Poem of the Month.
Smiling Is Infectious
by Spike Milligan
Smiling is infectious,
you catch it like the flu,
When someone smiled at me today,
I started smiling too.
I passed around the corner
and someone saw my grin.
When he smiled I realized
I'd passed it on to him.
I thought about that smile,
then I realized its worth.
A single smile, just like mine
could travel round the earth.
So, if you feel a smile begin,
don't leave it undetected.
Let's start an epidemic quick,
and get the world infected.
We miss you Spike.
The Collar-Bone of a Hare
Would I could cast a sail on the water
Where many a king has gone
And many a king's daughter,
And alight at the comely trees and the lawn
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
And learn that the best thing is
To change my love while dancing
And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
I would find by the edge of that water
The collar-bone of a hare
Worn thin by the lapping of water,
And pierce it through with a gimlet, and stare
At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,
And laugh over the untroubled water
At all who marry in churches,
Through the white thin bone of a hare.
W. B Yeats. 1919.
[The Wild Swans at Coole]
Yeats uses the image of a Hare in his wonderful poem The Collar Bone of a Hare.
It has been explained that in Irish legend, if one looks through a hole pierced in the bone of a hare...
...then one will get a glimpse into the fairy world...the Otherworld .
Interestingly he inverts the image, and is looking through the bone from the Otherworld, back out onto our more troubled world.
We are most grateful to JohnGeorge72 for this.
Horny hands that hold the aces which this morning held the plough
Above left: St. Michael's Church Stinsford, the Mellstock Church of Under the Greenwood Tree and Hardy's lovely poem below.
Rime Intrinsica, Fontmell Magna, Sturminster Newton and Melbury Bubb,
Whist upon whist upon whist upon whist drive, in Institute, Legion and Social Club.
While Tranter Reuben, T. S. Eliot, H. G. Wells and Edith Sitwell lie in Mellstock Churchyard now.
Lord's Day bells from Bingham's Melcombe, Iwerne Minster, Shroton, Plush,
Down the grass between the beeches, mellow in the evening hush.
Gloved the hands that hold the hymn-book, which this morning milked the cow
While Tranter Reuben, Mary Borden, Brian Howard and Harold Acton lie in Mellstock Churchyard now.
Light's abode, celestial Salem! Lamps of evening, smelling strong,
Gleaming on the pitch-pine, waiting, almost empty even-song
From the aisles each window smiles on grave and grass and yew-tree bough
While Tranter Reuben, Gordon Selfridge, Edna Best and Thomas Hardy lie in Mellstock Churchyard now.
Drunk as Drunk
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
Pablo Neruda 1904 - 1973.Seen above right, as a young man.
[Translation from the Spanish by Christopher Logue. Above left, c 1997.]
N.B. Those of you captured by the beauty of this love poem, could do no better than watch the 1994 film "Il Postino" (The Postman), starring Massimo Troisi.
Here we find the isolated Neruda, educating his young post delivery man on the art of poetry, such that he might capture the heart of the local young beauty.
Sonnet No. 8.
Our lightly touching hands, I know so well
The creases where your fingers flex and bend.
I take your hand and in it feel the swell
Of love that warms and does not seek an end.
There is no need to offer me a prize,
I don't require an object to decide,
Your love for me is not defined by size,
Nor shininess nor carriages outside.
And mine for you is not a quantum leap,
No challenge set and mastered, for all eyes
To notice, nod and say that I can keep
Because I ticked the boxes on both sides.
You cannot gift me more than just your hand
To measure what it is we understand.
Alison Tutcher Lyme Regis.
Image credit: https://rapidfireart.com/
William Butler Yeats
"The Cap & Bells"
The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.
It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;
But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night-gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.
He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.
It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.
'I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,
'I will send them to her and die’;
And when the morning whitened
He left them where she went by.
She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a love-song
Till stars grew out of the air.
She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through,
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left hand came the blue.
They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.
We have recently discovered that in 1899 Yeats wrote the following:
"I dreamed this story exactly as I have written it, and dreamed another long dream after it, trying to make out its meaning, and whether I was to write it in prose or verse. The first dream was more a vision than a dream, for it was beautiful and coherent, and gave me the sense of illumination and exultaion one gets from visions, while the second dream was confused and meaningless.
The poem has always meant a great deal to me, though, as is the way with symbolic poems, it has not always meant quite the same thing.
Blake would have said, "The authors are in eternity", and I am quite sure they can only be questioned in dreams".
[This quote from: "Notes", P 44 at the rear of: "The Collected Poems". 1935 Edition. Macmillan].
Walter de la Mare. 1909.
"Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
"All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace"
I like to think (and the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
like pure water touching clear sky.
I like to think (right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
as if they were flowers with spinning blossoms.
I like to think (it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over by machines of loving grace.
Richard Brautigan (above center). 1967.
Handwritten on a scrap of paper.
We found this beautiful poem on October 1st, tucked into the back of one of our bookshelves….
“Sonnet for Hilary, with Love”
Your womani heart is not a transient thing;
It seeks to stay, unselfishly to give
Itself to life, create a song to sing
That reassures and charts the way to live
With feeling, quick to laughter, quick to tear.
You weigh decisions with the thoughtless world
Who puts upon the scale subconscious fear
Of loss, when ribbons of remembrance twirled
Around your heart must find with strength,
Not weaker with the task of much untying.
So go in peace, beloved friend; let no length
Of love disturb you by denying.
Although we may be slaves to time and space,
Love is the freedom distance can’t efface.
Overheard in County Sligo
I married a man from County Roscommon
and I live in the back of beyond
with a field of cows and a yard of hens
and six white geese on the pond.
At my door’s a square of yellow corn
caught up by its corners and shaken,
and the road runs down through the open gate
and freedom’s there for the taking.
I had thought to work on the Abbey stage
or have my name in a book,
to see my thought on the printed page,
or still the crowd with a look.
But I turn to fold the breakfast cloth
and to polish the lustre and brass,
to order and dust the tumbled rooms
and find my face in the glass.
I ought to feel I’m a happy woman
for I lie in the lap of the land,
but I married the man from County Roscommon
and I live at the back of beyond.
Having inherited a vigorous mind
From my old fathers, I must nourish dream.
And leave a woman and a man behind
As vigorous of mind, and yet it seems
Life scarce can cast a fragrance on the wind,
Scarce spread a glory to the morning beams,
But the torn petals strew the garden plot;
And there’s but common greenness after that.
And what if my descendants lose the flower
Through natural declension of the soul,
Through too much business with the passing hour,
Through too much play, or marriage with a fool?
May this laborious stair and this stark tower
Become a roofless ruin that the owl
May build in the cracked masonry and cry
Her desolation to the desolate sky.
The Primum Mobile that fashioned us
Has made the very owls in circles move;
And I, that count myself most prosperous,
Seeing that love and friendship are enough,
For an old neighbour’s friendship chose the house
And decked and altered it for a girl’s love,
And know whatever flourish and decline
These stones remain their monument and mine.
"The Destruction of Sennacherib"
(11 Kings X1X. Vs 35-37)
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
(Hebrew Melodies 1815)