JCpoetryblog

It's the last line of this monologue which sticks in my mind. THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms; And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthfu...

There's one section of this poem which is so often quoted separately, it's been given a separate title. PIPPPA'S SONG     The year's at the spring      And day's at the morn;      Morning's at seven;      The hillside's dew-pearled;      The lark's on the wing;      The snail's on the thorn:      God's in His heaven—      All's right with the world!                             Robert Browning

I came across a poem by Maya Angelou this morning.  As a whole, the poem didn't speak to me but the first four lines brought me  up short, encapsulating something I've been feeling for a while: my internal monologue is becoming more a part of my everyday life.  Some people might say the voices in my head are becoming more insistent but I like to think that I'm becoming more aware of their presence.  Certainly I wouldn't be able to complete this exercise of collecting poems if my internal voice was not part of the process. ON AGING When you see me sitting quietly, Like a sack left on the shelf, Don’t think I need your chattering. I’m listening to myself.

NINE MILES FROM GUNDAGAI I've done my share of shearing sheep,  Of droving and all that,  And bogged a bullock team as well,  On a Murrumbidgee flat.  I've seen the bullock stretch and strain,  And blink his bleary eye,  And the dog sits on the tucke rbox  Nine miles from Gundagai.   I've been jilted, jarred and crossed in love,  And sand-bagged in the dark,  Till if a mountain fell on me,  I'd treat it as a lark.  It's when you've got your bullocks bogged  That's the time you flog and cry,  And the dog sits on the tucker box,  Nine miles from Gundagai.   We've all got our little troubles,  In life's hard, thorny way.  Some strike them in a motor car  And others in a dray.  But when your dog and bullocks strike  It ain't no apple pie,  And the dog sat on the tucker box  Nine miles from Gundagai.   But that's all past and dead and gone,  And I've sol...

SONG OF THE RAIN Night, And the yellow pleasure of candle-light. Old brown books and the kind fine face of the clock Fogged in the veils of the fire – its cuddling tock.   The cat, Greening her eyes on the flame-litten mat; Wickedly wakeful she yawns at the rain Bending the roses over the pane, And a bird in my heart begins to sing Over and over the same sweet thing— Safe in the house with my boyhood’s love And our children asleep in the attic above.

I included his middle name in the title in an attempt to add gravitas to his poetry.  It needs all the help it can get. GOOD DOG, NIGE L Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight Our little hairy friend Arf, Arf, upon the lampost bright Arfing round the bend. Nice dog! Good boy, Waggie tail and beg, Clever Nigel, jump for joy Because we are putting you to sleep at three of the clock, Nigel.

Edward Fitzgerald translated these verses from the original Persian.  There are over 100 but a few have entered our consciousness.  For example: I. Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light. XII. A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread, - and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness -  Oh, Wilderness were Paradise now!  LX. The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it. 

  HIGH FLIGHT Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air . . . Up, up the long, delirious burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or ever eagle flew — And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Again, I woke up with a snatch of poetry in my head.  This time it was 'breathes there the man'.  It's from The Lay of the Last Minstrel by Sir Walter Scott.  Normally, I'm suspicious of overt patriotism, with images of drunken yobbos on the beach at Cronulla with Australian flags draped around their shoulders, but I can certainly appreciate a quiet pride in one's country as being different to that. THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,  Who never to himself hath said,  This is my own, my native land!  Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,  As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,  From wandering on a foreign strand!  If such there breathe, go, mark him well;  For him no Minstrel raptures swell;  High though his titles, proud his name,  Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;  Despite those titles, power, and pelf,  The wretch, concentred all in self,  Living, shall forfeit fair...

FUNERAL BLUES Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Another almost-forgotten poet who featured in my early childhood is Walter de la Mare. SOMEONE Someone came knocking  At my wee, small door;  Someone came knocking,  I'm sure — sure — sure;  I listened, I opened,  I looked to left and right,  But nought there was a-stirring  In the still, dark night;  Only the busy beetle  Tap-tapping in the wall,  Only from the forest  The screech owl's call,  Only the cricket whistling  While the dewdrops fall,  So I know not who came knocking,  At all, at all, at all.

Some of Roald Dahl's Revolting Rhymes have been translated into Scots (by Matthew Fitt) and Cinderellae is one of my favourites. CINDERELLAE Nae doot ye think ye ken this story. Ye dinnae. The real yin’s faur mair gory. The phoney wan, the wan you ken, Wis cooked up auld lang syne and then Made tae soond aw saft and sappy Jist tae keep the bairnies happy. Mind ye, they got the first bit richt, The bit whaur in the deid o nicht, The Hackit Sisters, jewels and aw, Mairched pronto tae the Palace Baw, While yon wee darlin Cinderellae Wis doon the cellar weet and smelly Whaur rats hauf-mad for things tae eat Began tae chaw on baith her feet...

My mother loved poetry so it was appropriate that I read a poem at her funeral service.   Death is nothing at all I have only slipped away into the next room I am I and you are you Whatever we were to each other That we are still Call me by my old familiar name Speak to me in the easy way you always used Put no difference into your tone Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow Laugh as we always laughed At the little jokes we always enjoyed together Play, smile, think of me, pray for me Let my name be ever the household word that it always was Let it be spoken without effort Without the ghost of a shadow in it Life means all that it ever meant It is the same as it ever was There is absolute unbroken continuity What is death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind Because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you for an interval Somewhere very near Just around the corner All is well. Nothing is past; nothing is lost One brief moment and all will be as it was before How...

The poem, by Rudyard Kipling, was published around 1894 but the movie they made of the story was not made until 1939.  I remember seeing the movie when I was very young and, of course, the famous line 'You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!' has become part of our folklore.  I'll reproduce the whole poem here although some of the expressions used in it are no longer acceptable.  It's very much a product of its time. GUNGA DIN You may talk o’ gin and beer    When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,    An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter    You will do your work on water, An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.    Now in Injia’s sunny clime,    Where I used to spend my time    A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,    Of all them blackfaced crew    The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gu...

There's something familiar about this poem and I wonder whether there was any connection between this poet and the author of Tallangalangaloo.  This offering by 'Banjo' Patterson was first published in 1893.  John O'Brien wrote much later and he was certainly a devotee of Patterson's work, so we can draw our own conclusions. BUSH CHRISTENING On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few, And men of religion are scanty, On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost, One Michael Magee had a shanty. Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad, Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned; He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest For the youngster had never been christened. And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.' But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived, Who agreed straightaway to baptise him. Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue, With his ear to the keyhole...

I don't know whether our English teacher in Year 9 had been instructed to teach this poem by Matthew Arnold, or whether it was her personal favourite, but I do know that our hearts sank when she told us to open to that page.  In our minds, it was So Drab and Rusty ... (Typical adolescent humour!). I've just copied the first half of the epic poem here. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM AND the first grey of morning fill'd the east,  And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream.  But all the Tartar camp along the stream  Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep;  Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long  He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed;  But when the grey dawn stole into his tent,  He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword,  And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent,  And went abroad into the cold wet fog,  Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent.  Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood  Clusterin...

A FATHER TO HIS SON A father sees his son nearing manhood. What shall he tell that son? "Life is hard; be steel; be a rock." And this might stand him for the storms and serve him for humdrum monotony and guide him among sudden betrayals and tighten him for slack moments. "Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy." And this too might serve him. Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed. The growth of a frail flower in a path up has sometimes shattered and split a rock. A tough will counts. So does desire.  So does a rich soft wanting. Without rich wanting nothing arrives.  Tell him too much money has killed men and left them dead years before burial: the quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs has twisted good enough men sometimes into dry thwarted worms. Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted. Tell him to be a fool every so often and to have no shame over having been a fool yet learning something out of every folly hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies thus ar...

This is another poem by Robert Louis Stevenson that easily comes to mind. REQUIEM Under the wide and starry sky  Dig the grave and let me lie.  Glad did I live and gladly die,   And I laid me down with a will.   This be the verse you grave for me;  Here he lies where he longed to be,  Home is the sailor, home from sea,   And the hunter home from the hill.

You won't find many poems by John Keats or other Romantic poets in this collection.  I like my poetry to be muscular or wry.  Odes on a Grecian Urn or otherwise always make me think of Basil Fotherington-Thomas of St Custards School: 'Hello clouds, hello sky'.  However this poem is an exception: LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,         Alone and palely loitering?  The  sedge  has withered from the lake,         And no birds sing.  O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,         So  haggard  and so woe- begone ?  The squirrel’s granary is full,         And the harvest’s done.  I see a lily on thy brow,         With anguish moist and fever-dew,  And on thy cheeks a fading rose         Fast witheret...