Love’s True End

When hearts meet and lips touch

And soft and supple bodies blend,

When in joy you give me your all,

Then will I sing of love’s true end.

WHB . . . 1956

Pictures by Sir Edward Burne-Jones (1833 – 1898) . . . ‘The Heart of the Rose’
Tapestry design, inspired by Chaucer’s adaptation of the medieval French
‘Le Romaunt de la Rose’

Miss Otis Regrets

The Story behind the song . . . This song, a favourite of mine, was composed by Cole Porter in 1934. It tells in wistful, melancholic mood, of a lady who, distraught after her lover’s taking advantage of her, but then unceremoniously abandoning her, kills him with a single shot of her gun. She then, after a final apology, just before she is lynched by a revengeful mob, apologises with the words, “Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today”

The following uncorroborated story is told of how  Cole Porter came to write “Miss Otis Regrets“

It goes that while Cole Porter was dining in a restaurant, he boasted that he could write a song on any subject. His companion then issued a challenge to write one about whatever the next thing was that they overheard being said. At this point a waiter is supposed to have approached another table and said to the diner waiting for someone to join them “Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today, Madam“.

I give the song’s lyrics below, followed by a link to my favourite version, sung by Brian Ferry, originally lead singer with Roxy Music, now a mainly solo artist . . .

“Miss Otis Regrets” – The Lyrics

Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today, Madam
Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today
She is sorry to be delayed
But last evening down on Lovers Lane she strayed, Madam
Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today.

When she woke up and found that her dream of love was gone, Madam
She ran to the man who had led her so far astray
And from under her velvet gown
She drew a gun and shot her lover down, Madam
Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today.

When the mob came and got her and dragged her from the jail, Madam
They strung her upon the old willow ‘cross the way
And the moment before she died
She lifted up her lovely head and cried, Madam
Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today
Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today.

Let Life Begin

My covid story
I rehearse …
I tell its story
In rhyming verse.


To be in England
Now April’s here;
Come lockdown’s end
I’ll give a cheer.

I’ve lived alone
In a bee-loud glade,
And sung the song
That covid made.

Now let me dance
With the daffodils,
And no more seek
For frills and thrills.

A holiday
I can’t afford;
I’ll stay at home,
Not travel abroad.

A cold winter
We’ve had of it;
Let life begin,
Lickety split.

With appreciative nods in the direction of…Robert Browning; W.B.Yeats; William Wordsworth; T.S.Eliot

Words Give Life Its Wings

Photo by Ryutaro Tsukata on Pexels.com

Tell me what you now remember
of what you said just last December
in one ear and out the other
can’t recall
cannot bother
it’s not uncommon
soon forgotten

But that’s now past
sorry I asked
for words will come
and words will go
they may not last
may lose their meaning
become unclean
become what they
weren’t meant to mean

Stay with the thought
you really ought
forever let them
ebb and flow
come to me
and let them go
for that they do
they wax and wane
they come again
often prone to outlive their stay
maybe then to fade away

Yes
hold that thought
and let it thrive
forever may it stay alive
it came to me in just a flash
even those pure balderdash
may be remembered
some dismembered
some misbegotten
others forgotten

But do not fear
lend me your ear
‘cos, right or wrong
words do live on
in speech and song
alive or lost
twisted and tossed
such living things
give life its wings

Time To Linger . . .. A Kyrielle’

Photo by Joe on Pexels.com

Time To Linger . . ..  A Kyrielle’

 

I carry my age so lightly,
With others help, don’t get me wrong,
I’ll manage to last till midnight.
Give me the time to linger long.

For patience is a true virtue,
And I’ve not knowingly done wrong.
So grant me one last interlude,
Give me the time to linger long.

And when my time at last does come,
My final lucid grateful song
Will say as they whisk me away,
‘Thanks for the time to linger long.’ 

 

NOTE:

Kyrielle is a French form of rhyming poetry written in quatrains (a stanza consisting of 4 lines), and each quatrain contains a repeating line or phrase as a refrain (usually appearing as the last line of each stanza). Each line within the poem consists of only eight syllables. There is no limit to the amount of stanzas a Kyrielle may have, but three is considered the accepted minimum  . . .  The rhyme pattern is completely up to the poet.

[  From:  http://www.shadowpoetry.com  ]

 

Reverie #10: A Day to Sink my Teeth in

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Give me a day to sink my teeth in,
A bright and sunny day.
Let me savour sensuous hours,
Keep the end at bay.

Let me live each vibrant moment,
Reach out to stars above.
Threads of serious satisfaction
Seeking more time to love.

Tell it as it really is,
A song that does make sense.
Strapping lasses dancing –
Heated… Drunk… Intense.

A joy
A pleasure rising
Milking each waking hour.
Keeping at bay those moments
When doom and history lour.

And so my days are passing,
Steeped in the certain thought
That time has dealt me aces,
And has been richly bought.

From ‘The Tempest’

 (Poem No.43 of my favourite short poems)

The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,

(  William Shakespeare:  From “The Tempest”)

The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate,
Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;

For she has a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch;
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.
Then, to sea, boys, and let her go hang!

W.H.Auden composed a wistful, haunting update of Shakespeare’s song which looks back with nostalgia but no regrets to an earlier life  . . . 

Song Of The Master And Boatswain

At Dirty Dick’s and Sloppy Joe’s
We drank our liquor straight,
Some went upstairs with Margery,
And some, alas, with Kate;
And two by two like cat and mouse
The homeless played at keeping house.

There Wealthy Meg, the Sailor’s Friend,
And Marion, cow-eyed,
Opened their arms to me but I
Refused to step inside;
I was not looking for a cage
In which to mope my old age.

The nightingales are sobbing in
The orchards of our mothers,
And hearts that we broke long ago
Have long been breaking others;
Tears are round, the sea is deep:
Roll them overboard and sleep.

 

By:  W H Auden

 

 

For those who would like to listen to spoken versions of these two poems, YouTube links are given below . . .

The Tempest: “The Master, the Swabber, the Boatswain, and I”

Music composed by Donna Kendall Stearns (www.DonnaKendallStearns.com)
Sung by Ilan Caplan

“Song of The Master and Boatswain” by W.H. Auden (read by Tom O’Bedlam) . . .

‘Song Of The Master And Boatswain’

Caedmon’s Story: Parts I, II, III

Cowherd at Whitby Abbey … Photograph by Frank Meadows Sutcliffe – c.1880

CAEDMON’S STORY

I.

While the wind whispers words to me
On the cold cliff-top meadow
I gaze out to the cold sea of the north
Its waves ceaselessly gnawing
Chewing on the feet
Of these towering cliffs
Atop which sits
Streonaeshalch monastery
My home
Raised skywards
Its beseeching arches
Piercing the clouds
Their pinnacles breaching
The gates of heaven
Forever seeking
Connection with
God’s presence

Amongst the buttercups
In the pasture
On my lips
The salt tang of the sea
With staff in hand
I pause
Musing on my masters
Cloistered inside the abbey precincts
Cultivating their chants
Tending their herbs
Brewing their healing potions
While I exist
To care for their cattle
Unbecoming
Uncultured
But wedded to my lowly calling
A lay brother
Dutiful
Humble
But a needed
Part of the whole

And my Abbess
Hild
Of such gentle demeanour
Finding the time to speak to me
Her lowly cowherd
Intent only on doing her bidding
On following her lead
Attempting to mirror her devotion
Her calling understood
And honoured
Even echoed
By her lowly servant.

II.

Evening came
And with it
Mists drifting from the sea
In the refectory
A feast of sorts was spread
As is usual
We were all there
From abbess to monk
Minstrels, mummers
Swineherds, sheep herds
Farm hands, helpmates
All
Expected to play a part

I edged myself closer
To the fire’s flames
As before
Wanting no part in their story-telling
Fearing their disdain
Content
To seek the ember’s warmth

The harp
Passed
From one to another
Each offering their words
To its accompaniment
Soon it would be
Handed to me
But I had no words to offer
No desire to demonstrate
My unschooled presence
No thoughts that I could
Or dare
Share.

As always
I sidled to the doorway
Stepped out
Into the cold evening air
Cowled
Against the biting wind
The sea mist
I hastened to my mattress
To the warmth
Of my animals
My uncritical companions.

III.

The weariness of work
Soon brought respite
To my tired limbs
And sleep came
Sound
Straw-cosseted sleep
Until
Without warning
A blaze of light and
Intrusive whispered words 

‘Caedmon …
Sing a Song’
‘Sing to me’
‘Sing now’

I felt myself shudder
A half-discerned image
A presence
Beyond my ken
On the edge of vision
I knew I could not do as asked

‘… But I cannot
I know of no songs’

 ‘… Yes, Caedmon
… You can.
Sing to me
Tell
Of the beginning of all things
Just open your mouth
And let out the sound’

Knowing how futile
Was what I was being asked
Fear made me open my mouth

And

Unbid by me
I uttered words,
Recognisable words
Not just words
But beautiful words
Even I knew that
Words I had not heard before
Words I had not thought before
Words of hope
Of strength
Of compassion
Words of Our Creation
In praise
And Blessing
Words of Heaven
And of the Creator Himself.

…  Continues tomorrow with Parts 4 and 5 …

‘Strange Fruits’

One of the most moving, nay harrowing, poems I know, is one called ‘Strange Fruits’. The poem was written by an American teacher, Abel Meeropol and first published in 1937.

It is an out-and-out protest song, a fiercely evocative cry against the lynching of black African Americans in the southern states of the USA. The poem’s author himself composed the music to which his poem was sung, most famously by Billie Holiday, who recorded it in 1939.

 Many artists have recorded the song since, but I want particularly to bring to your notice a cover version sung by Nina Simone.  Her haunting rendering of the song is soulful, dramatic and extremely moving.  I have chosen a video version which enables the listener to concentrate on the words and their meanings rather than the violent images which are available on some of the video recordings of this song which, should you wish to see, can be found on YouTube.  The haunting falling tone Nina Simone uses in the last verse will forever be seared on my memory.

You will find the video by clicking on this YouTube link …   ‘Strange Fruits’