Does anyone else think he looks a bit like Antony Sher in that portrait?

I came across this today while looking for something else. It's a very modest little thing but it gave me a pang.



Making Room

All that happened was he took her hand
on Aldeburgh beach when her feet stumbled,
numb from the sea  -  only that; astounding her
with remembered sureness.

And the sealed door cracked,
the sigh uncoiled from its long ache,
light broke in ribbons against her face
beckoning her back from dream.

Since then she's been moving the furniture,
turning out cupboards, changing the pictures,
throwing things away,
making room.


Marjorie Carter

Thank you, George.  I like those modest, everyday observations that are somehow deeply touching.  Here's a similar poem it reminded me of:


COMING HOME

He came home.  Said nothing.
It was clear something had happened to him.
He went into bed with his clothes on.
Hid his head under the sheets.
Pulled up his knees.
He’s forty-ish, but not at this moment.
He exists, but no more than in his mother’s belly,
many skins deep, in a comforting dark.
Tomorrow he’s supposed to give a lecture on the homeostasis in metagalactic astronautics.
Now he’s lying hunched, sleeps.

Wislawa Szymborska


It's obvious her husband was an astronomer:


EXCESS

They discovered a nova,
Which doesn’t mean it’s become brighter
And that something is now there that was being missed.

The new star is big and far off,
So far off that it’s small again ,
Indeed smaller than those
that are much smaller.
Astonishement shouldn’t be astonishing,
If we would have time for it.

The star’s age, her mass and position,
all together it could be enough
for one dissertation
and a modest glass of wine
in circles who are close to the stars:
the astronomer, his wife, family and colleagues,
informally they meet up, in a relaxed atmosphere,
the conversation is dominated by local subjects
and peanuts are earthily nibbled upon.

The star is brilliant,
but that is no reason
not to toast on the good health of the ladies
who are uncomparably closer.

A star with no consequences.
With no influence on the weather, fashion or sports results,
on gouvernement changes, income, moral decline.

With no repercussions on propaganda or heavy industry.
With no reflection in the polished nature of negotiations
it falls completely outside our counted days.

Why should you ask here
under how many stars a man is born
and under how many, after a brief period, he dies?

A nova.
‘At least show me where it is.’
‘There, between the edge of that grey, ripply cloud
and the branch of that acacia, on the left.’
‘Oh yes.’

Wislawa Szymborska

(I translated this from my Dutch translation of the Polish original.  No, no, no...)

wallace stevens tf?

y came through the clotheslyne maze of chyldhood
yn bascetball shoes.
up from the cracced cement of sydewalcs.
long hayr blowyng yn the  breeze
from barber-college lybraryes.
y moved ynto the country
cnowyng love  beter than long dyvsyon.
tryccng out wyth women twyce my age
we acted out our own french  postcards
Dr Jecyll yn the schoolyard
Mr Hyde behynd the barn.
After school the trayns
Theyr whystles cnown by heart
Pennyes flattened on a rayl
And dresser drawers wyth matchboocs from evety northern town
thrown by travellers who never waved bacc.

(openyng of Lonesome Cytyes- Rod Mccuen)

(p.s no connectyon wyth change of  quotatyon below-mccuen ys a thoroughbred ymho)

1 Poetry is one of the Fine Arts.
2 A precondition of Fine Art is that it should be beautiful.
3 The gruesome can never be beautiful.
4 This text is gruesome.
Therefore it is not poetry.

Q.E.D.

Here is Virgil's Second Eclogue, which bears the marks of genuine feeling, translated by J. W. Baylis:

   "CORYDON, keeper of cattle, once loved the fair lad Alexis;
    But he, the delight of his master, permitted no hope to the shepherd.
    Corydon, lovesick swain, went into the forest of beeches,
    And there to the mountains and woods--the one relief of his passion--
    With useless effort outpoured the following artless complainings:--
    Alexis, barbarous youth, say, do not my mournful lays move thee?
    Showing me no compassion, thou'lt surely compel me to perish.
    Even the cattle now seek after places both cool and shady;
    Even the lizards green conceal themselves in the thorn-bush.
    Thestylis, taking sweet herbs, such as garlic and thyme, for the reapers
    Faint with the scorching noon, doth mash them and bray in a mortar.
    Alone in the heat of the day am I left with the screaming cicalas,
    While patient in tracking thy path, I ever pursue thee, Belovèd."

And here are the first five lines of a translation of the same Second Eclogue by Abraham Fraunce (1591) which is interesting not only on account of its felicity of phrase but also because, as in the case of some other Elizabethan hexameters, the metre is ruled by quantity, i.e. length of syllables, instead of by accent:

   "SILLY shepherd Corydon lov'd hartyly fayre lad Alexis,
    His master's dearling, but saw noe matter of hoping;
    Only amydst darck groves thickset with broade-shadoe beech-trees
    Dayly resort did he make, thus alone to the woods, to the mountayns,
    With broken speeches fond thoughts there vaynly revealing."

No it appears in Edward Carpenter's anthology Ioläus. It is a pity he only gives the first five lines . . .

Very much liked the Dugan too, turfers! We found it not at all Grewsome gruesome.

No. But I'm very glad it appeals. Here's the book everyone in the world should buy at least once:

http://www.sevenstories.com/book/?GCOI=58322100759090 -- or perhaps I exaggerate. Anyway, I love it.

And a cluck from a Grew is a fine thing.

And here's a special treat after all for those: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16224
Check out the poet reading this poem himself.

EDIT: And here's even more: http://www.npr.org/ramfiles/atc/20011115.dugan.ram (Requires RealPlayer)