A couple of days ago Dolores O'Riordan, the lead singer of the Cranberries died, aged 46. I would not say this to her, for she is not the person who walks on my dreams. But it is time to pray for those who do. He wishes for the Clothes of Heaven Had I the heavens' … Continue reading The dead cranberry and the cloths of heaven.
This one from Belloc is more like Kipling than Hopkins. But it is Sunday, the theme is death, and I don't merely want to put a satirical sonnet up. Spring and Fall to a young child Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.
Jasmine's Beautiful Thoughts Underneath the Willow My titillations have no foot-notes And their memorials are the phrases Of idiosyncratic music. The love that will not be transported In an old, frizzled, flambeaud manner, But muses on its eccentricity, Is like a vivid apprehension Of bliss beyond the mutes of plaster, Or paper souvenirs of rapture, … Continue reading Music, Poem.
There is an error in this poem, but that error lead to a truth. The error is at the beginning: It has not always had / to find: the scene was set; It repeated what/ was in the script. When Stevens wrote this the armamentarium of the reader included the greek myths, the Bible, Gibbons … Continue reading There is an error in this poem.
My plans to not neatly fit into the calendar. My muse is not a horse, and my passions are banked low and not dependant on the calendar. For this new year, an old poem, obscure, humourous, and trenchantly truthful. On January 1st, 1887, Rudyard Kipling explored the human desire to make New Year’s resolutions in … Continue reading The modern resolutions for the new year.
This was the sonnet that would have gone up on Christmas Eve. Which would have been wrong. XXVIII But oh t not Lovely Helen, nor the pride Of that most ancient Hium matched with doom. Men murdered Priam in his royal room And Troy was burned with fire and Hector died. For even Hector's dreadful … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.
The advice for young women, here in a poem, should not have changed. Let you be beautiful. Let you be as innocent as a dove. But be guarded. Or wily as a snake. For there are snakes on two legs, and you can marry well once. So nail that landing. To the Young Gentlewomen BEWARE, … Continue reading The ancient pink pill.
I am told that this is a famous poem. But I had never read it: my education did not include the American Poets and the Imperial poets, such as Kipling were considered suspect. We were expected to like hacks like Mayakovsky, not successful insurance lawyers who wrote with clarity. Thirteen Ways of Looking at a … Continue reading The Blackbird and the Hack
Most of the Christmas Poems you find are bad. Mawkish. Sentimental. These are not.  Annunciation Salvation to all that will is nigh; That All, which always is all everywhere, Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear, Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die, Lo, faithful virgin, yields Himself to lie In … Continue reading Two Sunday Sonnets for Christmas Eve.
There are many poems about duty, but not many about those who wait. And fear. To be absent from Ipswich in the ealry colonial time was to rely on one's neighbours for protection, but duty bore Mr Bradshteet away from his wife. Such it has always been. A Letter to her Husband, absent upon Publick … Continue reading The cold bed of some tyrant.