narya_flame | Entries tagged with poem of the week

Late - and I missed a week due to being away, but hey ho. I was actually looking for the first of these two poems, but ran across the second while searching for it, and decided to post them both.

Edinburgh

But Edinburgh is a mad god’s dream

Fitful and dark,

Unseizable in Leith

And wildered by the Forth,

But irresistibly at last

Cleaving to sombre heights

Of passionate imagining

Till stonily,

From soaring battlements,

Earth eyes Eternity.

Scotland

It requires great love of it deeply to read

The configuration of a land,

Gradually grow conscious of fine shadings,

Of great meanings in slight symbols,

Hear at last the great voice that speaks softly,

See the swell and fall upon the flank

Of a statue carved out in a whole country’s marble,

Be like Spring, like a hand in a window

Moving New and Old things carefully to and fro,

Moving a fraction of flower here,

Placing an inch of air there,

And without breaking anything.

So I have gathered unto myself

All the loose ends of Scotland,

And by naming them and accepting them,

Loving them and identifying myself with them,

Attempt to express the whole.

This week, something from a northern English poet whose footsteps have at times crossed with mine (she's lived in Hull and in Manchester at the same time as me), though we've never actually met. Her debut collection is available here.

Grey Natural Light

It breaks through voile and stains

like tannin leaching into a cup;

(the voile bunched like tissue-paper

strewn by an elephant).

Carbon filters into rooms

invisibly, on the back of the world’s breath.

Dioxide. It is not unexpected.

Nor is it hindered; almost every car

trails ashes down the road’s long

crawl of grau, grau, grau. Not much

today it seems will grow but we may dig

for graphite, paint elephants in the sky azure.

Poem of the week is officially back!

The year is turning; my monster event is winding down, and Innumerable Stars has commenced. That, together with today's early autumn sunshine putting me in mind of The Fellowship of the Ring, has inspired me to share this lovely and slightly spooky short piece by the man himself.

Shadow-Bride

There was a man who dwelt alone,
as day and night went past
he sat as still as carven stone,
and yet no shadow cast.
The white owls perched upon his head
beneath the winter moon;
they wiped their beaks and thought him dead
under the stars of June.

There came a lady clad in grey
in the twilight shining:
one moment she would stand and stay,
her hair with flowers entwining.
He woke, as had he sprung of stone,
and broke the spell that bound him;
he clasped her fast, both flesh and bone,
and wrapped her shadow round him.

There never more she walks her ways
by sun or moon or star;
she dwells below where neither days
nor any nights there are.
But once a year when caverns yawn
and hidden things awake,
they dance together then till dawn
and a single shadow make.

Current Mood: chipper

Well, more like spring and summer, we're not really in summer yet. But anyway, things are ramping up with TRSB now; I need to stay focused on that and not be freaking myself out thinking "must also remember to do X thing once a week."

(I'm also drowning a bit at work, so taking things off the to do list for the time being feels sensible.)

I intend to resume posting a poem every week in the early autumn, though, once my monster event is done.

The World

The world!
Planet Earth; third from the Sun of a gun, 360 degrees.
And as new worlds emerge
stay alert. Stay aware.
Watch the Eagle! Watch the Bear!
Earthquaking, foundation shaking,
bias breaking, new day making change.
Accumulating, liberating, educating, stimulating change!
Tomorrow was born yesterday.
From inside the rib or people cage
the era of our first blood stage was blotted or erased
or TV screened or defaced.
Remember there's a revolution going on in the world.
One blood of the early morning
revolves to the one idea of our tomorrow.
Homeboy, hold on!
Now more than ever all the family must come together.
Ideas of freedom and harmony, great civilizations
yesterday brought today will bring tomorrow.
We must be about
earthquaking, liberating, investigating
and new day making change in
the world.

(Collected in Now and Then: The Poems of Gil Scott-Heron. More about the poet in his Guardian obituary here.)

I failed again at doing this on Monday last week - part of the point was to give me something to look forward to after work, but the last few weeks have been so full on that I've either worked late or just collapsed in front of the TV on an evening. So, I'm giving Sundays a go instead; rather than something to look forward to on a Monday, it can be something to think about and sustain me (and hopefully others) as we move into the week.

This week's poem is in Ahtna, one of the indigenous languages of Alaska, with an English translation by the poet. Smelcer, born in 1963, is Ahtna's youngest fluent speaker, and describes himself as 'a living repository of our language.' The poem is collected in Poems from the Edge of Extinction, an anthology of poetry in endangered languages, published by John Murray Press and edited by Chris McCabe.

C'etesen

Dahwdezeldiin' koht'aene kenaege'.
ukesdezt'aet.

Yaane' koht'aene yaen',
nekenaege' nadahdelna.

Koht'aene kenaege' k'os nadestaan,
lukae c'ena ti'taan, Tez'aedzi Na'.

Sii 'e koht'aene k'e kenaes,
Sii ndahwdel'en,

dandiil'en
s'dayn'tnel'en.

The Poet

I am beginning to write in our language,
but it is difficult.

Only the elders speak our words,
and they are forgetting.

There are not many words anyhow.
They are scattered like clouds,

like Salmon in Stepping Creek
at Tonsina River.

I do not speak like an Ahtna elder,
but I hear the voice of a spirit,

hear it at a distance,
speaking quietly to me.

According to the mythology of the Ahtna people, their language was given to them by a raven.

I remembered on Thursday that I missed doing this last week - and this week's is just a short one, but feels apt.

Thaw

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed
The speculating rooks at their nests cawed
And saw from the elm-tops, delicate as flowers of grass,
What we below could not see: Winter pass.

(More about the author here.)

Not for that City

Not for that city of the level sun,
Its golden streets and glittering gates ablaze—
The shadeless, sleepless city of white days,
White nights, or nights and days that are as one—
We weary, when all is said , all thought, all done.
We strain our eyes beyond this dusk to see
What, from the threshold of eternity
We shall step into. No, I think we shun
The splendour of that everlasting glare,
The clamour of that never-ending song.
And if for anything we greatly long,
It is for some remote and quiet stair
Which winds to silence and a space for sleep
Too sound for waking and for dreams too deep.

Something hopeful and create-y this week.

Reply to the Question "How Can You Become a Poet?"

take the leaf of a tree

trace its exact shape

the outside edges

and inner lines

memorize the way it is fastened to the twig

(and how the twig arches from the branch)

how it springs forth in April

how it is panoplied in July

by late August

crumple it in your hand

so that you smell its end-of-summer sadness

chew its woody stem

listen to its autumn rattle

watch as it atomizes in the November air

then in winter

when there is no leaf left

invent one

It's Burns Night, so my choice was only going to come from one author this week. I should probably have made more effort to choose one of his poems in Scots, but this is a personal favourite - I used to recite it when I first moved to Lancashire, and was desperate to get back to Scotland.

My Heart's in the Highlands

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the north,

The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

A-chasing the wild-deer and following the roe,

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains high-cover’d with snow;

Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

A-chasing the wild-deer and following the roe,

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

We all need some happy in this dreary winter, so here, have some dogs enjoying the seaside.

The Dogs at Live Oak Beach, Santa Cruz

As if there could be a world

Of absolute innocence

In which we forget ourselves

The owners throw sticks

And half-bald tennis balls

Toward the surf

And the happy dogs leap after them

As if catapulted—

Black dogs, tan dogs,

Tubes of glorious muscle—

Pursuing pleasure

More than obedience

They race, skid to a halt in the wet sand,

Sometimes they'll plunge straight into

The foaming breakers

Like diving birds, letting the green turbulence

Toss them, until they snap and sink

Teeth into floating wood

Then bound back to their owners

Shining wet, with passionate speed

For nothing,

For absolutely nothing but joy.

More about the author here.

Snowflake Challenge promotional banner featuring a cup of frothy coffee or hot chocolate on a plate with a piece of greenery and a cozy comforter with a sprig of baby’s breath. Text: Snowflake Challenge: 1-31 January.

Challenge #6

In your own space, rec at least three fanworks that you didn’t create. Leave a comment in this post saying you did it. Include a link to your post if you feel comfortable doing so.

Since Monday is my usual day for Poem of the Week, I'm combining that with today's challenge prompt; please enjoy these wonderful Tolkien-inspired poems by my fabulous fellow fans!

Mee and Shee, by Nienna. Mee and Shee dance, each watching the other.

Spring in Doriath, by Himring. Doriath welcomes the spring. Inspired by 'Spring' by William Blake.

Maglor's Lament for Ambarussa, by Bunn. A brief poem. Loosely inspired by Cynddylan's Hall, a lament for a seventh-century prince of Powys, from the fourteenth-century Red Book of Hergest.

Fast Fellows, by Elwinfortuna. Wulfmær wakes Aelfnoth on the morning of the Battle of Maldon.

Dwarven Funeral Rites, by Raiyana. A poem used in funeral rites in Khazad-dûm (and elsewhere, later). Khuzdul, with English translation.

Eight-Pointed Star, by Lferion. A travel-song sung by the Feanorian mounted forces, particularly Maglor's riders.

Teler, by Dawn Felagund. After the Darkening of Valinor, a Telerin Elf looks back at the days of light.

nothing is safer
than the sound of you
reading out loud to me

Late again...I will try to get back to doing this on a Monday at some point.

Behind a cut for those who don't like our eight-legged friends.

( Read more... )

Taken from Jamie's The Overhaul, published by Picador Poetry. I really love this collection and could have picked any number of poems from it, but this one fit my mood today.

More about the author here.

Very very late this week - what is time?

I'm afraid I haven't been very imaginative in my selection today. I chose this because it was one of the readings we always had at my school carol service. My best friend read it the year we both left, so whenever I read it now, I hear it in her voice.

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

“Now they are all on their knees,”

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

“Come; see the oxen kneel,

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,”

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

I'm putting this week's entry behind a cut - not because it's terribly long, as it's only a snippet, but I am aware that for varying reasons it might not be what everyone wants to read at the moment. I have re-read the full poem this year, though, and found it put a smile on my face, so maybe it will do the same for others.

( Read more... )

I have something slightly more festive in mind for next week, but for me, ghosts and reflection and remembrance are just as much a part of the season as sleigh rides and snow scenes and sugary treats.

(Also, go me, I managed to post this on an actual Monday for once!)

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness - for them
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

(I should really get back to posting these on a Monday...)

The Last Enchantment

Rest you here, enchanter, while the light fades,
Vision narrows, and the far
Sky-edge is gone with the sun.
Be content with the small spark
Of the coal, the smell
Of food, and the breath
Of frost beyond the shut door.
Home is here, and familiar things;
A cup, a wooden bowl, a blanket,
Prayer, a gift for the god, and sleep.
(And music, says the harp, And music.)
Rest here, enchanter, while the fire dies.
In a breath, in an eyelid's fall,
You will see them, the dreams;
The sword and the young king,
The white horse and the running water,
The lit lamp and the boy smiling.
Dreams, dreams, enchanter! Gone With the harp's echo when the strings
Fall mute; with the flame's shadow when the fire
Dies.
Be still, and listen.
Far on the black air
Blows the great wind, rises
The running tide, flows the clear river.
Listen, enchanter, hear
Through the black air and the singing air
The music . . .

Time for some Gaelic this week; this is long-ish, so both the original and the English translation are under cuts.

( Coin is Madaidhean-allaidh )

( Dogs and Wolves )

Taken from Hallaig and Other Poems, published by Polygon. More about the author here.

The Owl

I saw my world again through your eyes
As I would see it again through your children's eyes.
Through your eyes it was foreign.
Plain hedge hawthorns were peculiar aliens,
A mystery of peculiar lore and doings.
Anything wild, on legs, in your eyes
Emerged at a point of exclamation
As if it had appeared to dinner guests
In the middle of the table. Common mallards
Were artefacts of some unearthliness,
Their wooings were a hypnagogic film
Unreeled by the river. Impossible
To comprehend the comfort of their feet
In the freezing water. You were a camera
Recording reflections you could not fathom.
I made my world perform its utmost for you.
You took it all in with an incredulous joy
Like a mother handed her new baby
By the midwife. Your frenzy made me giddy,
It woke up my dumb, ecstatic boyhood
Of fifteen years before. My masterpiece
Came that black night on the Grantchester Road.
I sucked the throaty thin woe of a rabbit
Out of my wetted knuckle, by a copse
Where a tawny owl was enquiring.
Suddenly it swooped up, splaying its pinions
Into my face, taking me for a post.

(Taken from Birthday Letters, originally published by Faber in 1998.)