Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

Emily Dickinson

This very short poem, by the 28th President of the United States (1913 - 1921) is dedicated to all those who consider themselves to be ugly.

He may have been a good President, but he wasn't a very good poet!

Perhaps that is why I can only find one example of his verse.

For beauty I am not a star,
There are others more perfect by far,
But my face I don't mind it,
For I am behind it,
It is those in front that I jar !

Woodrow Wilson

To expand this post a little and restore some seriousness, here are a few quotations from his speeches.

Many of the thoughts he expresses are just as valid today.

"A little group of wilful men, representing no opinion but their own, have rendered the great government of the United States . . . contemptible."

"We set this nation up ... to vindicate the rights of man. We did not name any differences between one race and another. We opened our gates to all the world and said: "Let all men who want to be free come to us and they will be welcome."

And finally for my Democrat friends in the United States:

"I will not speak with disrespect of the Republican Party. I always speak with respect of the past." !

Here is the poem I promised you yesterday.

Is it the writing of "a very dirty-minded man", or something else?

LEVES AMORES

Our kisses, and the way you curl,
Delicious and distracting girl,
Into one’s arms, and round about,
Inextricably in and out,
Twining luxuriously, as twine
The clasping tangles of the vine;
So loving to be loved, so gay
And greedy for our holiday;
Strong to embrace and long to kiss,
And strenuous for the sharper bliss,
A little tossing sea of sighs,
Till the slow calm seal up your eyes.
And then how prettily you sleep!
You nestle close and let me keep
My straying fingers in the nest
Of your warm comfortable breast;
And as I dream, lying awake,
Of sleep well wasted for your sake,
I feel the very pulse and heat
Of your young life-blood beat, and beat
With mine; and you are mine; my sweet!

Arthur Symons (1865-1945)

On seeing an Old Poet in the Café Royal

I saw him in the Café Royal
Very old and very grand.
Modernistic shone the lamplight
There in London's fairyland.
"Devilled chicken. Devilled whitebait.
Devil if I understand.

Where is Oscar? Where is Bosie?
Have I seen that man before?
And the old one in the corner,
Is it really Wratislaw?"
Scent of Tutti-Frutti-Sen-Sen
And cheroots upon the floor.

John Betjeman

Notes:

(1) Theodore Wratislaw (1871-1933) was an English poet, educated at Rugby. Interestingly, he once resided at York Lodge, Ashley Road, Walton-on-Thames, Surrey - which is only a short distance from where I now live.

(2) Tutti frutti (Italian for "all fruits") is a confection, in most cases ice cream, containing a variety of chopped and usually candied fruits. In Japan "sen-sen" means glistening, shiny or bright and in America it is the trade name for a breath-freshener!

(3) Betjeman was inspired to write this poem after seing a contemporary poet, Arthur Symons (1865-1945), at the Cafe Royal.

Symons was, by many people, thought to be "decadent". Here is a press comment of the time:

"Mr Arthur Symons is a very dirty-minded man, and his mind is reflected in the puddle of his bad verses. It may be that there are other dirty-minded men who will rejoice in the jingle that records the squalid and inexpensive amours of Mr Symons, but our faith jumps to the hope that such men are not."

(Pall Mall Gazette : 2 Sep, 1895.)

But Symons said:

"Art begins when a man wishes to immortalize the most vivid moment he has ever lived."

Nowadays I think most people would find his verse "erotic" rather than "dirty".

I shall post one of his poems here tomorrow, so that you can make up your own mind!

When I was a boy I lived in Southampton. Not only did I see many of the great ocean liners, but I was invited aboard several of them.

I was reminded of this when I read the following poem by W.H. Auden.

YOU WERE A GREAT CUNARDER

You were a great Cunarder, I
Was only a fishing smack.
Once you passed across my bows
And of course you did not look back.
I was only a single moment yet
I watch the sea and sigh,
Because my heart can never forget
The day you passed me by.

P.S. Many of you will recognise the ill-fated liner in my header picture (A White Star Line ship - not a Cunarder).

This poem, a witty parody of basic army training, is by Henry Reed (1914 -1986), who was a British poet, translator, radio dramatist and journalist.

You can hear it read by the writer and another actor by going to:

http://www.solearabiantree.net/namingofparts/audio.html

NAMING OF PARTS

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have the naming of parts.

Henry Reed

I used to think that grown-up people chose
To have stiff backs and wrinkles round their nose,
And veins like small fat snakes on either hand,
On purpose to be grand.
Till through the banister I watched one day
My great-aunt Etty’s friend who was going away,
And how her onyx beads had come unstrung.
I saw her grope to find them as they rolled;
And then I knew that she was helplessly old,
As I was helplessly young.

Frances Cornford

The poet was a grand-daughter of the British naturalist Charles Darwin.

ON THIS ISLAND

Look, stranger, on this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.

Here at a small field's ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the suck-
-ing surf, and a gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.

Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands,
And this full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.

W.H Auden 1935

TERMINAL

The eight years difference in age seems now
Disparity so wide between the two
That when I see the man who armoured stood
Resistant to all help however good
Now helped through day itself, eased into chairs,
Or else led step by step down the long stairs
With firm and gentle guidance by his friend,
Who loves him, through each effort to descend,
Each wavering, each attempt made to complete
An arc of movement and bring down the feet
As if with that spare strength he used to enjoy,
I think of Oedipus, old, led by a boy.

Thom Gunn (1929 - 2004)

I hesitated to bring you this poem, about a gay man dying of AIDS, but I found it very sensitive and poignant.

ON parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat’st while all around thee smiled:
So live, that sinking to thy life’s last sleep,
Calm thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

Sir William Jones (1746—1794)

A LADY WHO THINKS SHE IS THIRTY

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.
Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.
Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.
Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?
Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Ogden Nash

On waking, have you ever wanted to return to a dream? I know I have.

Well, Shakespeare wrote about it, better than I ever can.

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again.

Shakespeare - The Tempest, Act III

THE FAKING BOY

The faking boy to the crap is gone,
At the nubbing-cheat you’ll find him;
The hempen cord they have girded on,
And his elbows pinned behind him.
“Smash my glim,” cries the reg’lar card,
“Though the girl you love betrays you,
Don’t split, but die both game and hard,
And grateful pals shall praise you.”

The bolt it fell,—a jerk, a strain!
The sheriff’s fled asunder;
The faking-boy ne’er spoke again,
For they pulled his legs from under.
And there he dangles on the tree,
That sort of love and bravery!
Oh, that such men should victims be
Of law, and law’s vile knavery.

1841 By BON GAULTIER in Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine.

“Bon Gaultier” was the joint nom-de-plume of W. E. Aytoun and Sir Theodore Martin. Between 1840 and 1844 they worked together in the production of The Bon Gaultier Ballads, which acquired such great popularity that thirteen large editions of them were called for between 1855 and 1877.

THE GERM

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

Ogden Nash

Another poem by James Fenton. Do you remember "In Paris With You", posted here on 20th January? If you missed it you can page back.

I don't find much of his work very appealing, except the light-hearted humorous poems, like the one below.

GOD, A POEM

A nasty surprise in a sandwich,
A drawing-pin caught in your sock,
The limpest of shakes from a hand which
You'd thought would be firm as a rock,

A serious mistake in a nightie,
A grave disappointment all round
Is all that you'll get from th'Almighty,
Is all that you'll get underground.

Oh he said: 'If you lay off the crumpet
I'll see you alright in the end.
Just hang on until the last trumpet.
Have faith in me, chum-I'm your friend.'

But if you remind him, he'll tell you:
'I'm sorry, I must have been pissed-
Though your name rings a sort of a bell. You
Should have guessed that I do not exist.

'I didn't exist at Creation,
I didn't exist at the Flood,
And I won't be around for Salvation
To sort out the sheep from the cud-

'Or whatever the phrase is. The fact is
In soteriological* terms
I'm a crude existential malpractice
And you are a diet of worms.

'You're a nasty surprise in a sandwich.
You're a drawing-pin caught in my sock.
You're the limpest of shakes from a hand which
I'd have thought would be firm as a rock,

'You're a serious mistake in a nightie,
You're a grave disappointment all round-
That's all you are, ' says th'Almighty,
'And that's all that you'll be underground.'

James Fenton

* "soteriological" an adjective from the noun "Soteriology" - Theology the doctrine of salvation. ORIGIN mid 19th cent. from Greek sōtēria ‘salvation’ + -logy .

Today, more Wendy Cope.

FLOWERS

Some men never think of it.
You did. You'd come along
And say you'd nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts -
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But look, the flowers you nearly brought
Have lasted all this while.

Wendy Cope

Several of the poems I have recently posted here have been about personal relationships - specifically about being in love.

This one, by Wendy Cope, is no exception and it could well have been included in my "Poems Of Celebration".

AFTER THE LUNCH

On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I've fallen in love

On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?

On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
the head does its best but the heart is the boss-
I admit it before I am halfway across

Wendy Cope

Loving me with my shoes off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark

Anne Sexton

(Note: This is another poet from the 'club' to which Sylvia Plath also belonged - those who committed suicide.)

WIRES

The widest prairies have electric fences,
For though old cattle know they must not stray
Young steers are always scenting purer water
Not here but anywhere. Beyond the wires

Leads them to blunder up against the wires
Whose muscle-shredding violence gives no quarter.
Young steers become old cattle from that day,
Electric limits to their widest senses.

Philip Larkin

AMONG THE NARCISSI

Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks,
Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi.
He is recuperating from something on the lung.

The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing :
It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy
Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks.

There is a dignity to this; there is a formality --
The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending.
They bow and stand : they suffer such attacks!

And the octogenarian loves the little flocks.
He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing.
The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.

Sylvia Plath

Do you know what the following writers had in common with Sylvia Plath?

Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, John Berryman, Sarah Teasdale, Petronius

PHOENIX

Are you willing to be sponged out,erased,cancelled,
made nothing?
Are you willing to be made nothing?
dipped into oblivion?

If not, you will never really change.

The phoenix renews her youth
only when she is burnt, burnt alive, burnt down
to hot and flocculent ash.
Then the small stirring of a new small bub in the nest
with strands of down like floating ash
shows that she is renewing her youth like the eagle,
immortal bird.

D.H. Lawrence

I had disturbed sleep last night (see my Grumpy blog) and I spent some of the time reading.

It is about separation and longing and has what I call " 'Instant Imagery".

VERNAL EQUINOX

The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist,
Lies between me and my book;
And the South Wind, washing through the room,
Makes the candle quiver.
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,
And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots
Outside, in the night.

Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?

Amy Lowell

At poetry groups, the following poem is often chosen as a favourite.

I must admit that it has a certain appeal capturing, as it does, a glimpse of rural England in a byegone age.

ADLESTROP

Yes, I remember Adlestrop --
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop -- only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Edward Thomas

Adlestrop is a tiny (population approx. 80) Gloucestershire village, but its station and surrounding landscape inspired one of the best-known poems in the English language, written by Edward Thomas (1878-1917).

The village is saturated in literary fame. Jane Austen made several visits to Adlestrop. Her uncle was the rector, and it is believed the house and grounds of Adlestrop Park were the setting for her novel Mansfield Park.

Adlestrop railway station, Pre-Beeching

Today something from the American writer E.E.Cummings.

I feel that some of his poems are not suitable to post here, but this one has considerable charm and humility.

i am a little church (no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
--i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying) children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church (far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish) at peace with nature
--i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

E.E.Cummings

I first published the following short erotic prose on another of my blog sites almost a year ago. For those of you who may have missed it, here it is again.

THE CHOCOLATE CUP-CAKE

She sat there in the middle of the plate - shiny dark brown, almost black and, with her little frilled paper skirt, very sexy. I say sexy now but, at seven years old, I don't think I realised that chocolate had a reputation for being an aphrodisiac. But Madam Cup-Cake knew and she was trying to seduce me. All around her were her friends, the lemon fancy, the raspberry tart, the almond slice. But I knew where my heart lie and I desired her. My hand reached out to seize her and my tongue awaited the moment when I would take her into my mouth and savour the delights of her rich dark body.

But suddenly my hand drew back. I had been taught not to choose the object I most wanted when there were others still to make a choice. The plate moved slowly round the table. One by one, the lemon fancy, the raspberry tart and the almond slice were devoured. SHE was before me! Gently I took her and, before the consummation of my desire, I tenderly kissed her dark and shiny skin.

My lips closed around her moist seductive body but, in that moment, my caring turned to lust. I viciously bit her with almost cannibalistic fervour and my tongue directed a chunk of her delicious flesh between my teeth. I stopped, momentarily, in guilt and regret - the mutilated remains of her beauty lying helpless in my hand. But I knew that there was now no going back. I had to possess her completely and, as the rest of her loveliness entered my mouth and my jaws began to move, I experienced for the first time the pleasure of self-gratification.

And life would never be the same again.

kendrive ©

I wrote this poem one gloomy winter's afternoon after taking refuge from the rain in an antique/bricabrac shop in a Surrey county town.

So here it is for your consideration.

SOMETIME TREASURES

It's raining cats and dogs.
Step inside and close the door.
Jangle bell. Umbrella dripping wet
On threadbare Persian carpet.
Big brown bear to greet me
(Eyes of staring glass),
Standing still and listening ...
To the silence.

Smell of damp and polishes,
Lavender and wax.
Pin-Up mags and autographs,
Picture frames - and dust.
Suit of shining armour,
Polly (stuffed) on perch,
Fishes in glass cases,
Moose head on the wall.

Cutlery and crockery,
Violins and clocks
Leather boots and riding crops,
Painted chamber pots.
Picture postcards in a box.
"Love you always", tossed aside

Lonely souls
And broken hearts.
Tomb of sometime treasures,
Faded and outcast.
Desperate in their pleading:
"Take me home
And let me live again" !

SUNBURY POETRY GROUP

AT THE RIVERSIDE ARTS CENTRE

THURSDAY APRIL 6TH 2006 AT 8 P.M.

“POEMS OF CELEBRATION”

VISITORS WELCOME

PART ONE

CREATION
In the beginning . . .

(1) “The Creation”, James Weldon Johnson

BIRTH

(2) “The Salutation”, Thomas Traherne
(3) “Baby Song”, Thom Gunn
(4) “Love Set You Going”, Sylvia Plath

CHILDHOOD

(5) “I Once Had A Sweet Little Doll Dears”, Charles Kingsley
(6)“I Remember, I Remember”, Thomas Hood
(7) “My Bed Is A Boat”, Robert Louis Stevenson
(8) “The Land Of Nod”, Robert Louis Stevenson

YOUTH

(9) “The Force That Through …”, Dylan Thomas
(10) “Dreams”, Langston Hughes
(11) ”Loveliest Of Trees …”, A.E. Housman
(12) “Young And Old”, Charles Kingsley

LOVE & MARRIAGE