Poetry Please

[Ferret75]

Moorland Hills by Hannah Kirk, recalling her latter years as a 'Lancashire lass' in a poem from part of her anthology called The Aspen Tree, superbly illustrated by Yuko Sekiguchi and available in paperback from Amazon, with all proceeds to the National Deaf Children's Society.

The long smooth lines of moorland hills
are restful to my eyes.
They have no need of lacework trees
to stitch them to the sky.

Their sombre hues of brown and green
are scored by dry-stone walls.
Loneliness is echoed
in a curlews plaintive calls.

The wind that roams around the moors
knows nought of mans enslaving.
And rocks that crown the ancient mounds
are scoured by its engraving.

The purple heather's scented bells
will tang the upland air;
though tender sweetly perfumed flowers
can find no refuge there.

In winter's frost the waterfalls
are hung with crystal spears.
The boggy streams are stained with peat,
the moss of fossil years.

When I was young I roamed the hills
to see their every part.
Now I am old I close my eyes
and remember with my heart.


Sent from my Nexus 7 using Tapatalk

 

[Joonsy]

​very late on the thread but thought i'd add a poet with a local connection, Simon Evans, who became known as the poet postman of Cleobury Mortimer, Shropshire, after moving there to recover from being gassed during WW1. He walked about 18 miles every day on his round and had a little GPO workmans hut on the route which he used to sell stamps from and take rest and shelter if the weather turned bad, he had a bed in there and much of his work was written in that hut. A named walk now follows his postmans round and there is even a beer named after him called Postmans Knock.

http://www.cmfa.co.uk/simonevansway.html

a bit of his writing below >>>

"On a winter's morning when the air is clean and cold and the ground frozen hard I can enjoy good hard walking and the warm glow which steals over my body is one of the joys of life.
When a thick frost covers the countryside, every tree and hedgerow is a beautiful picture, every coppice and spinney is a miracle of delicate tracery.
Then comes the season of showers and sunshine. Often a rainbow's end lies across Abdon Hill and circles the sky like a great jewelled arm, and almost every morning the hillsides are dew pearled.
Summer follows on. Now I meet young and old at work in the hayfields, and the farm wagons carry great jars of cider slung beneath them.
When opportunity permits I walk along the cool brookside or near the Rea, chattering gaily as on he dashes and gurgles down the Valley.
Next comes autumn when Nature's promises are fulfilled; the 'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.'
In the orchards surrounding the farmhouses the trees are loaded with fruit; occasionally a ripe apple or pear falls at my feet with a dull thud. As I pass the buildings I hear the gentle mooing and movements of the milking cows and the quick splashes of sound caused by the thin streams of milk quickly filling the milkers' pails.
How sweet is the morning air! How peaceful the countryside! At this hour (the morning at seven) and in this season, the only sounds are flight and calls of birds, the music of the wind in the trees and the splash and gurgle of the sparkling waters of the brooks."

 

[Jackroadkill]

I'm very keen on RS Thomas, who was an irrascible, pedantic, cynical, crabby, antisocial, wilful and obstructive man who also wrote some of the most vivid, sensuous and beguiling poetry I've ever read -

A Peasant:

Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.

 

[Bishop]

Hanging in the woods...

Here I squat amidst natures wonder,
My stomach gripped by internal thunder,
Oh! eating slugs was such a blunder.
Hold the tree tight, one last check,
It wouldn't do to poop in my keks.
Big pile of moss all fuzzy and cool,
way better than Izal we had at school.
Is just out of reach, I am such a fool!

 

[Klenchblaize]

The South Country
Hilaire Belloc

When I am living in the Midlands
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea;
And it's there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be, 10
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rocks,
And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our Sister the Spring
When over the sea she flies; 30
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air;
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there.
And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing mend: 40
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me
Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald;
They watch the stars from silent folds,
They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.

I will hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.

South Downs: England's Mountains Green: www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b08fsbtk via @bbciplayer


Sent from my iPad

K

 

[Wander]

From 'Ulysses' by Tennyson...

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

[Bishop]

Noodles in my pot hot
Noodles in my pot cold
Noodles in my whiskers nine days old
Noodles for my tinder
Noodles fuel my stove
I've got a thing for Noodles and oh ramen it shows!

 

[Kitharode]

.... and again from Mr Milligan:

In Huddersfield, in Huddersfield,
There was a cow that wouldn't yield,
The reason that she wouldn't yield?
She didn't like her udders feeld.

 

[bilmo-p5]

Sea Fever

By John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

 

[boatman]

We will never know of those gallant last stands
'Neath the burning thatch of the horror once called home
The swords and spears gone with the men
Skillet and kitchenware for her weapon hoard
She too must have her honour

 

[Adze]

There was a young man from Tralee,
Who was stung on the neck by a wasp,
When ask if it hurt he said,
Not a bit!
It can do it again if it likes!

 

[Fadcode]

I watched a leaf fall from a tree
It swirled around and fell by me
I placed my foot upon the leaf
And buried it into the ground beneath
I felt no Guilt, no sadness or sorrow
Because from this leaf, will be the tree of tomorrow

 

[dannyk64]

Its a song which i guess is a form of poem but the lyrics are pretty funny from a bush craft perspective. Thought it was worth a share

I’ve got my wood stove I’ve got my chainsaw and my mortgage is paid off
I’ve got my airgun I’ll eat rabbit instead of stroganoff
And the back garden’s planted with spuds from fence to fence
Let the grand correction commence

With my foraging handbook I’ll stuff myself for free
Cos old fatty Ray Mears he’s got nothing on me
And I’ll give you both barrels and I’ll call it self defence
Let the grand correction commence

There’s kids who want to buy a house and they’re sleeping on the floor
While other people out there own two or three or four
Well the heat’s coming down and it’s going to be intense
Let the grand correction commence

Them city boys are hard nosed not a superstitious lot
Yet their mantra is “The Market” it’s the only one they’ve got
If the house of cards is held up by nothing more than “confidence”
Then let the grand correction commence

And how strange then to call your accounting software “Sage”
And then hand out a mortgage for nine times the combined wage
If the new Blue Sky Thinking might include some common sense
Let the grand correction commence

And don’t forget the iron lady as if we ever could
The vicious old spiv who taught all how greed was good
How she sold off our nation and gave rise to this nonsense
And how we bowed down and worshipped her avarice and her ignorance
Now… Let the grand correction commence
Let the grand correction commence

 

[Klenchblaize]

Its a song which i guess is a form of poem but the lyrics are pretty funny from a bush craft perspective. Thought it was worth a share

I’ve got my wood stove I’ve got my chainsaw and my mortgage is paid off
I’ve got my airgun I’ll eat rabbit instead of stroganoff
And the back garden’s planted with spuds from fence to fence
Let the grand correction commence

With my foraging handbook I’ll stuff myself for free
Cos old fatty Ray Mears he’s got nothing on me
And I’ll give you both barrels and I’ll call it self defence
Let the grand correction commence

There’s kids who want to buy a house and they’re sleeping on the floor
While other people out there own two or three or four
Well the heat’s coming down and it’s going to be intense
Let the grand correction commence

Them city boys are hard nosed not a superstitious lot
Yet their mantra is “The Market” it’s the only one they’ve got
If the house of cards is held up by nothing more than “confidence”
Then let the grand correction commence

And how strange then to call your accounting software “Sage”
And then hand out a mortgage for nine times the combined wage
If the new Blue Sky Thinking might include some common sense
Let the grand correction commence

And don’t forget the iron lady as if we ever could
The vicious old spiv who taught all how greed was good
How she sold off our nation and gave rise to this nonsense
And how we bowed down and worshipped her avarice and her ignorance
Now… Let the grand correction commence
Let the grand correction commence

Great to see it in print. I posted the song on here some years ago but can't recall in which thread.

Its cutting as well as funny:

"There’s kids who want to buy a house and they’re sleeping on the floor
While other people out there own two or three or four
Well the heat’s coming down and it’s going to be intense
Let the grand correction commence"

K

 

[dannyk64]

really is, Chris wood's got some real talent

 

[daveO]

Coal Fire in the Nursery – by Louis Untermeyer (1885-1977)

And once, in some swamp-forest, these,
My child, were trees.
Before the first fox thought to run,
These dead black chips were one
Green net to hold the sun.
Each leaf in turn was taught the right
Way to drink light;
The twigs were made to learn
How to catch flame and yet not burn;
Branch and then bough began to eat
Their diet of heat.
And so for years, six million years (or higher)
They held that fire.
And here, out of the splinters that remain,
The fire is loose again.
See how its little hands reach here and there,
Finger the air;
Then, growing bolder, twisting free,
It fastens on the remnants of the tree
And, one by one,
Consumes them, mounts beyond them, leaps, is done,
And goes back to the sun.

 

[Klenchblaize]

BBC Radio 3. NOW!
K

 

[Jackroadkill]

I read this earlier, and reminded myself of reading it as a part of my A levels in the late 1990's.

Inversnaid, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

THIS darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.