It is a somewhat bleak February day today. I'm having a poetry day to cheer myself up so I thought I'd share this:-

Ballade of True Wisdom

it's by Andrew Lang

While others are asking for beauty or fame,
Or praying to know that for which they should pray,
Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,
Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey,
The sage has found out a more excellent way -
To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,
And his humble petition puts up day by day,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Inventors may bow to the God that is lame,
And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray;
Philosophers kneel to the God without name,
Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;
The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,
The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours;
But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame
(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day
With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)!
O grant me a house by the beach of a bay,
Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play
With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!
And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

ENVOY.

Gods, grant or withhold it; your "yea" and your "nay"
Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours:
But life IS worth living, and here we would stay
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Not all poems have to rhyme.

Terry said:

Not all poems have to rhyme.

No, but some poems are like the peace of God....they pass all understanding.

It's 'Mothering Sunday' tomorrow, here in the UK.

Our Paper printed this Poem for Mother's Day by Gillian Clarke and I do love it so thought I'd share.

The Habit of Light

In the early evening, she liked to switch on the lamps
in corners, on low tables, to show off her brass,
her polished furniture, her silver and glass.
At dawn she'd draw all the curtains back for a glimpse
of the cloud-lit sea. Her oak floors flickered
in an opulence of beeswax and light.
In the kitchen, saucepans danced their lids, the kettle purred
on the Aga, supper on its breath and the buttery melt
of a pie, and beyond the swimming glass of old windows,
in the deep perspective of the garden, a blackbird singing,
she'd coem through the bean rows in tottering shoes,
her pinny full of strawberries, a lettuce, bringing
the palest potatoes in a colander, her red hair bright
with her habit of colour, her habit of light.

Perusing for poems with numbers in them for the National Poetry Month game, I came across this gem!


Fish Fucking
by Michael Blumenthal

This is not a poem about sex, or even
about fish or the genitals of fish,
So if you are a fisherman or someone interested
primarily in sex, this would be as good a time
As any to put another worm on your hook
or find a poem that is really about fucking.

This, rather, is a poem about language,
and about the connections between mind and ear
And the strange way a day makes its tenuous
progress from almost anywhere.

Which is why I've decided to begin with the idea
of fish fucking (not literally, mind you,
But the idea of fish fucking), because the other
day, and a beautiful day it was, in Virginia
The woman I was with, commenting on the time
between the stocking of a pond and the

First day of fishing season, asked me if this
was perhaps because of the frequency with which
Fish fuck, and—though I myself know nothing at all
about the fucking of fish—indeed, I believe

From the little biology I know that fish do not
fuck at all as we know it, but rather the male
Deposits his sperm on the larvae, which the female,
in turn, has deposited—yet the question
Somehow suggested itself to my mind as the starting
point of the day, and from the idea of fish

Fucking came thoughts of the time that passes
between things and our experience of them,
Not only between the stocking of the pond and our
being permitted to fish in it, but the time,

For example, that passes between the bouncing
of light on the pond and our perception of the
Pond, or between the time I say the word jujungawop
and the moment that word bounces against your
Eardrum and the moment a bit further on when the
nerves that run from the eardrum to the brain

Inform you that you do not, in fact, know
the meaning of the word jujungawop, but this,
Perhaps, is moving a bit too far from the idea of
fish fucking and how beautifully blue the pond was

That morning and how, lying among the reeds atop
the dam and listening to the water run under it,
The thought occurred to me how the germ of an idea
has little to do with the idea itself, and how
It is rather a small leap from fish fucking to the
anthropomorphic forms in a Miró painting,

Or the way certain women, when they make love,
pucker their lips and gurgle like fish, and how
This all points out how dangerous it is for a
man or a woman who wants a poet's attention

To bring up an idea, even so ludicrous and
biologically ungrounded a one as fish fucking,
Because the next thing she knows the mind is taking
off over the dam from her beautiful face, off
Over the hills of Virginia, perhaps as far as Guatemala
and the black bass that live in Lake Atitlán who

Feast on the flightless grebe, which is not merely
a sexual thought or a fishy one, but a thought
About the cruelty that underlies even great beauty,
the cruelty of nature and love and our lives which

We cannot do without and without which even the idea
of fish fucking would be ordinary and no larger than
Itself, but to return now to that particular day, and to
the idea of love, which inevitably arises from the
Thought that even so seemingly unintelligent a creature
as a fish could hold his loved one, naked in the water,

And say to her, softly, Liebes, mein Lubes; it was
indeed a beautiful day, the kind filled with anticipation
And longing for the small perfections usually found only
in poems; the breeze was slight enough just to brush

A few of her hairs gently over one eye, the air was
the scent of bayberry and pine as if the gods were
Burning incense in some heavenly living room, and
as we lay among the reeds, our faces skyward,
The sun fondling our cheeks, it was as if each
time we looked away from the world it took

On again a precise yet general luminescence when we
returned to it, a clarity equally convincing as pain
But more pleasing to the senses, and though it was not
such a moment of perfection as Keats or Hamsun

Speak of and for the sake of which we can go on for
years almost blissful in our joylessness, it was
A day when at least the possibility of such a thing
seemed possible: the deer tracks suggesting that
Deer do, indeed, come to the edge of the woods to feed
at dusk, and the idea of fish fucking suggesting

A world so beautiful, so divine in its generosity
that even the fish make love, even the fish live
Happily ever after, chasing each other, lustful
as stars through the constantly breaking water.

The woman I was with, commenting on the time
between the stocking of a pond and the

First day of fishing season, asked me if this
was perhaps because of the frequency with which
Fish fuck, and—though I myself know nothing at all
about the fucking of fish—indeed, I believe


Love it! Oh LOL.


And longing for the small perfections usually found only
in poems; the breeze was slight enough just to brush

A few of her hairs gently over one eye, the air was
the scent of bayberry and pine as if the gods were
Burning incense in some heavenly living room, and
as we lay among the reeds, our faces skyward,
The sun fondling our cheeks, it was as if each
time we looked away from the world it took

On again a precise yet general luminescence when we
returned to it, a clarity equally convincing as pain
But more pleasing to the senses, and though it was not
such a moment of perfection as Keats or Hamsun

Oh just idyllic. It is a superlative passage this!

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods make heaven drowsy with the harmony.


I was thinking about those lines in books and plays that strike a chord with us, that make our hearts quicken, and cause those little moments of happiness. I have no idea why, but at this moment I'm in a hopelessly romantic mood ... no reason for this really. Anyway, are there certain lines that you read that just seem to sum up the notion of love and harmony for you? Or that you see, and think 'yes, that's a concept I want to hang on to'?

Penny, you asked me about what poem, or line captures some aspect of love that rings for me, well here is one -

Topography Analysis

After we flew across the country we
got in bed, laid our bodies
delicately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against your Kansas your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my
sun rising swiftly from the left your
moon rising slowly form the left my
moon rising slowly form the right until
all four bodies of the sky
burn above us, sealing us together,
all our cities twin cities,
all our states united, one
nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

Sharon Olds

And another, I love the opening stanza of this Mary Oliver poem.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

And one more - To Hold by Li Young-Lee

So we’re dust. In the meantime, my wife and I
make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet,
we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight,
measuring by eye as it falls into alignment
between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I’m lucky,
she’ll remember a recent dream and tell me.

One day we’ll lie down and not get up.
One day, all we guard will be surrendered.

Until then, we’ll go on learning to recognize
what we love, and what it takes
to tend what isn’t for our having.
So often, fear has led me
to abandon what I know I must relinquish
in time. But for the moment,
I’ll listen to her dream,
and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling
more and more detail into the light
of a joint and fragile keeping.

Saffron, those are three very different poems about three different kinds of love?

The first is very lusty and sexual...and hhhhhot.

The second is about the love of life, joie de vivre.

And I love the third one, my favourite, about the love that allows us to share our lives, the deep and tender kind. The always latent fear of losing the loved one, when one has let oneself love completely. This poem puts it so delicately, when it is so difficult to say without sounding mawkish.

So often, fear has led me
to abandon what I know I must relinquish
in time. But for the moment,
I’ll listen to her dream,
and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling
more and more detail into the light
of a joint and fragile keeping.

'A joint and fragile keeping' .......is just such a perfect line and did make my heart quicken.

Thankyou, Saffron.....again. (((((hugs)))))

This is one of my favourites because it covers the different aspects of love very beautifully:

My delight and thy delight
Walking, like two angels white,
In the gardens of the night:

My desire and thy desire
Twining to a tongue of fire,
Leaping live, and laughing higher:

Thro' the everlasting strife
In the mystery of life.


Love, from whom the world begun,
Hath the secret of the sun.

Love can tell, and love alone,
Whence the million stars were strewn,
Why each atom knows its own,
How, in spite of woe and death,
Gay is life, and sweet is breath:

This he taught us, this we knew,
Happy in his science true,
Hand in hand as we stood
'Neath the shadows of the wood,
Heart to heart as we lay
In the dawning of the day.

Robert Seymour Bridges

and here is another one which has helped me to cope with my foolish passions....LOL

FAREWELL to one now silenced quite,
Sent out of hearing, out of sight,--
My friend of friends, whom I shall miss,
He is not banished, though, for this,--
Nor he, nor sadness, nor delight.

Though I shall talk with him no more,
A low voice sounds upon the shore.
He must not watch my resting-place,
But who shall drive a mournful face
From the sad winds about my door?

I shall not hear his voice complain,
But who shall stop the patient rain?
His tears must not disturb my heart,
But who shall change the years and part
The world from any thought of pain?

Although my life is left so dim,
The morning crowns the mountain-rim;
Joy is not gone from summer skies,
Nor innocence from children's eyes,
And all of these things are part of him.

He is not banished, for the showers
Yet wake this green warm earth of ours.
How can the summer but be sweet?
I shall not have him at my feet,
And yet my feet are on the flowers.

Alice Meynell