My Poem of the Week: '19-9-14' by Stuart A. Paterson

[narya_flame]

I have 100% cribbed this idea from The Guardian, but mine is the lazy version.  I'm not planning to do any upfront analysis or thoughtful commentary, though chat in the comments is absolutely welcome and encouraged.  I just thought I'd post a poem (or an excerpt from a poem) every Monday evening after work - partly as something to look forward to after my least favourite day of the week, but also partly to encourage me to revisit old favourites, find some new ones, and share them with others who might like them too.

19-9-14

Last night I saw red in the sky's
angry fanfare, fiery waterfalls 
belching through black cloud,
my upturned white face
catching cold rays of sun,
my hands in my pockets, blue
& sore from clenching
against thin fists of merciless wind.
Eyes streaming & looking
over to Cumbria, caught between
somewhere neither England,
Scotland or me, I felt
for a second like a tiny
tattered flag, battered & blown
to bits, 'til all that remained
was a ragged hand unclenching,
stretching out fingers to
colour the sunset blue.


(Taken from the collection Border Lines, published by Indigo Dreams.  More about the author here.)

Comments

[hhimring]

Lovely idea!
Very forceful weather!

[narya_flame]

I liked this collection far more than I expected to, and thoroughly recommend it. I picked it up at the Wigtown Festival about a year ago now, and it was a surprise and a delight.

[spiced_wine]

That’s beautiful.

I felt
for a second like a tiny
tattered flag, battered & blown
to bits, 'til all that remained
was a ragged hand unclenching,
stretching out fingers to
colour the sunset blue.


Oh yes.

I’ve been reading a bit of Yeats lately and I find them very eerie and otherworldly, some of them anyhow.

THE DANANN children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:
I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast, 5
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.
Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;
Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering ghost; 10
O heart the winds have shaken; the unappeasable host
Is comelier than candles before Maurya’s feet.

[narya_flame]

Oh, yes, I love Yeats! I'll have to include one of his at some point.

[spiced_wine]

I keep thinking that too, the poems fit!

[keiliss]

I remember my wonderful junior school English teacher explaining that poetry is there to read aloud, so I did and it made the night a better place. Thank you.

[keiliss]

I had forgotten this! You can hear the wind and the mist goes right to your bones.

[narya_flame]

You're very welcome <3

[spiced_wine]

Oh wow, yes, you can, Keiliss!