Need to clear my head
Need to change the song
Need to cool it down
Need to move along

I've been standing up
I've been falling down
I've been playing blind
I've been hanging round

Now I'm running free
With my ball and chain
Now I'm lost at sea
Now I'm drowned in pain

If I lose the plot
If I lose it all
If I lose my head
If I lose my call

There's only this - I love you
Though I have no reason why
Only this - I love you
Now I must make that love die

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

STRANGE ARE THE WAYS OF MEN

Strange are the ways of men,
And strange the ways of God!
We tread the mazy paths
That all our fathers trod.

We tread them undismayed,
And undismayed behold
The portents of the sky,
The things that were of old.

The fiery stars pursue
Their course in heav'n on high;
And round the 'leaguered town,
Crest-tossing heroes cry.

Crest-tossing heroes cry;
And martial fifes declare
How small, to mortal minds,
Is merely mortal care.

And to the clang of steel
And cry of piercing flute
Upon the azure peaks
A God shall plant his foot:

A God in arms shall stand,
And seeing wide and far
The green and golden earth,
The killing tide of war,

He, with uplifted arm,
Shall to the skies proclaim
The gleeful fate of man,
The noble road to fame!

Robert Louis Stevenson

Today we return to Wayne Myers

OLD MISTAKES AND NEW BEGINNINGS

Mostly dead but limbs still twitching
racked with constant pain and itching
bones all aching, brains all bitching
trapped behind the mirror writing
rusty hooks with nothing biting
flailing, failing, falling, fighting

Still alive though barely breathing
just existing, hardly feeling
anything with real meaning

Old mistakes and new beginnings
ghostly voices sing my sinnings
spread the loves, discard my winnings

Waiting for that real wind to blow the rest away
nothing lost and nothing learned

and nothing left to say

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

Those of you who have been following this blog will know that, some weeks ago, I featured in my "Poems Of Celebration" two poems by Sarah Teasdale.

Today I return to her with the following:

STARS

Alone in the night
On a dark hill

With pines around me
Spicy and still,

And a heaven full of stars
Over my head,
White and topaz
And misty red;

Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;

Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill,
I watch them marching
Stately and still,

And I know that I
Am honored to be
Witness
Of so much majesty.

Sarah Teasdale

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water; the poop was beaten gold,
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them, the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggared all description; she did lie
In her pavilion,--cloth-of-gold of tissue,--
O'er-picturing that Venus where we see
The fancy outwork nature; on each side her
Stood pretty-dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With divers-coloured fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid did.

Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,
And made their bends adornings; at the helm
A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her, and Antony,
Enthroned i' the market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too
And made a gap in nature.

"Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety; other women
Cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies."

(William Shakespeare "Antony and Cleopatra")

The raging storm is over
the wind has ceased to moan
the rain has stopped
the penny's dropped
the air as still as stone

I spent a year crying
another year in hell
and now at last
the storm has passed
I'm ringing like a bell

I'm standing on the threshold
at last, of being free
all unspoken
spells now broken
lost to memory

I feel a spring a-coming
where all will be reborn
the seed inside
these tears I cried
and calm after the storm

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

You all know the tale of the princess who kissed a frog which then became a handsome prince.

Should we be content with what life has handed out to us? Or are we allowed to dream of something better?

I am a frog
I live under a spell
I live at the bottom
Of a green well

And here I must wait
Until a maiden places me
On her royal pillow
And kisses me
In her father's palace.

The story is familiar
Everybody knows it well
But do other enchanted people feel as nervous
As I do? The stories do not tell,

Ask if they will be happier
When the changes come
As already they are fairly happy
In a frog's doom?

I have been a frog now
For a hundred years
And in all this time
I have not shed many tears,

I am happy, I like the life,
Can swim for many a mile
(When I have hopped to the river)
And am for ever agile.

And the quietness,
Yes, I like to be quiet
I am habituated
To a quiet life,

But always when I think these thoughts
As I sit in my well
Another thought comes to me and says:
It is part of the spell

To be happy
To work up contentment
To make much of being a frog
To fear disenchantment

Says, it will be heavenly
To be set free,
Cries, Heavenly the girl who disenchants
And the royal times, heavenly,
And I think it will be.

Come then, royal girl and royal times,
Come quickly,
I can be happy until you come
But I cannot be heavenly,
Only disenchanted people
Can be heavenly.

Stevie Smith

all my hopes, all my dreams
split me open at the seams
all my love, all my joy
broken like a childhood toy
all my songs, all my tears
chase me down across the years
all my words, all my lies
cut me wholly down to size

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

now all's fair in love and war
no quarter given
none expected
passion manufactured every time anew
and then rejected

all square in hearts and bones
and scraps of paper
sentiment
will not permit disposal of
another holy sacrament

for each goddess or god alone
who dares to break the bounds of being
hear what cannot be heard
and capture in the act of freeing

all's fair in love and war
and you, my love, are not immune
to lies and potions
false devotions
sacrifices to the moon

for words and fluff
are not enough
to hold me in your fragrant swoon

and love and war
are written for
the likes of us with just one rune

yes love and war
are written for
the likes of us with just one rune

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

I want to stand with you on the mountain
I want to swim with you in the sea
I want to drink with you at the fountain
I want to to walk with you on the quay

I want to run to where I can find you
I want to sprint every step of the way
I want to do all the things that you do
I want to hear all the words that you say

I want to fly to the heights where you fly
I want to climb to the heavens above
I want to soar with you through the blue sky
I want to glide in the warmth of your love

I want to savour the tastes that you taste
I want to smell all the smells that you smell
I want to face all the problems that you face
I want to buy whatsoever you sell

I want to lie with you where you're lying
I want to sleep with you by my side
I want to dream all my dreams without crying
I want to share all the thoughts I now hide

I want to love without guilt or reflection
I want to kiss without counting the cost
I want to to know what is meant by perfection
I want to capture the peace that I've lost

I want to to live all my life where you live
I want to sing all the songs that you sing
I want to give all the gifts that you give
I want to reign in your heart as your king

kendrive ©

As a bit of fun, play this video:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4269257853306529792&pl=true

I'm Henery the Eighth, I am!
Henery the Eighth I am! I am!
I got married to the widow next door,
She's been married seven times before.
Every one was a Henery
She wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam
I'm her eighth old man named Henery
Henery the Eighth I am.

That was from a popular Music-hall song.

And the following is a letter from Henry VIII to his second wife, Anne Boleyn.

Nobody writes love letters as elegantly as that nowadays.

However, his love didn't last. Henry met Jane Seymour and he accused Anne of "adultery, incest and plotting to murder the King".

She was found guilty and executed on Tower Hill.

Within 24 hours of Anne Boleyn's execution, Jane Seymour and Henry VIII were formally betrothed and 10 days later they were married.

Unfortunately, Jane died within 18 months and the King moved on to Number 4 - Anne of Cleves (Divorced), Number 5 - Kathryn Howard (Executed) and Number 6 - Katherine Parr (Outlived him).

BAD POETRY

bad poetry
like bad sex
conceals weak promises
of improvement
in time
results in proportion
to the work put in
and this
cruel truth:
sometimes
all you can do
is cross it out, tear it up
and start all over
again

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

I set my standards so damn high
I cannot do a thing
without the disappointment
falling short of them can bring

My head above the clouds
I cannot feel your hollow earth
I cannot solve the puzzle
of the cycle of rebirth

I set my heart upon a lover
worthy of a king
forgot to be a king myself
and ruined everything

And yet the feeling does not die
and love keeps burning in my eye

Wayne Myers

Don't forget to check out my other two active blogs:

http://grumpy.blog.co.uk/

http://picturepost.blog.co.uk/

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

Today more Wayne Myers.

When we were together
it reminded me of how it felt
to be with one who cared about me
We know better now

When you left me
you couldn't even take the time
to double check
make sure I knew
that it was over -
So I did not know

When - next day - those bastards mugged me
and I rang you, needed comfort
you were way too busy . . .
Making curtains

Now
if I could only delete your memory
from my mind
as easily
as I deleted your number
from my phone

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

Low in the grave he lay—
Jesus, my Saviour,
Waiting the coming day—
Jesus, my Lord.

Up from the grave he arose
With a mighty triumph o'er his foes.
He arose a victor from the dark domain,
And he lives for ever with his saints to reign.
He arose! He arose! Hallelujah! Christ arose!

When I was young, this was always my favourite Easter Morning hymn, sung in Church, with the second verse rising to a loud crescendo.

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do"

(My blogs will resume on Sunday)

Yes, I know I said I would post another of Wayne Myers' poems today - but I woke this morning just before 6 and lay in bed listening to the dawn chorus.

It is generally thought that he wrote this poem there when he was homesick, but cynics say he was, in fact, here in England and he was just using poetic licence.

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

O, to be in England
Now that April 's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning

However, by the time of his death, the city authorities were no longer allowing new burials.

I have recently discovered Wayne Myers, a modern poet who is new to me.

Tell me whether you like them, or not.

poems for my analyst
a penny for my heart
it's twice a week
i sit and speak
into the void of Art

it's music for my doctor
a cacophany of feeling
all self-help books
and dirty looks
directed at the ceiling

i'm singing to my therapist
a song i never wrote
the truth i own
is made of bone
it's sticking in my throat

in verses for my counsellor
i'm crying on a wheel
my eyes will burn
and i will learn -- eventually -- to heal

Wayne Myers

For more Myers, go to: http://www.waz.easynet.co.uk/

The traveller has arrived in the holy city of Byzantium.

Riding the backs of dolphins, spirit after spirit arrives, in images that beget even more images.

The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.
Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.
Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.
At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.
Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

W.B. Yeats

Today the first of two poems by the great Irish writer W.B. Yeats.

It depicts an old man, weary and frustrated, soon to depart on a journey . . .

SAILING TO BYZANTIUM

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hand and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

William Butler Yeats

Tomorrow - the arrival in Byzantium

Spring will be a little late this year
A little late arriving, in my lonely world over here
For you have left me and where is our April love old
Yes you have left me and winter continues cold
As if to say that spring will be a little slow to start
A little slow reviving that music it made in my heart
Cause time heals all things, so I needn't cling to this fear
It's merely that spring will be a little late this year
Yes time heals all things so I needn't cling to this fear
It's merely that spring will be a little late this year

A Dream Pang

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song
Was swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;
And to the forest edge you came one day
(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,
But did not enter, though the wish was strong:
you shook your pensive head as who should say,
'I dare not -- too far in his footsteps stray --
He must seek me would he undo the wrong.'

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all
behind low boughs the trees let down outside;
And the sweet pang it cost me not to call
And tell you that I saw does still abide.
But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,
For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

Robert Frost

Today, I am back to Shakespeare.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet methinks I have astronomy;
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find.
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert:
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

William Shakespeare

One Need Not Be A Chamber To Be Haunted

One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.

Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one's own self encounter
In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least.

The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O'erlooking a superior spectre
More near.

Emily Dickinson

Word over all, beautiful as the sky,
Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be
utterly lost,
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly
wash again, and ever again, this solid world;
For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead,
I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin--I draw near,
Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.

Walt Whitman

Death come easy if you come before your time
Death come easy to a young man in his prime
They put a gun in my hand
Said, Fight for the freedom of your land
Death come easy to a young man in his prime
Life was easy I could want for nothing more
Life was easy then there came the call for war
I left my family left my home
With the army I was forced to roam
Life was easy then there came the call for war
Love was easy with my lady I would stay
Love was easy then the war took me away
Forget your love war is right
So they taught me how to kill and fight
Love was easy then the war took me away
Killing's easy with a weapon in your hand
Killing's easy and they say that war is grand
With their music and their drums
They don't see the slaughter of the guns
Killing's easy and they say that war is grand

Harvey Andrews

Time changes eveything. We grow mellow and, although we may not be able to forgive, we are no longer bitter.

I always remember your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.

What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind
All I know is, if you were unkind now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad
The years have taken from me. Softly I go now, pad pad.

Stevie Smith