Aye, DrewDad, that was the intent. But, of course, the hostess caught me out, again. I hadn't read but the last one or two pages of the thread, sort of to catch the drift before sticking my oar in. Bad habit, failing to take notice of rules, but it's one I've nurtured nearly to perfection.
However, away with all that, as the Ozzie said. Here's some more Donne fun, hopefully.
The Cannon's Vibration
For God's sake hold your tongue and do not chide,
My five grey hairs, one on top, two each side --
'Twas naught in my art
Made the rest depart,
But your smeggin' attacks upon my pride.
This advice, ere I wear my welcome out,
Which, please your ladyship, do not flout:
Take you a course, get you a place
At finishing school, learn some grace,
Then forfend to harp and carp and shout.
A propos of Burns, I heard this new poem by Seamus Heaney on the radio this morning, celebrating his language:
A Birl for Burns
From the start, Burns birl and rhythm,
That tongue the Ulster Scots brought wi them
And stick to still in County Antrim
Was in my ear.
From east of Bann it westered in
On the Derry air.
My neighbours toved and bummed and blowed,
They happed themselves until it thowed,
By slaps and stiles they thrawed and tholed
And snedded thrissles,
And when the rigs were braked and hoed
Theyd wet their whistles.
Old men and women getting crabbèd
Would hark like dogs whod seen a rabbit,
Then straighten, stare and have a stab at
Standard habbie:
Custom never staled their habit
O quotin Rabbie.
Leg-lifting, heartsome, lightsome Burns!
He overflowed the well-wrought urns
Like buttermilk from slurping churns,
Rich and unruly,
Or dancers flying, doing turns
At some wild hooley.
For Rabbies free and Rabbies big,
His stanza may be tight and trig
But once he sets the sail and rig
Away he goes
Like Tam-O-Shanter oer the brig
Where no one follows.
And though his first tongues going, gone,
And word lists now get added on
And even words like stroan and thrawn
Have to be glossed,
In Burns rhymes they travel on
And wont be lost.
Hope you heard Desert Island Discs too.
Still listening, ducks! But isn't that Heaney poem great?
I've read only a few Heaney poems and reckon the following must be notorious.
Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Doing a bit of digging myself, I unearthed Sonnet #30:
When at the summer sessions, alone in the dock,
He was bound up in chains with a rusty padlock.
The jury hit were that rigged
The judge upped and de-wigged,
Sang cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.
(iamb sorry, ends on a spondee, and a filched one, at that)
(NB: It's claimed on the night before setting sail for oblivion Walter Raleigh had this to say:
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea:
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head!
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
... very likely apocryphal)
Ulysses
by Tennyson
(first & last bits)
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thrive here? O, Gawd ... uh, that is, Zeus! What hope?
None whatsoever for a man of scope.
And waste my life
With such a wife?!!
Blimey! Hangman lend us yer bloody rope!
Wait up. Bring me my arrows of desire,
My bow, and yes, my chariot of fire ...
Say what? By William Blake?
O for Apollo's sake!
Well, hark! We'll rock & roll ere we expire.
Lol!!!
Good lord...you've actually inspired me to read Tennyson!
Clary wrote:Still listening, ducks! But isn't that Heaney poem great?
Great it is, and that's a fact
Like being with a pudden smacked
Or even with a pattle whacked
Wi' gay abandon
Tho' Rabbie ne'er invention lacked
Or leg tae stand on
There is a Scots laird called Macbeth
Who inhales evil ends with each breath.
He does murders shady
With the help of his lady
But it only results in his death.
Societies oft crush their best
When conformity's put to the test.
Socrates' lost,
Galileo, storm toss'd
And much of one gender suppressed.
Advice to young ladies. A. D. Hope
I seem to have developed a knack for delivering the coup de grace to threads.
But you have introduced me to the addictive fun of seeing at least one limerick in what I read.
On your own heads be it.
Drink deep while you may, it's a dottle
The wine has more worth than the bottle.
Logic's just bling.
Right now is the thing.
So don't take your hand from the throttle.
Clary wrote:There is a Scots laird called Macbeth
Who inhales evil ends with each breath.
He does murders shady
With the help of his lady
But it only results in his death.
Bugger! I missed this earlier. It's great.
Keep it up, you and the Pipsqueaker!
