nor did you refuse to agree,
Tho' her father declared that the half of his land Her dower at our wedding should be.'

'No dower shall be given (the brother replied) With a maiden of beauty so rare,
Nor yet shall my father my birthright divide, Our lands with a foeman to share.'

The knight stood erect in the midst of the hall, And sterner his visage became,
'Now, shame and dishonour my 'scutcheon befall, If thus I relinquish my claim."

The brother then drained a tall goblet of wine, And fiercely this answer he made--
'Before like a coward my rights I resign I'll claim an appeal to the blade.

"The passes at Yarrow are rugged and wide, There meet me to-morrow alone;
This quarrel we two with our swords will decide, And one shall this folly atone.'

They've settled the time and they've settled the place, They've paid for the wine and the ale,
They've bitten their gloves, and their steps they retrace, To their castles in Ettrick's Vale.


PLATE II - Morituri (te) salutant, Now, buckle my broadsword at my side
And saddle my trusty steed;
And bid me adieu, my bonnie bride, To Yarrow I go with speed.

'I've passed through many a bloody fray Unharmed in health or limb;
Then why's your brow so sad this day And your dark eye so dim?'

'Oh, belt not on your broadsword bright, Oh! leave your steed in the stall,
For I dreamt last night of a stubborn fight, And I dreamt I saw you fall.'

'On Yarrow's braes there will be strife, Yet I am safe from ill;
And if I thought it would cost my life I must take this journey still.'

He turned his charger to depart In the misty morning air,
But he stood and pressed her to his heart And smoothed her glossy hair.

And her red lips he fondly kissed Beside the castle door,
And he rode away in the morning mist, And he never saw her more!

PLATE III Heu! deserta domus
She sits by the eastern casement now, And the sunlight enters there,
And settles on her ivory brow And gleams in her golden hair.
....

PLATE IV Gaudia certaminis
He came to the spot where his foe had agreed, To meet him in Yarrow's dark glade,
And there he drew rein amd dismounted his steed, And fastened him under the shade.

Close by in the greenwood the ambush was set, And scarce had he entered the glen
When, armed for the combat, the brother he met, And with him were eight of his men.

'Now, swear to relinquish all claim to our land, Or to give as a hostage your bride!
Or fly if your able, or yield where you stand, Or die as your betters have died!'

His doublet and hat on the greensward he threw, He wrapt round the left arm his cloak;
And out of its scabbard his broadsword he drew, And stood with his back to an oak.

'My claim to your land I refuse to deny, Nor will I restore you my bride,
Now will I surrender, nor yet will I fly: Come on, and the steel shall decide!'

Oh! sudden and sure were the blows that he dealt! Like lightning the sweep of his blade!
Cut and thrust, point and edge, all around him they fell, They fell one by one in the glade!

And pierced in the gullet their leader goes down! And sinks with a curse on the plain;
And his squire falls dead! cut through headpice and crown! And his groom by a back stroke is slain.

Now five are stretched lifeless; disabled are three! Hard pressed, see the last caitiff reel!
The brother behind struggles up on one knee, And drives through his body the steel.
And drives though his body the steel. caitiff - coward

PLATE V Non habeo mihi facta adhuc cur Herculis uxor
Credar coniugii mors mihi pignus erit.
The traitor's father heard the tale, In haste he mounted then,
And spurred his horse from Ettrick Vale To Yarrow's lonely glen,

Some troopers followed in his track-- For them he tarried not,
He neither halted nor looked back Until he found the spot.

The earth was trod and trampled bare, And stained with dark red dew,
A broken blade lay here, and there A bonnet cut in two;

And stretched in ghastly shapes around The lifeless corpses lie,
Some with their faces to the ground, And some towards the sky.

And there the ancient Border chief, Stood silent and alone--
Too stubborn to give way to grief, Too stern remorse to own.

A soldier in the midst of strife, Since he had first drawn breath,
He'd grown to undervalue life, And feel at home with death.

And yet he shuddered when he saw, The work that had been done;
He knew his fearless son-in-law, He knew his dastard son.

Despite the failings of his race, A brave old man was he,
Who would not stoop to actions base, And hated treachery.

He loved his younger daughter well, And though severe and rude,
For her sake he had tried to quell, That foolish Border feud.

Her brother all his schemes had marred, And given his pledge the lie,
And sense of justice struggled hard, With nature's stronger tie.

He knew his son had richly earned, The stroke that laid him low,
Yet had not quite forgiveness learned, For him that dealt the blow.

There came a tramp of horses' feet: He raised his startled eyes,
And felt his pulses throb and beat, With sorrow and surprise.

He saw his daughter riding fast, And from her steed she sprung,
And on her lover's corpse she cast, Herself. and round him clung.

...
The stout moss-trooper glanced around But not a word he said;
He knelt upon the battered ground And raised his master's head.

The face had set serene and sad, Nor was there on the clay
The stamp of that fierce soul which had In anger passed away.
....
The father first that silence broke; His voice was firm and clear,
And every accent that he spoke, Fell on the listener's ear.
'Daughter, this quarrel to forgo, I offered half our land
A dower to him--a feudal foe-- When first he sought your hand.

I only asked for some brief while, Some few short weeks' delay,
Till I my son could reconcile; For this he would not stay.
He was your husband, so I'm told; But you yourself must own
He took you to his fortress-hold With your consent alone.

Of late the strife broke out anew; They blame your brother there;
But he was hot and headstrong, too-- He doubtless did his share.
Oh! stout of heart, and strong of hand, With all his faults was he,
The champion of his Border land; I ne'er his judge will be!

Now, grieve no more for what is done; Alike we share the cost;
For, girl, I too have lost a son, If you your love have lost.
Forget the deed! and learn to call A worthier man your lord
Than he whose arm has vexed us all; Here lies his fatal sword.

Think, when you seek his guilt to cloak, Whose blood has dyed it red,
Who fell beneath its deadly stroke, Whose life is forfeited.'
The old man paused, for while he spoke The girl had raised her head.
Her silken hair she proudly dashed Back from her crimson face!

And in her bright eyes once more flashed The spirit of her race!
He beauty made her stand abashed! Her voice rang thro' the place!
'Who held the treacherous dagger's hilt When against odds he fought?
My brothers blood was fairly spilt! But his was basely sought!

Now, Christ absolve his soul from guilt; He sinned as he was taught!
'His next of kin by blood and birth May claim his house and Land!
His groom may slack his saddle-girth, Or bid his charger stand!
But never a man on God's wide earth Shall touch his darling's hand!'

The colour faded from her cheek, Her eyelids drooped and fell,
And when again she sought to speak Her accents came so low and weak
Her words they scarce could tell. 'Oh! father, all I ask is rest,--
Here let me once more lie!' She stretched upon the dead man's breast
With one long weary sigh; And the old man bowed his lofty crest
And hid his troubled eye!

They called her, but she spoke no more, And when they raised her head
She seemed as lovely as before, Though all her bloom had fled;
But they grew pale at that they saw-- They knew that she was dead!


PLATE VI Dies irae: dies illa
The requiem breaks the midnight air, the funeral bell they toll,--
A mass or prayer we well may spare, for a brave moss-trooper's soul;
And the fairest bride on the Border side, may she too be forgiven!
The dirge we ring, the chant we sing, the rest we leave to Heaven!

 

[2020hindsight]

http://poetry.tetto.org/read/27841/
trading rookie, nothing to do with the Cross, but a poem about King St nonetheless - a busker with a hangover who loves his guitar - different, nice imagery.

At The Colonial Plaza on King Street , by redsky

I'm experimenting with form, this is a syllabic poem, each line ranges between 10 to 11 syllables (I think there's one with 12), but any helpful feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

Dedication is a two string guitar,
with swirls of teal, jade and tangerine tinting
its sandy face. Bloated fingers tune with
fevered concentration like a crazed locksmith.
Salty mornings breathe an air of apathy.
Tourists and townies pass by without a glance
as fa and re float like placid soap bubbles,
each twang piercing their iridescent beauty.
An interlude follows. The tattered rag pulled
out from his army green pocket caresses
each dull curve of the guitar, a devotion
longed by some women from their callous lovers.
His splintered melodies regurgitate
an agony of mornings, noons and nights
trapped between paper blankets and a drenched
bench. His guttural persuasion smudges his face
with claret, vermilion, and burgundy,
like crushed wild berries speckled on a sidewalk.
A naked voice left howling through cobblestone
roads, without an audience, without a spotlight.

 

[2020hindsight]

THE DEEP SEA COD AND THE FISHERMAN'S SON

It has always amazed the deepsea cod,
As he swims through the wrecks, and the seaweed and sod,
Why these tallships, once proud, till some “Wrath of God”
Delivered them here - and from whence?
Whence their skeletoned crew all strewn about?
Whence the whalers still screaming their final half-shout?
Whence the Titanic patrons who couldn’t get out
Now in “Davey Jones’ Locker” immense ?

Whence the engine room comrades who stand and stare?
Whence the captain about to launch one final flare?
Whence the battleship lad in his ack-ack chair?
Who all died with adrenalin blush;
But the colours down here all merge as one,
And their pasts are all riddles now known to none,
Just a ghostly and fathomless absence of sun,
And the sound is nothing but “hush”.-
And a memory of water’s rush.

………………………………………………….

And the terror for bathers who lay on that beach
Neath a tropical sun like a heavenly peach -
Why that day Davey Jones lurched out to reach
And took em all back to “his deep”.
Whence the freakish gargantuan wall of wet
That has left survivors to fear and fret,
Who in time I suppose will forgive and forget
But - Davey – please stay asleep!! .

Now the deepsea cod’s even more confused
And no less are we who are left to choose
Which mood of a dozen blacks or blues
Would best depict our thoughts;
Whence the bus and the house and the baby’s coat
Whence the thousands of souls who forgot how to float
Whence the church’s old bible a few still quote
In some distant vanquished ports.
Whence the boy in the boogieboard shorts.

Whence the fisherman’s son, and the fisherman’s wife
Who all drowned on that day – in that swirling strife
No gail, no tempest, no red sky to warn
Yet the fisherman lives – though his life is torn
And he goes to the beach to mourn.:

 

[2020hindsight]

A thought for those who died on the weekend , including the little girl found today

Shakespeare, The Tempest:- "We are such stuff as dreams are made of,
And our little life is rounded with a sleep"

 

[drillinto]

The Early Morning

The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left hand and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.

Hilaire Belloc(1870-1953)

 

[trading_rookie]

trading rookie, nothing to do with the Cross, but a poem about King St nonetheless - a busker with a hangover who loves his guitar - different, nice imagery

It's not the one, infact I'm not sure now if it was called King Street, or it mentioned King Street in it. But I do recall pawn shops, alcho's and the low-life element of the street. Think it was written around the time of the depression.

 

[drillinto]

Introduction to Poetry

Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.



from The Apple that Astonished Paris, 1996
University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, Ark., USA

 

[drillinto]

It's not the one, infact I'm not sure now if it was called King Street, or it mentioned King Street in it. But I do recall pawn shops, alcho's and the low-life element of the street. Think it was written around the time of the depression.

Search for Poems and Poets ==> www.searchpoetry.com

 

[2020hindsight]

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem, and hold it up to the light, like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.

thanks drill brilliant.
here's another :-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wrEPJh14mcU forgetfulnes , billy collins (US Poet Laureate a few years back)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eI5Gp3d7Z-4&mode=related&search= the dead
(personally I much prefer the former, I had a reason once, but I forget)

 

[2020hindsight]

btw, here's a poem in it's early stages of drafting - Anyone who has ever written a poem / song / letter / report /advertising idea etc etc can relate to this one lol

 

[2020hindsight]

Drill, This one has something in common with "Forgefulness" I guess - (more about being pensive) - but much better , it rhymes , lol - and being a patriot, I prefer an Aussie , none better than Gordon IMO with these "beautiful musical melancholy lines". - tell us what you think (if you have time).
PS if you go to that website , don;t bother clicking on any of the "sound files" - just some stupid tune / ditty.
http://www.rangerjohn.com/twoyears.html

QUARE FATIGASTI (Wither Bound) Adam Lindsay Gordon

Two years ago I was thinking
On the changes that years bring forth;
Now I stand where I then stood drinking
The gust and the salt sea froth;
And the shuddering wave strikes, linking
With the waves subsiding and sinking,
And clots the coast herbage, shrinking,
With the hue of the white cere-cloth.

Is there aught worth losing or keeping?
The bitters or sweets men quaff?
The sowing or the doubtful reaping?
The harvest of grain or chaff?
Or squandring days or heaping,
Or waking seasons or sleeping,
The laughter that dries the weeping,
Or the weeping that drowns the laugh?

The joys wax dim and woes deaden,
We forget the sorrowful biers,
And the garlands glad that have fled in
The merciful march of years;
And the sunny skies and the leaden,
And the faces that pale or redden,
And the smiles that lovers are wed in
Who are born and buried in tears.

And the myrtle bloom turns hoary,
And the blush of the rose decays,
And sodden with sweat and gory
Are the hard won laurels and bays;
We are neither joyous nor sorry
When time has ended our story,
And blotted out grief and glory,
And pain, and pleasure, and praise.

Weigh justly, throw good and bad in
The scales, will the balance veer
With the joys or the sorrows had in
The sum of a life's career?
In the end, spite of dreams that sadden
The sad, or the sanguine madden,
There is nothing to grieve or gladden,
There is nothing to hope or fear.

'Thou hast gone astray.' quoth the preacher,
'In the gall of thy bitterness,'
Thou hast taught me in vain, oh, teacher!
I neither blame thee nor bless;
If bitter is sure and sweet sure,
These vanish with form and feature--
Can the creature fathom the creature
Whose Creator is fathomless?

Is this dry land sure? Is the sea sure?
Is there aught that shall long remain,
Pain, or peril, or pleasure,
Pleasure, or peril, or pain?
Shall we labour or take our leisure,
And who shall inherit treasure,
If the measure with which we measure
Is meted to us again?

I am slow in learning, and swift in
Forgetting, and I have grown
So weary with long sand sifting;
T'wards the mist where the breakers moan
The rudderless bark is drifting,
Through the shoals and the quicksands shifting--
In the end shall the night-rack lifting,
Discover the shores unknown?

Something in common with his lines
"Life is mostly froth and bubble, two things stand like stone , kindness in another's trouble, courage in your own".

 

[noirua]

Here I am at home, poorly,
Dreadfull cold, cough, cough,
splutter, splutter, at deaths door,
back to bed, rough, rough.

Throat is sore, about to snore,
Chest is tight, can't breath,
Very hot, temperature soared,
rather sick, about to heave.

My head is now hurting,
surely it's not curtains,
sick as a parrot,
I think I've had it.

 

[2020hindsight]

My head is now hurting,
surely it's not curtains,
sick as a parrot,
I think I've had it.

lol - good one noi,
as they say , if it wasn't for venetian blinds, it would be curtains for all of us

PS similar "rhytm" to Gordon.
by the way , don't you just love those lines back there, example...

"And the sunny skies and the leaden,
And the faces that pale or redden,
And the smiles that lovers are wed in
Who are born and buried in tears."

man was a genius. (used to spend all his time memorising ancient classical latin / greek text - could quote em cover to cover etc)

romantic - probably that pensiveness went back to this ...(?)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam_Lindsay_Gordon Gordon had fallen in love with a girl of 17, Jane Bridges, who was able to tell the story 60 years afterwards to his biographers. He did not declare his love until he came to say good-bye to her before leaving for Australia on 7 August 1853. "With characteristic recklessness he offered to sacrifice the passage he had taken to Australia, and all his father's plans for giving him a fresh start in life, if she would tell him not to go, or promise to be his wife, or even give him some hope." This Miss Bridges could not do, though she liked the shy handsome boy and remembered him with affection to the end of a long life. It was the one romance of Gordon's life. That Gordon realized his conduct had fallen much below what it might have been can be seen in his poems .

 

[noirua]

Quare Fatigasti: Found it quite interesting, especially with your not recommended music. Something about that music that goes back to the 16th century or earlier - King Henry V111 and all that.

 

[2020hindsight]

Something about that music that goes back to the 16th century or earlier - King Henry V111 and all that.

Ever wonder what Henry VIII would have thought of the beatles ? lol - or amplified quadraphonic sound that could (as an extreme) break crystal glasses

much like this I reckon
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrNsjuPcqnQ Oliver Cochlear Implant Activation 12/2006

one small sound for mum, one giant symphony for that little kid

noi, this one probably belongs on your "videos that send a message" thread , but I'll post it here now that I'm on a roll a short movie, and brings a tear to your eye - poetic? - you be the judge , lol.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gEC-SJbE83E&mode=related&search= first day

further reading / watching :-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaPYQQtj1jM what it's like before the implant
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmNpP2fr57A the science
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iW5xNGB_jZM&mode=related&search= Surgery Before 1st Birthday Best for Deaf Kids

 

[2020hindsight]

Wayne, Since you're going to the Cotswalds, here's a poem to help you settle in
By FLOOD AND FIELD (by Adam LindsayGordon)

I remember the lowering wintry morn,
And the mist of the Cotswold hills
Where I once heard the blast of the huntsman’s horn
Not far from the seven rills. etc etc

You'll see his riding friend goes on to participate in the Charge of the Light Brigade, whereas he himself only has a heavy fall in the Hunt. Moral ofthe story , lol - take it easy over there, lol - who cares if the fox gets away anyway (as long as you don't bring itback to Aus)

PS There's actually a second poem appended - worth a read as well
THE VINE TREE vs THE SADDLE TREE....

I remember some words my father said
when I was an urchin vain:-
God rest his soul, in his narrow bed
these ten long years he hath lain
When I think one drop of the blood he bore
this faint heart surely must hold
It may be my fancy and nothing more
But the faint heart seemeth bold.

He said that as from the blood of the grape,
or from juice distilled from the grain,
False vigour soon to evaporate,
is leant to nerve and brain,
So the coward will dare on the gallant horse ,
what he never would dare alone,
Because he exults in a borrowed force,
and a hardihood not his own.

And so it may be , yet the difference lies
Twixt the vine and the saddle tree
The spurious courage that drink supplies
Sets our baser passions free;
But the stimulant which the horseman feels
When he gallops fast and straight,
To his better nature most appeals
and charity conquers hate... etcetc

 

[2020hindsight]

Wayne
further to previous
Here are all 8 of Gordon's Fyttes , (fits? lol). The two poems below are Fytte II and III.
plus the Lay of the Last Charger. (I love that one )
Let us know what you think.

 

[2020hindsight]

OKKER AUTONOMY (call it an Easter message of peace if you prefer )

There’s a little fledgling nation, call it Oz, or “Okkerland”
While sitting at Eureka said “c’mon ! let’s make a stand!”,
Since then has made pretensions to the truth and the UN,
And so gained its autonomy on what to do and when.

Autonomous young nation, you’ll be judged in years to come,
Please “filter” all “sensation” and don’t follow causes dumb,
Don’t charge into mass lynchings, where young angels fear to tread,
There’s such a thing as “walk beside” much preferable to “lead”.

Autonomy, umBilicals are long since naval floss,
Be anything you wanna be, but YOU’re your moral boss,
Don’t follow Uncle Sam so blind – he’ll lead you up some creek,
His brightest talent talons, and that razor eagle beak.

His Peace Corps boys around the world make friends for life it seems ,
And meet old friends on islands, and they smile at long held dreams,
They shake the hands of kindred souls they taught at some bark school - ….
Don’t “stuff it up” with warlike goals, because of some blind fool.

The history of Uncle Sam as all good Texans know
Means “equal justice for the lamb went out with Alamo”
Those Mexicans who fought it had no right to be out there,
And Davey Crockett bought it, and his motives pure and fair.

Don’t follow him so readily boy, he likes to play with death,
Some “four-year king” with deadly toys – makes choir boy of Macbeth,
Unless you win some hearts and minds, you’ll never win that goal,
That makes your land a noble place, and gives your nation soul.

Be careful of your Uncle boy he preaches like a monk
He loves to taunt like Dirty Harry “Feelin lucky, punk?”
He has such simple ethics, he can make it up each day -
“Don’t do that which we do, you all, just do that which we say!”.

Be careful of your Uncle boy he’s just a little wild
His birth and youth the tantrums of a civil warring child
Where strength was proven without doubt to emanate from guns
And carpet baggers laughing at “red-badge-of-courage” sons.

He learnt the law of “might is right” and jaundiced record books
Those written by the victors, “how we beat those wimpish sooks”
He’s lost all sense of moral cause, he’s now his own worst foe
And pity help some “Mouse that Roars” at modern GI Joe.

Tis only seven score year and four, that Lincoln gave his speech (1863)
He spoke of equals, principles, the stuff that teachers teach,
But how the heck can kids grow up in these uncertain times,?
We’ve traded any moral code for blood-soaked oil-soaked dimes.

I wonder what would Lincoln think if now he saw the mess
Of how we bomb the innocent, yet innocence protest.
And pity help the child that sees through any kings new clothes
Who makes predictions terrified of ugly things he loathes.

“I think therefore I’m here, I am”?, - that’s much too strong on tact!
He much prefers “I think KERBAM” He much prefers to act,
And pity help some Mouse that Roars, his sense of humour’s gone
KERBAM to you, to hell with cause, (his Xmas list is long).

A truly moral message that will resonate for years
Is not the one the booms out of a cannon near your ears
And who recalls the word of Caesar in historic mist ?
And who prefers the gentle thoughts of Buddha or the Christ?

I really liked the English Archbishop of Canterbury's Easter message ...(something like) ..

"We might get peace , but not before Moslems stop thinking of Christians as Crusaders
and Christians stop thinking of Moslems as Terrorists"

 

[2020hindsight]

OKKER AUTONOMY (call it an Easter message of peace if you prefer )

A truly moral message that will resonate for years
Is not the one the booms out of a cannon near your ears
And who recalls the word of Caesar in historic mist ?
And who prefers the gentle thoughts of Buddha or the Christ?

I really liked the English Archbishop of Canterbury's Easter message ...(something like) ..

"We might get peace , but not before Moslems stop thinking of Christians as Crusaders
and Christians stop thinking of Moslems as Terrorists"

PS There's only one thing I hate more than where we are going
and that is the speed with which we are going there .

PS I met US Peace Corps blokes in the islands - scuba dived with em - great ambassadors working with poor village kids - shame that their work is being undermined by "recent events".

 

[drillinto]

The Poet

Tom Wayman

Loses his position on worksheet or page in textbook
May speak much but makes little sense
Cannot give clear verbal instructions
Does not understand what he reads
Does not understand what he hears
Cannot handle “yes-no” questions

Has great difficulty interpreting proverbs
Has difficulty recalling what he ate for breakfast, etc.
Cannot tell a story from a picture
Cannot recognize visual absurdities

Has difficulty classifying and categorizing objects
Has difficulty retaining such things as
addition and subtraction facts, or multiplication tables
May recognize a word one day and not the next


From In a Small House on the Outskirts of Heaven, 1989
Harbour Publishing (Canada)