Favourite poems! James, James

[Bara]

ingeb.org/songs/jamesjam.html

My mother and I, lost in London about 1969 - we trudged around arm in arm, chanting JAMES, James .. We eventually found our hotel - by chance. Later, of course, I lived and worked in London.

[adcooper]

One of my favorites, too. I think this might have been the poem that made me realize, at a very tender age, that tongue in cheek humor wasn't peculiar to my own relatives. Really? (thought 6-year-old me) Other people make up these comic dramas, too? I am going to love poetry! And so I have.

Oh, but you'd like one of MY favorites, too. Okay, here's one more suited to my current sensibilities (although I can recite JJ MM W G D almost perfectly from memory).

Forgetfulness, by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

- See more at: www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19754#sthash.wHxD4BAT.dpuf

[Bara]

So Right! I'm engaging with 'old' schoolmates. This is resonant ..

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

But this, too. "I DID go down to the end of the town for a couple of decades or two."

"You must never go down
to the end of the town,
if you don't go down with me."

[Bara]

Not a poem - a children's book. I'd send you a copy, but it's out of print. My mother received it as a gift for her eighth birthday. She gave it to me. (I LOST IT!)

I scoured the world until I found a copy, and you CAN'T have it!

It's called 'Humpty Dumpty and the Princess', by Lilian Timpson. Humpty Dumpty is a tabby kitten, inordinately proud of his red bow, until it gets wet and streaks his fur. The Princess is a little girl called Hazel. Oh, and then there are Moonbeams rowing silver boats : White Pierrots, Sad Pierrots and evil black pierrots. (Sp? Claire?)

There's a naughty Pierrette, scary mechanical spiders and .... (swoon) Hey Diddle Diddle. The court jester at the Moon Queen's court, with his magic fiddle. You said you wanted a violin?

I think I'm STILL in love with HDD!

Maybe, with your library contacts, you can find a copy? You never know when you may meet a little girl who will be enchanted....

www.amazon.co.uk/Humpty-Dumpty-Princess-Illustrated-Olive/dp/B0018EKANO

Published 1907. My 'new' copy doesn't have all the illustrated plates. But that's ok. I can remember them! They're very Aubrey Beardsley, the artist is actually Olive Allen.

[RacetrackRejects]

Not a poem, but my friend reminded me of this passage from Anne of Green Gables today:

"I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."- definitely a favorite

[brooks]

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere



Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

[Bara]

Oh, it's lovely to hear the poems and stories which struck home when we were children. RR, it's so long since I read Anne of Green Gables! Brooks, I remember loving the gallantry of the Ride of Paul Revere.

It's that heroic sort of poetry which never leaves you. As a child, I loved 'The Highwayman'. OK, OK, very melodramatic and Victorian. But, for me, the moon is always a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas.

www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171940

I think we may have chatted about this before. Does anyone remember Christina Rossetti and the 'Goblin Market'? I find it exhausting! I would have been 11?/12? I knew I SHOULD like it .....

www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174262

[brooks]

From my very Scottish nephew

TAE A FART -

Oh whit a sleekit horrible beastie
Lurks in yer belly efter the feastie
Jist as ye sit doon among yer kin
There sterts tae stir an enormous win'
The neeps 'n' tatties 'n' mushy peas
Stert workin' like a gentle breeze
But soon the puddin' wi' the sauncie face
Will hae ye blawin' a' ower the place
Nae maiter whit the hell ye dae
A'bodys gonnae hiv tae pay
Even if ye try tae stifle
It's like a bullet oot a rifle
Hawd yer bum ticht tae the chair
Tae try an' stop the leakin' air
Shify yersel fae cheek tae cheek
Prae tae God it disnae reek
But aw yer efforts go assunder
Oot it comes like a clap o' thunder
Ricochets aroon the room
Michty me a sonic boom
God almichty it fairly reeks
Hope a huvnae s**t ma breeks
Tae the bog a better scurry
Aw whit the hell, it's no ma worry
A'body roon aboot me chokin
Wan or twa are nearly bokin
A'll feel better for a while
Cannae help but raise a smile
Wis him! A shout wi' accusin glower
Alas too late, he's jist keeled ower
Ye dirty bugger they shout and stare
A dinnae feel welcome ony mair
Where e'er ye be let yer wind gang free
Sounds like jist the job fur me
Whit a fuss at Rabbie's party
Ower the sake o' wan wee farty.

[niaru]

Since I didn't study English lit in school, I feel a bit lost when it comes to poetry!
My favorite poems are all in French or German, by Baudelaire, Blaise Cendrars, Rimbaud, Heinrich Heine, Goethe...

But here's a song about October!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHNrIiuTbiM

[Bara]

You didn't? That's a bit unfair, I studied French - and can't speak it. You didn't study English and you're fluent. I used to like you ..

I seem to remember explaining to someone where the name 'Rambo' came from. French philosophers were not his forte.

October is cute - but he's not Garou !