A poem, by Alfred Lord Tennyson, with great dynamism. Short but so effectively expressed. The adjectives are just right. The words, metre, alliteration and rhymes work together to convey the essence of the eagle’s power and majesty.
The UK Chancellor of the Exchequer has just pronounced on the future of the country in times when the majority of the population find themselves in considerably strained financial circumstances . Perhaps a few thoughts occasioned by a reading which I quote from from: ‘The Funny Side – 101 Humorous Poems’ – edited with an introduction by Wendy Cope, will strike a chord with many of us . . .
It is from the American poet, Richard Willard Armour (July 15, 1906 – February 28, 1989)
That money talks
I won’t deny.
I heard it once,
It said, “Goodbye”.
Richard Armour also once wrote: . . . “Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong.“
The fireworks and bonfires just serve to remind me
Of bombs and incendiaries, of the carnage to see,
Of the fear and the doubts, but the knowledge of duty
To do what they must to perpetuate beauty.
The beauty of freedom, of lives without limits,
Not theirs for the taking, nor lasting but minutes,
But those back at home who are counting on honour
To see the boys through, until they’re a goner.
Some came home broken, wounded and battered,
Wondering if everything was worth it or mattered.
Too quickly their country forgot what they did,
No support for de-briefing, no reward, God forbid!
They did it for duty, for love of their country,
For the King (or the Queen) to put it quite bluntly,
For a future of peace, tranquillity and love,
But the future of them was in heaven above.
Their light was snuffed out on the earth down below
But their life we shall honour as the stars above glow
They shall live in our hearts and our minds here on earth
As November comes round to provide a new birth.
I don’t hate November; I hate that it hurts me.
They gave up their lives for our freedom you see,
But my hurt is as nothing compared to their war.
My heart’s full of love, for the young men, who gave all.
This poem was composed by, and published with the permission of, Caroline Miller-Tate, whilst contemplating the significance of our memories engendered during this year’s Remembrance weekend period . . . “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them”
There Where For you It begins Its encroachment Knowing you will be there To welcome it’s return To follow its path Waiting Watching Until bite by bite Ripple by ripple It will wash your words Across oceans To my shore
Here Where My foot printed Passage Replicates your own And signs itself With love
But in turn That will come For you Too And my own shells Of words Will flow And flood Where your bare feet Choose to follow
There is a beautiful song, composed by the American songwriter, Carl Sigman, called ‘EBB TIDE’. I came across this beautiful and moving rendering of it by my favourite male voice a capella choir, The Westminster Chorus,. i have brought these to your attention in a previous blog. please do listen to their version of ‘Ebb Tide’ at this YouTube link …Click here to watch and listen.
A Quatern is a sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains. It is similar to the Kyrielle and the Retourne. It has a refrain that is in a different place in each quatrain. The first line of stanza one is the second line of stanza two, third line of stanza three, and fourth line of stanza four. A quatern has four stresses per line. It does not have to be iambic or follow a set rhyme scheme.
”Ocean Waves’ … Pen & Wash – WHB . May 2017
I wish the tide to swallow me whole As though a thief had from me stole My life, but then in guilt forgone His gains, paused, and then moved on.
I’ve had enough of body and soul I wish the tide to swallow me whole For now I see, I realise, Life is too short to compromise.
Decisions hurt but must be made, And so, before my debts are paid I wish the tide to swallow me whole; I’m ready now, I’ve lost control.
No longer can I bear the pain, Resigned to never feel again, Towards the waves I edge my stroll I wish the tide to swallow me whole.
‘The Seashore’ … Pen & Wash – Photoshopped with edge effect … WHB – April 2017
‘Pushing Up The Daisies’ … WHB – Pen & Wash. May 2017
Where are they now Gerard and the Craig twins Doggy Dan and Luggy Cooper the Lawrences Jocky Boyes and Spuggie Hood, each with a memory attached their image for me still young never ageing?
Could be still out there my age and I’m still here, not waiting but wanting wishing hoping reliving memories replaying youth, recalling lads lasses too part of my past history of my story, liked, loved, and lusted after, feared and fretted over, not given a thought until now but they could still be here, there, somewhere, not pushing up the daisies. Not yet.
Will some of them, wherever, still be sleeping with my dreams? Others, as I, lying sleepless, thinking these same thoughts, because we do have the same history, minds similarly imprinted, memories matched attuned remembering.
Racing out in the morning breathless with anticipation rushing to share our days, to build the same dams catch the same minnows in the same jam jars leap the same becks explore the same tunnels climb the same trees rocks hills fight the same mock battles. All forging our own memories.
And Jim Jim, the joker, jumped off Highcliff Nab while I took his photo, fell all of six feet soft landed on the turf ledge. No dying fall, not kicking up the daisies.
Not then, no, he wasn’t then, he is now. Long lost professor of religions respected author from beck side cottage, but now no thanks to weed and wine buried deep in my Memory Lane. Now pushing up the daisies.
But those of us who remain short time to run just enough to practise treading the ceremonial turf from below to push up the daisies.
While now, above ground we tread warily lest their spades are not ready when our own time comes to push up the daisies.
Each day The rising sun chases the moon away To hide its limpid light From the brightness of day. Cowed in its lair Within the darkness Of its sylvan hideaway, Preferring to lie With the leaves And squirrels And, as Clytie, Watch the skies, Following Helios’s chariot, Gazing as he Arcs the heavens, Jealous of his power, Fearful of his revenge Were she ever to show her face In his presence. Ever allowing her nemesis To hold sway Over the new day, Commanding the attention of the world And continuing his journey; The dominant presence In the cerulean sky.
When is the moon not a moon? … When it’s the sun in a circular mirror.
The three photographs are of a reflection in a window of daylight, itself reflected in a circular mirror and back onto the glass of the window. All photographs by me – March 2017 … Roland (WHB)