Day Fifty Seven

Today I'm going to share some favourite poems with you.

Bed in Summer

Robert Louis Stevenson

It echoes every child's dislike of having to go to bed while the sun is still high in the sky and there's so much more playing to do - but for that Tyrant Time.

In winter I get up at night 

And dress by yellow candle-light. 

In summer, quite the other way, 

I have to go to bed by day. 

I have to go to bed and see 

The birds still hopping on the tree, 

Or hear the grown-up people's feet 

Still going past me in the street. 

And does it not seem hard to you, 

When all the sky is clear and blue, 

And I should like so much to play, 

To have to go to bed by day?

                             

                                                                  *******

Dorothy Parker had an unhappy childhood and despite her success as a writer, was no luckier as an adult.  She married 4 times, twice to the same man.  After her death, her ashes lay unclaimed for over 17 years.  Poor, unhappy woman - but a truly brilliant writer.

Dorothy Parker

Love Song

Dorothy Parker

My own dear love, he is strong and bold

      And he cares not what comes after.

His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,

      And his eyes are lit with laughter.

He is jubilant as a flag unfurled—

      Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.

My own dear love, he is all my world,—

      And I wish I’d never met him.

My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,

      And a wild young wood-thing bore him!

The ways are fair to his roaming feet,

      And the skies are sunlit for him.

As sharply sweet to my heart he seems

      As the fragrance of acacia.

My own dear love, he is all my dreams,—

      And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,

      And he makes no friends of sorrows.

He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon

      In the pathway of the morrows.

He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,

      Nor could storm or wind uproot him.

My own dear love, he is all my heart,—

      And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

                                                         *********

Henry Reed (22 February 1914 – 8 December 1986) was a British poet, translator, radio dramatist, and journalist.

Lessons of the War: I: Naming of Parts

By Henry Reed

Today we have Naming of Parts.

Yesterday, we had Daily Cleaning.

And tomorrow morning, we shall have What To Do After Firing.

But to-day, today we have Naming of Parts.

Japonica glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel.

And this iIs the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings.

And this is the piling swivel, which in your case you have not got.

 The branches hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb.

And please do not let me see anyone using his finger.

You can do it quite easy if you have any strength in your thumb.

The blossoms are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt.

The purpose of this is to open the breech, as you see.

 We can slide it rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring.

And rapidly backwards and forwards the early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

Walter James Redfern Taylor was an Australian born poet and writer who left his home for England when he was just 18. He wrote the following poem in 1916.

Romance

W.J. Turner

When I was but thirteen or so,
I went into a golden land,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,
took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,
they passed like fleeting dreams,
I stood where Popocatapetl

Mt Chimborazo

in the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master’s voice
and boys far-off at play,
Chimborazo, Cocopaxi
had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream
to and fro from school –
shining Popocatapetl
the dusty streets did rule. 

I walked home with a gold dark boy
and never a word I’d say
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
had taken my speech away:

I gazed entranced upon his face
fairer than any flower –
O shining Popocatepetl
it was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemed
thin, fading dreams by day,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi.

They had stolen my soul away.

                                                                     ********** 

 And this is one of many nonsense poems I wrote for my grandson. 

 The Bombardon 

We once had a truly amazing bombardon
All padded with vervet which came from Des Moines
It could be quite dangerous, (but we kept the guard on)
The rampikes and pronks were all weighted with foins

 The edges were colloped with many edmenage 

The doors, when they opened, revealed a bezoar
Klipspringers abounded and quite an advantage
Were fifty five cats, a zedonk and a boar.

 The things I liked best were perdicular boskets 

Which hung from the corners, all covered with flumes
They sparkled with silver, as did the pearl oskets,
Except when the mithridate gave off its fumes.

  

When father developed a bad diaeresis
He raged in delirium, ‘Sell the darned thing!’
My heart, callithumpian, heard this sad thesis
I even considered a note to the King.

 The sad day arrived, the bombardon was taken 

A gold ninnyhammer fell, clunk, to the floor
And now in the night when I often awaken
I mourne my bombardon, I'll not see it more.