What if this road

William Jay Smith. Re: Here's something sweet, and pretty:. A bit of an antidote for my rather stark offering! This thread is making me feel weepy. Thank you for posting, everyone.

Alden Nowlan said by some to be among Canada's finest poets, died in He lived here in Fredericton. Here's one of his. Looking for Nancy Looking for Nancy everywhere, I've stopped girls in trenchcoats and blue dresses, said Nancy I've looked all over hell for you, Nancy I've been afraid that I'd die before I found you.

But there's always been some mistake: a broken streetlight, too much rum or merely my wanting too much for it to be her.

The Journey. The Journey One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice -- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible.

It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life you could save.

Re: The Journey. It does, yes, and very nicely. Speaking of Canada's finest poets Can you imagine what it is like to live in a world where there is no-one now always no no-one and never some some- one to ask do you love me and be sure that the answer would always be yes? LittleSuz 12 yrs ago. I have enjoyed reading this thread. From one of my favourite poets. Alone And Drinking Under The Moon Amongst the flowers I am alone with my pot of wine drinking by myself; then lifting my cup I asked the moon to drink with me, its reflection and mine in the wine cup, just the three of us; then I sigh for the moon cannot drink, and my shadow goes emptily along with me never saying a word; with no other friends here, I can but use these two for company; in the time of happiness, I too must be happy with all around me; I sit and sing and it is as if the moon accompanies me; then if I dance, it is my shadow that dances along with me; while still not drunk, I am glad to make the moon and my shadow into friends, but then when I have drunk too much, we all part; yet these are friends I can always count on these who have no emotion whatsoever; I hope that one day we three will meet again, deep in the Milky Way.

Li Po. Soothes the soul. Rucksack Riff: Jackie Kay. Rucksack Riff Jackie Kay Here I am, not so very far away On an ordinary day when ordinary people Are out and about in streets that are not my streets In the country that is not my country. I walk amongst them, the close arrangement of my features Perhaps makes them think of danger. My small rucksack packed with woollen socks, soft white briefs A present for my cousin, T-shirts, handkerchiefs Is maybe packed with bombs, arms, explosives.

A conversation with a dear friend Is a plot, a terrorist exchange. We are no longer friends, we are strangers Speaking in tongues, flames. Our country has bullet shaped petals, Our blossom explodes like bombs Our national dish is laced with arsenic. Here I am, not so very far away As I walk down the ordinary street on an ordinary day Just like this one, Just like today. A lighter moment from Adrian Mitchell.

Giving Potatoes. Strong man : Mashed potatoes cannoy hurt you, darling Mashed potatoes mean no harm I have brought you mashed potatoes From my mashed potato farm. Lady : Take away your mashed potatoes Leave them in the desert to dry Take away your mashed potatoes You look like Shepherd's pie. Lady: Take away your fried potatoes Use them to clean your ears You can eat your fried potatoes With Birds-eye frozen tears.

Lady: Take away your baked potato In your fusty musty van Take away your baked potato you potato-skinned old man. Frenchman: She rejected all potatoes For a thousand nights and days Till a Frenchman wooed and won her With pommes de terre Lyonnaise.

Lady: Oh my corrugated lover So creamy and so brown Let us fly across to Lyons And lay our tubers down. Because it's raining, a bit of French from Verlaine:. Ce deuil est sans raison. C'est bien la pire peine De ne savoir pourquoi Sans amour et sans haine Mon coeur a tant de peine! I love that Verlaine one CW - great post.

A short one of my own new-born this morning :. Does this count as two: A magpie, and the shadow of a magpie? An illusion, at least, of joy. A bit of the Bard. From 'The Tempest' 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 sometimes voices, That, if I then had wak'd 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 wak'd, I cried to dream again.

His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. Robert Frost. Stopping By Woods Re: Frost. That's beautiful! And some more snow from Frost:. Desert Places Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast In a field I looked into going past, And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it--it is theirs. All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent-spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it will be less-- A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars--on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. Here is one from an Irishwoman. The Necessity For Irony On Sundays, when the rain held off, after lunch or later, I would go with my twelve year old daughter into town, and put down the time at junk sales, antique fairs. There I would lean over tables, absorbed by lace, wooden frames, glass.

My daughter stood at the other end of the room, her flame-coloured hair obvious whenever -which was not often- I turned around. I turned around. She was gone. No longer ready to come with me, whenever a dry Sunday held out its promises of small histories.

When I was young I studied styles: their use and origin. Which age was known for which ornament: and was always drawn to a lyric speech, a civil tone. But never thought I would have the need, as I do now, for a darker one: Spirit of irony, my caustic author of the past, of memory,- and of its pain, which returns hurts, stings- reproach me now, remind me that I was in those rooms, with my child, with my back turned to her, searching- oh irony!

Eavan Boland. More Yeats. There There all the barrel-hoops are knit, There all the serpent-tails are bit, There all the gyres converge in one, There all the planets drop in the sun. Mahinaarangi 12 yrs ago. I want to save this entire thread. Ogden Nash. It fell like a leaf, Whirled downstream. Was there ever summer, Or only a dream? Was ever a world That was not November? Once there was summer, And this I remember: Cornflowers and daisies, Buttercups and clover, Black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne's lace, A wide green meadow, And the bees booming over, And a little laughing girl with the wind in her face.

Strident are the voices And hard lights shine; Feral are the faces; Is one of them mine? Something is lost now; Tarnished the gleam; Was there ever nobleness, Or only a dream? Yes, and it lingers Lost not yet; Something remains 'Till this I forget: Cornflowers and clover, Buttercups and daisies, Black-eyed Susans under blue and white skies; And the grass waist-high Where the red cow grazes, And a little laughing girl with faith in her eyes.

When I saw 'Ogden Nash', I was expecting humour - thank you for reminding me of. Bluestocking88 12 yrs ago. When the Rain Comes. When the rain comes put down your glass leave the flowers and go into the marsh. Let her winds find you and the great gray clouds roll down around you. Let the smoke fill up your eyes and the mist wet your breasts then fling off your last piece of colored cloth that she may see and take you.

However, it's far too cold for anyone to bare their breasts in this part of the world. Lovely - thank you! Feeling a bit melancholy, so I'll go join Bilbo Baggins, I think. I sit beside the fire and think Tolkien I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies In summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see. For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green. I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door. That's wonderful. I sighed. Send me not away. Send me not away,nor bid me turn from you; amid the clamour of the souks and alleyways, fasten me with quietness, and calm the torrents raging in my head; bid the turbulence subside; chastize the waves that would engulf me in their uproar and their noise.

Alex Anderson. This one is hitting me like bricks today. I am making a collection. I am enjoying these so much even though some are making me a bit teary I am making a "book" for future reading. I need to go and find some happy poems.

Can you stand any more sad, war poems? That's all I have at the moment. Mary Mackey. Afraid So. Afraid So Is it starting to rain? Did the check bounce? Are we out of coffee? Is this going to hurt? Could you lose your job? Did the glass break? Was the baggage misrouted? Will this go on my record? Are you missing much money? Was anyone injured? Is the traffic heavy? Do I have to remove my clothes? Will it leave a scar? Must you go? Will this be in the papers? Is my time up already? Are we seeing the understudy?

Will it affect my eyesight? Did all the books burn? Are you still smoking? Is the bone broken? Will I have to put him to sleep? Was the car totaled? Am I responsible for these charges? Are you contagious? Will we have to wait long? Is the runway icy? Was the gun loaded? Could this cause side effects? Do you know who betrayed you? Is the wound infected? Are we lost? Will it get any worse? Jeanne Marie Beaumont. Genie 12 yrs ago. I have lived on the lip of insanity, Wanting to know reasons, Knocking on a door.

It opens. I have been knocking from the inside. This Poem This poem is dangerous:it should not be left Within the reach of children,or even of adults Who might swallow it whole, with possibly Undesirable side-effects. If you come across An unattended, unidentified poem In a public place, do not attempt to tackle it Yourself.

Send it preferably in a sealed container To the nearest centre of learning, where it will be rendered Harmless, by experts. Even the simplest poem May destroy your immunity to human emotions. All poems must carry a Government warning. Words Can seriously affect your heart. What a wonderful collection ,it really should be published.

If it ever ends,which I sincerely hope it does not! Thank you; I've sent that to my best friend. A sad song from Ben Jonson to his son, who died on his seventh birthday. On My First Son Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy. Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

Oh, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage, And if no other misery, yet age! Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry. For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such As what he loves may never like too much. Jabberwocky 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch! And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with it head He went galumphing back. Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh, Callay! Lewis Carroll [I feel better now, though still rather unfortunately frumious. Wallace Stevens. II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one.

V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause. Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you? IX When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles. X At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds. XII The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

I love this one. I'm always pleased when I see it, like running into a fond acquaintance. Re: Wallace Stevens. I was thinking of this just after I wrote the magpie poem, and was tempted to try a variation on the them :. Remember by CG Rossetti.

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned; Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins. My last offering before I head for bed. Night all My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

Mistlerose 12 yrs ago. The Death of the bird by A. For every bird there is this last migration; Once more the cooling year kindles her heart; With a warm passage to the summer station Love pricks the course in lights across the chart. Year after year a speck on the map divided By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come; Season after season, sure and safely guided, Going away she is also coming home; And being home, memory becomes a passion With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest; Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession And exiled love mourning within the breast.

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys; The palm-tree casts a shadow not its own; Down the long architrave of temple or palace Blows a cool air from moorland scraps of stone. And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger, The delicate voice, more urgent with despair, Custom and fear constraining her no longer, Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air. A vanishing speck in those inane dominions, Single and frail, uncertain of her place.

Alone in the bright host of her companions, Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space. She feels it close now, the appointed season: The invisible thread is broken as she flies; Suddenly, without warning, without reason, The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies. Try as she will the trackless world delivers No way, the wilderness of light no sign, The immense and complex map of hills and rivers Mocks her small wisdom with its vast design.

And darkness rises from the eastern valleys, And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath, And the great earth, with neither grief not malice, Receives the tiny burden of her death. Julian of Norwich, by Kathleen Jamie. Everything I do I do for you. You inform the dark insides of stones, the winds draughting in from this world and that to come, but never touch me.

You took me on but dart like a rabbit into holes from the edges of my sense when I turn, walk, turn. I am wandering in your acres where every step, were I attuned to sense them, would crush a thousand flowers.

Hush, that's not the attitude I keep prepared a room and no one comes. Stiffened, stone-cold knees, bear me up. And yet, and yet, I am suspended in his joy, huge and helpless as the harvest moon in a summer sky. Robert Graves - Broken Images. He is quick, thinking in clear images; I am slow, thinking in broken images. He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images; I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images.

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance; Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance. Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact; Questioning their relevance, I question their fact. When the fact fails him, he questions his senses; when the fact fails me, I approve my senses. He continues quick and dull in his clear images; I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding; I in a new understanding of my confusion. And one more for tonight: Choose, by Carl Sandburg. The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting.

Since then, she has regularly written new collections and received national recognition for her work. She also worked as a Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Glamorgan in Scotland but retired in and is now a full-time writer. Back Why register? We're not interested in your data You can use most of our website without any need to register.

Log in Register. Contact Twitter. Advanced search X. Register For Poetry By Heart news, resources and competitions. For Poem of the Week email. Login Username Password Forgotten your password? Show all poems. Used with permission of the author and Seren Books.