' Live-Poets Society ' – A Corner For Poetry

[Mikiesboy]

I know I'm only meant to be observing but I'm watching a fascinating BBC 4 programme about the battle of the Somme and the poets who were involved. A couple of people mentioned I've not come across before. This poem, I feel I want to share with you:

 

BEFORE ACTION  

 

By all the glories of the day

And the cool evening’s benison,

By that last sunset touch that lay

Upon the hills when day was done,

By beauty lavishly outpoured

And blessings carelessly received,

By all the days that I have lived

Make me a soldier, Lord.

 

By all of all man’s hopes and fears,

And all the wonders poets sing,

The laughter of unclouded years,

And every sad and lovely thing;

By the romantic ages stored

With high endeavour that was his,

By all his mad catastrophes

Make me a man, O Lord.

 

I, that on my familiar hill,

Saw with uncomprehending eyes

A hundred of thy sunsets spill

Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,

Ere the sun swings his noonday sword

Must say good-bye to all of this;–

By all delights that I shall miss

Help me to die, O Lord.

 

Poem by Noel Hodgson who was killed at the start of the battle of the Somme.

Wonderful poem northie.. you can share poems, talk about 'em, read em, write one if you want to - why not?  Hang out with us mad poets whenever you feel like it. 

 

WWI was horrific and I can only wonder at the bravery those men showed. Mind you, they were shot if they were determined to be cowards .. they didnt know about about shell-shock or PTSD back then.  Very sad and the loss of life so horrific.

[northie]

Wonderful poem northie.. you can share poems, talk about 'em, read em, write one if you want to - why not?  Hang out with us mad poets whenever you feel like it. 

 

WWI was horrific and I can only wonder at the bravery those men showed. Mind you, they were shot if they were determined to be cowards .. they didnt know about about shell-shock or PTSD back then.  Very sad and the loss of life so horrific.

 

Shell shock was a term coined during WW1 but most of the time it was seen as an excuse to avoid frontline action. Pat Barker's Regeneration triology of novels  (involving Sassoon and Owen as characters) shows both the new approach (recognising the psychological harm done to people and treating as such) and the old (revolting, dehumanising, almost torture).

[Emi GS]

I know I'm only meant to be observing but I'm watching a fascinating BBC 4 programme about the battle of the Somme and the poets who were involved. A couple of people mentioned I've not come across before. This poem, I feel I want to share with you:

 

BEFORE ACTION

 

By all the glories of the day

And the cool evening’s benison,

By that last sunset touch that lay

Upon the hills when day was done,

By beauty lavishly outpoured

And blessings carelessly received,

By all the days that I have lived

Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of all man’s hopes and fears,

And all the wonders poets sing,

The laughter of unclouded years,

And every sad and lovely thing;

By the romantic ages stored

With high endeavour that was his,

By all his mad catastrophes

Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill,

Saw with uncomprehending eyes

A hundred of thy sunsets spill

Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,

Ere the sun swings his noonday sword

Must say good-bye to all of this;–

By all delights that I shall miss

Help me to die, O Lord.

 

Poem by Noel Hodgson who was killed at the start of the battle of the Somme.

 

It was just wonderful. I mean, I know it has been written on a war but I was talking about the way it has been described. Poets can do a lot of things.

 

I loved the part where the poet described every soldier as a Sun and their death as Sunset. Their sacrifice was great, even though I think war is a meaningless.

[northie]

Wonderful poem northie.. you can share poems, talk about 'em, read em, write one if you want to - why not?  Hang out with us mad poets whenever you feel like it. 

 

WWI was horrific and I can only wonder at the bravery those men showed. Mind you, they were shot if they were determined to be cowards .. they didnt know about about shell-shock or PTSD back then.  Very sad and the loss of life so horrific.

I forgot to say in my last post - thanks for the invitation, Tim. I do find myself back here often. One thing you don't have to worry about: I won't be writing any poems. I love working with the language but I lack completely any creative spark - which is one reason why I enjoy being around those who do have it.

[Mikiesboy]

I forgot to say in my last post - thanks for the invitation, Tim. I do find myself back here often. One thing you don't have to worry about: I won't be writing any poems. I love working with the language but I lack completely any creative spark - which is one reason why I enjoy being around those who do have it.

I understand sometimes I feel about as creative as a stone ...

[Parker Owens]

I understand sometimes I feel about as creative as a stone ...

 

But what a glittering diamond you so often are...

[Aditus]

What he said.

[Mikiesboy]

But what a glittering diamond you so often are...

K, you know you're all just a bit mad, right?

[northie]

Err ... no, we're not mad. Parker put it so well. Perhaps we should agree to differ!

[Mikiesboy]

Err ... no, we're not mad. Parker put it so well. Perhaps we should agree to differ!

Parker is a treasure ... defo more glittery than i am!!!

[dughlas]

Ohhhhhhh ... shiny ...

[Parker Owens]

Now let us praise the poet, Tim,

the world would darken, but for him,

he glitters brilliant, shining bright,

like diamonds in the morning light.

 

Glittery, indeed.

[AC Benus]

Mad Poets Society, with many a sparkling gem. How lucky are we! 

[Mikiesboy]

Now let us praise the poet, Tim,

the world would darken, but for him,

he glitters brilliant, shining bright,

like diamonds in the morning light.

 

Glittery, indeed.

Gosh Parker!! Thank you ... you are mad!!!  But sweet!

Mad Poets Society, with many a sparkling gem. How lucky are we! 

You're right AC!! We have diamonds, emeralds, rubies and more!!

[northie]

Mad Poets Society, with many a sparkling gem. How lucky are we! 

 

Part of the job description, isn't it? Which leaves me as a vaguely sane onlooker (possibly) ...

[Emi GS]

For All of You Guys...

 

All are precious gems, but not just glitters.

Mad poets, they call themselves; though not sitters.

They play with words and forms, its their nature.

Guiders, admirers; for me—true writers.

[Parker Owens]

All of us are precious stones,

so I feel it in my bones,

let our praises now be sung,

all in rhyme, our native tongue.

[AC Benus]

For All of You Guys...

 

All are precious gems, but not just glitters.

Mad poets, they call themselves; though not sitters.

They play with words and forms, its their nature.

Guiders, admirers; for me—true writers.

It's lovely, Emi!

[AC Benus]

All of us are precious stones,

so I feel it in my bones,

let our praises now be sung,

all in rhyme, our native tongue.

The lingua franca of the heart, and I say Amen!

[Emi GS]

All of us are precious stones,

so I feel it in my bones,

let our praises now be sung,

all in rhyme, our native tongue.

Nice Poem Parker...

[northie]

I'm sorry to say that you only have yourselves to blame that I'm inflicting another of my poetry choices on you - finding people with whom I can talk about poetry (in however an amateur fashion ) has rekindled my interest.  That, and it's too hot again to be doing much else ...

 

I like Alexander Pope although I find his writing quite hard work. This is a section of Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot which had me grinning ...

 

No place is sacred, not the church is free; 

Ev'n Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: 

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, 

Happy! to catch me just at dinner-time. 

 

       Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer, 

A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 

A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, 

Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? 

Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls 

With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd walls? 

All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain 

Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. 

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, 

Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: 

Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, 

And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. 

 

       Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, 

The world had wanted many an idle song) 

What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? 

Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? 

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, 

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead. 

Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! 

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie; 

To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, 

And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face. 

I sit with sad civility, I read 

With honest anguish, and an aching head; 

And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, 

This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." 

 

       "Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane 

Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, 

Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends, 

Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends: 

"The piece, you think, is incorrect: why, take it, 

I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it." 

 

[The Mint was a sanctuary for debtors.]

 

Here's the link for anyone feeling strong:   http://www.poetryfoundation.org/resources/learning/core-poems/detail/44895

It's one of Pope's shorter offerings but still quite long!

[Parker Owens]

Yes, this is thick and full in its eighteenth century way. Pope wrote shorter bits which got made into hymns with interminable numbers of verses, if I remember correctly. Thank you for sharing this vision of the writer's great difficulty...the urgent need to get it down and then out into the world. 

 

Do not blush and tell us you cannot write yourself. I said that, too, and only a few months ago at that. May I suggest you try some of the Poetry Prompts on GA (tip of hat and tug on forelock to AC) and share them with everyone? 

 

Creation comes with practice, so it seems;

the knitted brow and puzzling, it redeems

an idle hour and gives the writer hope

that one might someday be compared with Pope.

[northie]

Yes, this is thick and full in its eighteenth century way. Pope wrote shorter bits which got made into hymns with interminable numbers of verses, if I remember correctly. Thank you for sharing this vision of the writer's great difficulty...the urgent need to get it down and then out into the world. 

 

 

And what Pope was describing apparently did happen: he was so hugely popular that he was besieged by all kinds of people.

 

When was a poet last that famous, I wonder?

[Mikiesboy]

Found this today.. I like so I thought I'd share... 

 

 

My Days among the Dead are Past 
by Robert Southey

My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead, anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust. 

[Parker Owens]

Found this today.. I like so I thought I'd share... 

 

 

My Days among the Dead are Past 

by Robert Southey

 

My days among the Dead are past;

Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old;

My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse day by day.

 

With them I take delight in weal,

And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

 

My thoughts are with the Dead, with them

I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

 

My hopes are with the Dead, anon

My place with them will be,

And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,

That will not perish in the dust. 

 

This is a wonderful poem, Tim. He recognizes that one has acquaintances, close friends even, amongst those who are gone before us. They are often a comfort, their writings an opportunity for rest, reflection and learning. And wouldn't it be nice if we could do the same for them that follow us? Thank you, Tim.