Stephen Spender

One of the great benefits of this exercise of gathering poems is that verses which I have long forgotten have come back to me.  I woke up this morning with the words 'children who were rough' in my head.  Google filled in the blanks.

My parents kept me from children who were rough
and who threw words like stones and who wore torn clothes.
Their thighs showed through rags. They ran in the street
And climbed cliffs and stripped by the country streams.

I feared more than tigers their muscles like iron
And their jerking hands and their knees tight on my arms.
I feared the salt coarse pointing of those boys
Who copied my lisp behind me on the road.

They were lithe, they sprang out behind hedges
Like dogs to bark at our world. They threw mud
And I looked another way, pretending to smile,
I longed to forgive them, yet they never smiled.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Jessie Pope

 I was browsing a selection of War Poems and each was more distressing than the one before.  Then I found WAR GIRLS by Jessie Pope who found a glimmer of positivity in the way that women rose to the occasion and filled the roles, left vacant by the men going off to war. There's the girl who clips your ticket for the train,   And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor, There's the girl who does a milk-round in the rain,   And the girl who calls for orders at your door.       Strong, sensible, and fit,       They're out to show their grit,     And tackle jobs with energy and knack.       No longer caged and penned up,       They're going to keep their end up     Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back. There's the motor girl who drives a heavy van,   There's the butcher girl ...
Read more

John O'Brien

Monsignor Patrick Joseph Hartigan was the real name of the poet known as John O'Brien whose first collection of poems was published under the title 'Around the Boree Log'. Monsignor Hartigan was, of course, a Catholic priest. His best-known poem is this one: SAID HANRAHAN "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, In accents most forlorn, Outside the church, ere Mass began, One frosty Sunday morn. The congregation stood about, Coat-collars to the ears, And talked of stock, and crops, and drought, As it had done for years. "It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke; "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad, For never since the banks went broke Has seasons been so bad." "It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil, With which astute remark He squatted down upon his heel And chewed a piece of bark. And so around the chorus ran "It's keepin' dry, no doubt." "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before t...
Read more

Kitty Madison

Our house in West Hobart had a flat underneath and, when we bought the house, the flat was occupied by an American woman called Kitty Madison.  She was a very interesting lady, apparently unemployed and she spent her time writing poetry. Marilyn's father spent a few months with us to help us put the garden in order and he and Kitty used to enjoy morning tea together on the back deck swapping stories. Bill, of course, came from a literary family, both his parents being published authors. This poem was written at Christmas 1985 to remember the loss of our cat, Angelique. ANGELIQUE Penetrating, blue-eyed seer of mysteries carried through genetic memory. Adventurer, climber of rooftops and tearing holly branches, hunter crouched for the kill misled by a swaying leaf. Companion, foot warmer, sweet little chatterer, held close, now in remembrance. Amidst the fragrance of mint and cress you are taking your long nap curled up in God's enfolding lap.
Read more