In the land that love forgot lit by the light of an autumn moon Memory stirred and held a thought of those once upon a time days When roses rich with red scented days with hope Wind-strewn days with fallen apple air fresh with suckled honey When once You and I loved
smitten immersed in this infinity enamoured Longing in those autumn days Regaining in their wistful hours what summer once had brought us All now lost in time’s story But always and forever written on memory’s scroll.
Reflections on the Nocturnal Paintings of John Atkinson Grimshaw
In the gloom of my world,
In the dark of my dreams,
I capture with rapture
Those nights of moonbeams.
In the glow of the gaslights
I wander a while.
There is joy in their promise
And warmth in their smile.
Twinkling with stardust
Lights dance and dive;
Raindrops add lustre,
The streets are alive.
Light catches and clutches
And I feel the glow
Of these dark starlit nights
On the paths that I know.
Bringing warmth to my soul
As we meet face to face;
It’s the world that I live in
And I savour its grace.
Lady in a garden at Moonlight’ … 1882 – John Atkinson Grimshaw
John Atkinson Grimshaw (6 September 1836 – 13 October 1893) was an English Victorian-era artist who has been called a “remarkable and imaginative painter” -best known for his nocturnal scenes of urban landscapes. He was born in Leeds, Yorkshire, and lived most of his life in that county. Wikipedia
A whimper came to me at night, A murmur soft as a dream. It crept into my consciousness, As would a silk moonbeam.
This phantom sound, This covert cry, Caused my heart to still; It seemed to me It had to be More than just a sigh.
A threat, A promise, A pleading voice, A start or a cessation? A signal meant for me alone – Oblation or Damnation?
I held my heart in readiness, Wept when no guidance came; Waited too long, The moment gone; As ever I am to blame.
Please Note:Over the next few weeks, whilst I am downsizing and moving house, I shall hopefully be posting only two blogs each week, rather than my usual daily publication. I hope to return to more frequent postings in a few weeks time.
As I woke a word arrived in my consciousness unasked unaided
… THROB …
short word tripped from my dreams tumbled through my lips to spill its delight into the morning air
Dug pleasurably from my waking consciousness as my tongue savoured its existence rolled itself around both lips and my mouth accommodated itself to its cadence
Measuring Its measure against my throat’s resonance thrusting the sound up and out into the waiting wondering world pleased to be out in the morning air a thrill to emit listening as it cuts sensuously with a flautist ‘s thrust through the sensuous surrounding air
The poet’s morning chorus a sound to be repeated joyously with fervour pleasurably savouring its cadence
Repeated it resounds in the room lingering as it ends lingering as I make that final occlusion voicing its bilabial stop strong sensuous evocative voluptuous in its warmth flirtatious in its coquettishness
Onomatopoeic pleasure so soulfully satisfying in its sound-print
This poem, ‘Death’, by W.B.Yeats (1865 – 1939} is one of his shortest. It attempts to contrast the death of of animals, who do not possess such a concept, with the centrality, the significance and the certitude of what death means in the experience of all human beings. Yeats wrote this poem in 1929 and published it in his 1933 collection, ‘The Winding Stair and Other Poems’.
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone –
Man has created death.