Poetry please - post yours

Hobbies & Pastimes Hobbies & Pastimes: Chat / Discussions
241

I love those G Herbert’s works. Very meaningful . The first one posted by bobby reminds me of one written by a monk from Stanlaw Abbey in , Cheshire.

Thought to be by Robert Haworth as he was the oldest monk and one of the last monks left at Stanlow in a cell of about 4/5, after the Abbey was transferred to Whalley Abbey in Lancashire. He chose to remain due to his love of the place despite so many traumas and disasters there. The Abbott Robert of Haworth remained there until his death in 1304,

Stanlaw Abbey founded 1178 by John de Lacy
Monks transferred to Whalley Abbey, Lancs in 1296.

There has always been a poem named Stanlaw , and a bit of poetic licence had been used. We managed to find the original translation from Latin.

This is the better known one, translated by F G Slater.

STANLAW

"Stanlaw ! where I hope to lie
when my hour shall come to die,
Hard thy lot and brief thy fame
Still thou teachest by thy name -
STAN and LAW together blending
Name all neighbour names transcending
LAW is Hill - I lift my eyes
To the hills beyond the skies.
STAN is Stone - O! Corner Stone !
What art thou but Christ alone ?
Alter Stone, on thee there lies
That blest Bread of Sacrifice
Stanlaw ! 'tis the Lord above
Gave thy name to tell his love ’

First of the ACTUAL translations of the Stanlaw poem:

Epitaph praising places

O Stanlaw when death releases me and entrusts me to you
Not in vain did nature give you your name for this place,
Although cruel fate has now extinguished your fame.
Until now your brief hour powerfully transcends that of nearby places.
Stan and Law are different but turned around to Law and Stan are sadly fitting;
Thus the two divided things become one and fit together.
Law is hill, Stan is the stone which gives relief to the weary.
These words make sense to the grateful sinner, taking away the cloak of mystery.
Christ is the cornerstone, and hill alone the profoundness of the Lord.
Holy altar stone on which lies the saving meal given to mankind.
So Stanlaw, given such a great name confers authority.

and then this , the most accurate , translated recently.

Epitaph in praise of a place

O Stanlaw, death will place my grave with you when I die;
Not in vain has the name for the local character of the place been given to you under a figure of speech.
Allowed to be suppressed by cruel fate, you now emerge with slight reputation, you are by no means the least.
As yet the fleeting hour remains in which you surpass the neighbouring places.
Stan and Law are opposites, but Stan has been turned to Law, having been placed beside it.
Let not these two be separated, they are both turned into one and become a united whole.
Law is hill and Stan is stone on which the weary bee finds rest.
If you understand the substance of this saying, you will thankfully understand the meaning of the place.
Christ is the cornerstone and the unparalleled height of the hill of the Lord.
The stone lies on the sacred altar, on which the saving food becomes a gift to mankind.
Oh Stanlaw, the creator of your name has given you that name as a sign.

The most accurate translation of the Stanlaw poem so far. Many thanks to Catherine Jones 2017

242

thanks for that PD

It’s all very interesting and so nice to have fellow history & literature enthusiasts with us.

243

Thank you, Robert. I love history and the more ancient, all the better. :smiley:

244

Knitting.

My Mother in the evenings would sit in front of our old T.V.
With clicking clacking needles and her knitting on her knee
Row on row of plain and purl
Fairisle too, which needs a swirl
Just a glance to see how it’s doing
Then turn back to the T.V. viewing.
Sadly now her hands won’t let her do the task
Arthritus has claimed them and knitting a thing of the past
But I can still remember the sound that those needles made
At the end of a Winters day, the memory doesn’t fade.

245

Naughty Me!

When I was a small kid
At my party I wanted rid
Of this girl, such a pain
Who drove me insane
Into our pond I pushed her, I did.

She screamed and then she lied
Now my goose it really was fried
“Naughty girl, go to bed”
My stern Father said
To explain to him,Oh, how I tried.

“Not my fault”, I did say,
“She provoked me that way”.
But it did me no good,
Fathers orders they stood
Was my 8th birthday, crime does not pay.

246

This poem was on the back page of the very first copy of The CORNISH TIMES, DATED JANUARY 3rd 1857. It was their 150th Aniversary that year. I have no idea who wrote it. I did phone the paper but they didn’t know either. Anyway here it is…

The Winters Coming Fast.

Again the summer’s reign is o’er,
Again hath autum’s chilling blast
Stripped woodland, bower, and copse, and grove
And winter’s coming fast;
To bind within his icy chain
All things within his wide domain.

From many a lately laden bough
The tempting ruddy fruit is gone;
Waving no more with golden grain,
The fields a gloom put on;
For summer’s radiant glow is past
And winter now is coming fast!

The late luxuriant hills look bleak;
In the once gay, now cheerless, grove
Delight is hushed; and hushed the voice
Of harmony and love;
The wild winds sigh through branches sere
And tell us winter’s drawing near.

The hum of the industrious bee,
Forth issuing at the peep of day,
To kiss from every opening flower
The honied sweets away,
Is heard no more, his labour past,
And dreary winter’s comimg fast!

No blooming flowerets now regale,
Our senses when abroad we stray;
Their beauties and their fragrance too-
Alas, have passed away;
Like a delightful dream they’re gone,
And ah! stern winter’s coming on!

Thus does life’s-summer pass away,
Thus fade before the autumnal blast
Our earthly pleasures and delights;
And death, approaching fast,
Locks us within his cold embrace,
And of our being leaves no trace.

But as the cheering spring succeeds
Drear winter’s stern and gloomy reign,
And with fresh verdure, leaf and flower,
Bids nature bloom again,
So man, transformed, again shall rise,
And bloom anew in Paradise!

ANON, which is sad, as I would love to have known who wrote it.

247

I wrote this poem when I was Robert Junior & before I MORPHED into Robert Jnr.

Some live the life of a butterfly
the truth from them concealed
not them then wisdom uttered by
to them nothing is revealed

yet others feel the world wide pain
of those who are less fortunate
mans inhumanity to man
increases yet it ’s not too late.

a billion pairs of eyes worn-out
will this day be their very last
a billion pairs of eyes turned out
from those crowds last gasps

Dead are the eyes who’ve seen too much
their suffering all in vain
No healing balm or gentle touch
history repeats and repeats again.

(C)
RJ 2013

248

[CENTER][/CENTER]Upon reading these words again I think that the scenario I was pondering could apply to Syria or countless other hell holes in the world.

249

Lovely poem and yes, I have to agree with your comment above. Those people are worn out, their eyes are locked and they cannot take much more mental strain.

250

Puddle Duck, your post was very well researched and informative, A good read.
is your first name Jemimah by any chance?

251

Tiffany, I love your poems too.

252

Beautiful poem Robert & yes, it could apply to any thing happening now. Civilian adults & children should not have to witness or be subjected to what they are in some parts of our World.

253

Thank you Robert.

254

Miracle on Saint Davids Day

[FONT=“Georgia”][SIZE=“4”]
Miracle on St. Davids Day
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
- The Daffodils, William Wordsworth

An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed
with daffodils. The sun treads the path
among cedars and enormous oaks.
It might be a country house, guests strolling,
the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.

I am reading poetry to the insane.
An old woman, interrupting, offers
as many buckets of coals as I need.
A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens
entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic

on a good day, they tell me later.
In a cage of first March sun a woman
sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling.
In her neat clothes the woman is absent.
A big mild man is tenderly led

to his chair. He has never spoken.
His labourer’s hands on his knees, he rocks
gently to the rhythms of the poems.
I read to their presences, absences,
to the big, dumb labouring man as he rocks.

He is suddenly standing, silently,
huge and mild, but I feel afraid. Like slow
movement of spring water or the first bird
of the year in the breaking darkness,
the labourer’s voice recites ‘The Daffodils’.

The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients
seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect.
Outside the daffodils are still as wax,
a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables
unspoken, their creams and yellows still.

Forty years ago, in a Valleys school,
the class recited poetry by rote.
Since the dumbness of misery fell
he has remembered there was a music
of speech and that once he had something to say.

When he’s done, before the applause, we observe
the flowers’ silence. A thrush sings
and the daffodils are aflame.

Gillian Clarke in: Letter from a Far Country

[/SIZE][/FONT]

255

That is lovely, Thank you.

256

Here’s one for a cold winter’s night. One of a few I wrote to accompany a book fairy art.

Jack

Ding Dong bells and green holly bowers,
Twinkling stars in midnight hours,
Mistletoe wings with berries of white,
Scarcely noticed, this cold, fairy night.

Changing of season, changes of dress,
Summer has gone, pastel shades less,
Wavy edged wings like skeleton leaves,
Long gowns of gauze hide them in trees.

Goblins and Elves and Pixies and Gnomes,
Poke their heads out of their quaint little homes.
The man in the moon smiles down with a grin,
Peeping through trees, calls “Anyone In?”

Babbling brooks now silenced and still,
Jack cast his frost from the top of the hill,
An old fishing gnome is frozen like stone,
Rod in his hand, he sits all alone.

Heads that get cold at the drop of a hat,
Are covered with feathers from Grandma’s old mat.
Spidery webs getting tangled in hair,
Icicle winds freeze the damp in the air.

Then dancing along on the pathway tonight,
Come four Forest Fairies and a wee Sprite.
Carrying lanterns with comforting glow,
To hide from the cold, they know where to go.

A hush once again has returned to the woods,
Winter is here, snowmen in hoods,
No whispering words from folk underground,
And there they will stay, ‘til spring comes around.

Royce ©Oct.2007

257

Lovely, Puddle Duck, some really beautiful images there.

258

Thank you, Silver Tabby.

259

I have come across some old poems wot I wrote
Here is one, though my day isn’t until August 7th
I will be 70

Granddad Bob is sixty-six today
It’s just another yearly way
To celebrate the fact that he
Has survived the year to be
Older than he was last year
And, good grief he is still here
One year older and still no wiser
Still not drinking Stella Cider.
This time last year he was in a flap
Cos he was getting, frankly… Fat
But keeping an eye on what he ate
H e has changed his expected fate
Two stone gone, plus two before
He does go on, oh what a bore.
Losing Weight is to be recommended
But only if it was truly intended.
Bob can see what was hid before
HE can see the ground or floor
More than that he can see where he is peeing
AS they often say “Seeing is believing”

260

Originally put this in ‘General’ for Ffosse because he mentioned the equinox - but thought I would share it in here as well:-

                                 [B][U] EQUINOX[/U][/B]

Noun: the time when the sun passes over the
equator, and day and night are of equal length.

But time does not exist
so how does anyone know?
What venerable ancient long
ago decreed that twice a year
an equinox would happen ?
Did he also invent the year?

And why should it only
apply to non-existent time?
Why not an “equinox” of life,
of love, of shopping, of … trees?
The number of trees now is equal
to the number that will ever be ?

No - that would not work.
It has to be quantifiable - but
how do you quantify something
that does not exist and
name it “equinox” ?
Maybe only time will tell …

© 2018