After yesterday's rather sombre poem, here is something humorous - well black humour.

Read it aloud in your best cockney accent.

DAHN THE PLUG'OLE

A muvver was barfin 'er biby one night,
The youngest of ten and a tiny young mite,
The muvver was pore and the biby was thin,
Only a skelington covered in skin;
The muvver turned rahnd for the soap off the rack,
She was but a moment, but when she turned back,
The biby was gorn; and in anguish she cried,
'Oh, where is my biby?' - the Angels replied:
'Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug-'ole,
Your biby 'as gorn dahn the plug;
The poor little thing was so skinny and thin
'E oughter been barfed in a jug;
Your biby is perfeckly 'appy,
'E won't need a barf any more,
Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug 'ole
Not lorst, but gorn before!'

Anon

P.S. I have not gorn away for the New Year holiday, so daily postings will continue on this blog.

At this time of year I sometimes get a little despondent about the years slipping away - and how old I am!

We are mourned at any age. Old men have wives, partners, lovers, brothers, sisters, friends, children and grandchildren, who will truly mourn them when they go.

OLD MEN

People expect old men to die,
They do not really mourn old men.
Old men are different. People look
At them with eyes that wonder when...
People watch with unshocked eyes;
But the old men know when an old man dies.

Ogden Nash

Look at the picture above the poem.
What do you see? The face of an old man?
Study it again - and you will see two lovers kissing!

How was it for you?
The holiday break I mean.
Do you now feel a little let down?
In the words of Nat King Cole, is the party over?

The party's over
It's time to call it a day
They've burst your pretty balloon
And taken the moon away
It's time to wind up the masquerade
Just make your mind up the piper must be paid

The party's over
The candles flicker and dim
You danced and dreamed through the night
It seemed to be right just being with him
Now you must wake up, all dreams must end
Take off your makeup, the party's over
It's all over, my friend

But is it?

Next Saturday you can celebrate New Year's Eve.

I am away for a few days, but tomorrow I will leave a greeting for 2006.

Then more poems and prose from early January.

Thank you all for reading this blog over the past few weeks - and Best Wishes for the year ahead.

Colin (kendrive)

On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love sent to me:
Twelve drummers drumming
Eleven pipers piping
Ten lords a-leaping
Nine ladies dancing
Eight maids a-milking
Seven swans a-swimming
Six geese a-laying
Five golden rings
Four calling birds
Three French hens
Two turtle doves and
A partridge in a pear tree

How many of you know the origin of this traditional song?

It is said that it was written in England as one of the "catechism songs" to help young Catholics learn the tenets of their faith - a memory aid, when to be caught with anything in *writing* indicating adherence to the Catholic faith could not only get you imprisoned, it could get you hanged, drawn and quartered.

The songs gifts are hidden meanings to the teachings of the faith. The "true love" mentioned in the song doesn't refer to an earthly suitor, it refers to God Himself. The "me" who receives the presents refers to every baptized person. The partridge in a pear tree is Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

In the song, Christ is symbolically presented as a mother partridge which feigns injury to decoy predators from her helpless nestlings.

The other symbols mean the following:

2 Turtle Doves = The Old and New Testaments
3 French Hens = Faith, Hope and Charity, the Theological Virtues
4 Calling Birds = the Four Gospels and/or the Four Evangelists
5 Golden Rings = The first Five Books of the Old Testament, the "Pentateuch", which gives the history of man's fall from grace.
6 Geese A-laying = the six days of creation
7 Swans A-swimming = the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the seven sacraments
8 Maids A-milking = the eight beatitudes
9 Ladies Dancing = the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit
10 Lords A-leaping = the ten commandments
11 Pipers Piping = the eleven faithful apostles
12 Drummers Drumming = the twelve points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed

How was your Christmas Day? Enjoyable I hope.

Here is the poem:

THE RAVENOUS SEA

The sea moans its hunger tonight.
With its many mouths it devours the shore,
here, in this strange-tongued coast,
haunted by the ghosts of cities -
sixteen lost in Cantred Gwaelod,
the lowest hundred, its hoard below.
So the bards sing - sing of its vanished riches,
its fields and orchards,
villages and castles.

To dolphins and lonely fishermen
now the sunken bells toll -
a long low note in the deep
ringing for the drowned.

And half a world away
the same story is told
with deadly effect.

A sea god shrugged his shoulders
and massacred a continent’s children.
The necklace of its archipelago broken,
beads strewn -
numberless souls claimed
by a displaced sea,
a bitter tide, a tsunami of death.
Leaving a flotsam of lives wrecked,
families ruined, towns razed,
like the mythic kingdom of Cardigan Bay,
but for real.

A reality too vast to comprehend
except perhaps through legend.
A catastrophe as overwhelming as the ocean,
unless viewed from a wind-devilled cliff
with friends close,
fragile and precious,
holding on with love -
singing into the storm
and casting prayers into the darkening depths.

As all the while kings of the world,
arrogant as Maelgwyn,
sit on thrones of feather and wax.

And the waves thunder in
tasting of tears.

Kevan Manwaring

Long time ago in Bethlehem, so the Holy Bible say,
Mary's boy child Jesus Christ, was born on Christmas Day.

Hark, now hear the angels sing, a king was born today,
And man will live for evermore, because of Christmas Day.

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace."

And in that region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with fear.

And the angel said to them, "Be not afraid, for behold, I bring you good news of a great joy which will come to all the people; for to you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger."

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying,

"Glory to God in the highest,

and on earth peace, good will among men!"

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold;
"Peace on the earth, good will to men,
From heaven’s all gracious King."
The world in solemn stillness lay,
To hear the angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife,
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled,
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not,
The love song which they bring:
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.

Edmund Hamilton Sears

We could even begin in the last moments of 2005!

This is a poem for all those who are apart from their loved-one this Christmas.

Mistletoe

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green fairy, mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Someone came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen - and kissed me there.

Walter de la Mare

Yesterday I posted "Next, Please" and Nutshell asked in a comment "How did Larkin feel about Christmas? You will note that I replied saying he hated it - and I also commented on his lack of religious faith.

However, he redeems himself in the last paragraph and he acknowledges that people congregate in churches from a hunger in themselves to find their destinies.

CHURCH GOING

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation -- marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these -- for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Philip Larkin

Here is another poem by Philip Larkin.

We should break those "bad habits of expectancy".

NEXT, PLEASE

Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,

Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits
Arching our way, it never anchors; it's
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last

We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.

Philip Larkin

Now a much-loved poem from childhood. It is full of imagery and "tells a story".

If you have children, or grandchildren, read it to them. Although it is quite long I am sure they will be enthralled.

THE LADY OF SHALLOT

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

PART II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
"The Lady of Shalott."

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
"The Lady of Shalott".

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Alfred Lord Tennyson

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

To hear Tennyson reading this poem, click on the following link:

http://charon.sfsu.edu/TENNYSON/lightbrigadewax.html

Not perhaps as it would be read today! And what are the footsteps?

I am seeking assistance. Can anyone find for me on the internet an image of the painting "Fatima ", by John William Waterhouse?

Tomorrow, more Tennyson - his "The Charge Of The Light Brigade", with a scratchy recording of him reading it.

FATIMA

O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city's eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I roll'd among the tender flowers:
I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth;
I look'd athwart the burning drouth
Of that long desert to the south.

Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul thro'
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
Faints like a daled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And from beyond the noon a fire
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently,
All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I will possess him or will die.
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I am translating the Bible! Call mine the "Unauthorised Version".

Here is The King James translation:

THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARLOT.

For at the window of my house I looked though my casement,
and beheld among the simple ones.

I discerned among the youths, a young man void of understanding,
passing through the street near her corner;
and he went the way to her house, in the twilight,
in the evening, in the black and dark night.

And behold, there met him a woman
with the attire of an harlot, and subtle of heart.
(She is loud and stubborn, her feet abide not in her house.
Now she is without, now in the streets,
and lieth in wait at every corner.)

So she caught him and kissed him and, with an impudent face, said unto him,
"I have peace offerings with me ; this day have I payed my vows.
Therefore came I forth to meet thee, diligently to seek thy face, and I have found thee.
I have decked my my bed with coverings of tapestry, with carved works, with fine linen of Egypt.
I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes and cinnamon.

Come let us take our fill of love until the morning;
let us solace ourselves with loves."

And here is my version, in sonnet form:

SHAME

My window frames the passing scene below.
Beneath the lamp-post, bare midriff and heels,
She stands with lighted cigarette in hand, on show,
And lures the pimpled youth who, nervous, feels
Tonight will offer rich delights and joy.
And later to the guys he'll proudly tell
"I've crossed the threshold - man, no more a boy."
He climbs the stairs to take what she will sell.
He's all prepared, abandoned clothes on floor.
Eyes tight closed, he summons all his powers.
It's over! But he cannot stay for more;
He's paid for only minutes not for hours.
With downcast eyes he leaves, but not the same -
For eager lust has now become his shame.

From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed.
That's all there was to it. No more than a solemn waking
To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly,
A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more than that
Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm,
Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back,
That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say:
"It's time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening."

Mark Strand

Following my recent postings of poetry by English Poets Laureate, I thought I would turn again to America.

It is a warning for you all to avoid poetry fanatics!

EATING POETRY

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Mark Strand

A note for those of you who may have only recently found my Poetry blog:

(1) Remember that you can go back to earlier entries by clicking on "Next Page" (right at the bottom).

The first posting was on November 13 2005.

(2) I welcome your responses. Please tell me your likes and dislikes.

What would you like to see more of - and less?

(3) You can contact me by adding a comment to an individual posting, or by email at:

colin_hurrell@hotmail.com

I hope you have found on these pages something that you have enjoyed.

If so, tell me and ...

Keep coming back!

Colin

P.S. My poems for today are below.

You cannot have missed the recent hype of the film "The Chronicles Of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe", which is based on a story by the Irish author and scholar, C.S. Lewis.

In this poem he comments on the inhumanity of war:

FRENCH NOCTURNE(Monchy-Le-Preux)

Long leagues on either hand the trenches spread
And all is still; now even this gross line
Drinks in the frosty silences divine
The pale, green moon is riding overhead.

The jaws of a sacked village, stark and grim;
Out on the ridge have swallowed up the sun,
And in one angry streak his blood has run
To left and right along the horizon dim.

There comes a buzzing plane: and now, it seems
Flies straight into the moon. Lo! where he steers
Across the pallid globe and surely nears
In that white land some harbour of dear dreams!

False mocking fancy! Once I too could dream,
Who now can only see with vulgar eye
That he's no nearer to the moon than I
And she's a stone that catches the sun's beam.

What call have I to dream of anything?
I am a wolf. Back to the world again,
And speech of fellow-brutes that once were men
Our throats can bark for slaughter: cannot sing.

And then he imagines himself returning to Belfast and standing outside the house of his lover. He suddenly realises that he is dead, killed a long time ago in the war - and now just a "homeless wraith" passing by:

SPOOKS

Last night I dreamed that I was come again
Unto the house where my beloved dwells
After long years of wandering and pain.

And I stood out beneath the drenching rain
And all the street was bare, and black with night,
But in my true love's house was warmth and light.

Yet I could not draw near nor enter in,
And long I wondered if some secret sin
Or old, unhappy anger held me fast;

Till suddenly it came into my head
That I was killed long since and lying dead-
Only a homeless wraith that way had passed.

So thus I found my true love's house again
And stood unseen amid the winter night
And the lamp burned within, a rosy light,
And the wet street was shining in the rain.

A few days ago I mentioned that I could not find on the internet the poem written by the current Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion, on the occasion of the wedding of Prince Edward and Sophie Rhys-Jones on 19 June 1999.

So here it is:

EPITHALAMIUM
St. George's Chapel, Windsor

One day, the tissue-light through stained glass falls
on vacant stone on gaping pews, on air
made up of nothing more than atom storms
which whiten slowly, then disappear.

The next all this is changed with brimming life.
A people-river floods those empty pews,
and music-torrents break - but then stop dead
to let two human voices make their vows:

to work - so what is true today remains the truth;
to hope - for privacy and what its secrets show;
to trust - that all the world can offer it will give;
to love - and what it has to understand to grow.

THE SEASHORE

The green water
That creeps over the sand
Takes my hand.

Lying in sunshine,
Partially covered
With the tide
Partially resting
On tiny pieces
Of shell,
I feel the tug..
Of eons. …….

I am owned
By the shore,
But taken with the sea,
By the sea.
On the median that marks
The love of two mothers
Fighting for their lonely son;
Neither am I
Heir of their riches,
Nor able to breathe in their arms.

I am of the sea,
And the land.
But I am not as naturally born
As this one simple shard
Of white and pink abalone.

I feel alone and alien,
On the line between two spaces,
That belong eternally.

Donald Ⓒ

Today - Back to poetry, with something by Philip Larkin.

FEMMES DAMNEES

The fire is ash: the early morning sun
Outlines the patterns on the curtains, drawn
The night before. The milk's been on the step,
The 'Guardian' in the letter-box, since dawn.

Upstairs, the beds have not been touched, and thence
Builders' estates, and the main road, are seen,
With labourers, petrol-pumps, a Green Line 'bus,
And plots of cabbages set in between.

But the living-room is ruby: there upon
Cushions from Harrod's, strewn in tumbled heaps
Around the floor, smelling of smoke and wine,
Rosemary sits. Her hands are clasped. She weeps.

She stares about her: round the decent walls
(The ribbon lost,her pale gold hair falls down)
Sees books and photos: 'Dance'; 'The Rhythmic Life';
Miss Rachel Wilson in a cap and gown.

Stretched out before her, Rachel curls and curves,
Eyelids and lips apart, her glances filled
With satisfied ferocity: she smiles,
As beasts smile on the prey they have just killed.

The marble clock has stopped. The curtained sun
Burns on: the room grows hot. There, it appears,
A vase of flowers has spilt, and soaked away.
The only sound heard is the sound of tears.

That was inspired by an erotic poem of the same name, written by the great French poet of the 19th century, Charles Baudelaire.

Here is part of Baudelaire's poem:

FEMMES DAMNEES
Delphine et Hippolyte

A la pâle clarté des lampes languissantes,
Sur de profonds coussins tout imprégnés d'odeur,
Hippolyte révait aux caresses puissantes
Qui levaient le rideau de sa jeune candeur.
Elle cherchait d'un oeil troublé par la tempête,
De sa naïveté le ciel déjà lointain,
Ainsi qu'un voyageur qui retourne la tête
Vers les horizons bleus dépassés le matin.

De ses yeux amortis les paresseuses larmes,
L'air brisé, la stupeur, la morne volupté,
Ses bras vaincus, jetés comme de vaines armes,
Tout servait, tout parait sa fragile beauté.

Étendue à ses pieds, calme et pleine de joie,
Delphine la couvait avec des yeux ardents,
Comme un animal fort qui surveille une proie,
Après l'avoir d'abord marquée avec les dents.

January 23, 1935

Winston

That was to his wife, Clementine. It's a bit restrained, isn't it? What a contrast to Napoleon.

However he had, when younger, written many more intimate letters to his first love, Pamela Plowden.

These were sold at Christie's in 2003 and here is part of an article written at the time:

Churchill's words of passion bring big bids

A letter he wrote from the Boer War, in which he confessed "I really am enjoying myself immensely", sold for £26,290.

Oscar Wilde was not around to write another poem about that auction. Perhaps our current Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion (appointed 1999), should have written something.

But it would not have been as good as Oscar!

Tomorrow - back to Poetry.

Following on from Keats yesterday, I thought I would share with you love letters written by other famous people - persons you may not have thought of as being romantic.

The first is Napoleon Bonaparte.

In addition to being a brilliant military mind and feared ruler, he was a prolific writer of letters. He reportedly wrote as many as 75,000 letters in his lifetime, many of them to his beautiful wife, Josephine, both before and during their marriage. This letter was written just prior to their 1796 wedding.

Paris, December 1795