JCpoetryblog

  Inversnaid This darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home. A windpuff-bonnet of fáawn-fróth Turns and twindles over the broth Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning, It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning. Degged with dew, dappled with dew, Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn. What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.                                        Gerard Manley Hopkins

This is Mister Beers; And for forty-seven years He's been digging in his garden like a miner. He isn't planting seeds Nor scratching up weeds, He's trying to bore a tunnel down to China.

  Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,    Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes Ebon in the hedges, fat With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers. I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me. They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides. Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks— Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky. Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting. I do not think the sea will appear at all. The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within. I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies, Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen. The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.    One more hook, and the be...

 Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion. I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and th...

 Engineers' Corner Why isn't there an Engineers' Corner in Westminster Abbey? In Britain we've always made more fuss of a ballad than a blueprint... How many schoolchildren dream of becoming great engineers? -- advertisement placed in The Times by the Engineering Council We make more fuss of ballads than of blueprints -- That's why so many poets end up rich, While engineers scrape by in cheerless garrets. Who needs a bridge or dam? Who needs a ditch? Whereas the person who can write a sonnet Has got it made. It's always been the way, For everybody knows that we need poems And everybody reads them every day. Yes, life is hard if you choose engineering -- You're sure to need another job as well; You'll have to plan your projects in the evenings Instead of going out. It must be hell. While well-heeled poets ride around in Daimlers, You'll burn the midnight oil to earn a crust, With no hope of a statue in the Abbey, With no hope, even, of a modest bust. ...

I've always thought of Rudyard Kipling as a poet who wrote verses about the glories of Empire and Manhood and such, but when I looked at the list of his literary achievements I was amazed.  He was certainly a man of his time but not limited by that. There are hundreds of his poems to choose from but I can't resist this gem from The Jungle Book. Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back -- For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep; And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep. The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown, Remember the Wolf is a Hunter -- go forth and get food of thine own. Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungl...