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The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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Penelope

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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What a brilliant 'Charm'. Do you know, I think it is to charm away moles! I haven't looked it up honestly, but farmers have a lot of problems with moles and also people who like to have perfectly beautiful lawns.

I have read in my old, antique gardening and folk-lore books that people used to write letters to moles, in the form of a charm, or get the scribe to write for them if they weren't literate. Then they would but the piece of parchment or paper into the mole hill and the moles would go away, allegedly.

When I was little, we lived in a house once, where the people next door had a parrot. It used to drop seed on the floor and they got mice. Being adjoining, to my Mum's horror, we got mice too. My Mum, talked to the mice.....told them to go away and live across the road in the livery stables. Apparently, it works for beetles too, or any kind of pest.....send them a telepathic message....politely asking them to leave and always suggesting where else they should go. This is why I love folklore and such......such a picturesque way of 'being'. LOL

Anyway, I can vouch for the fact that dowsing works quite tangibly......and anyone can learn how to do it with a pendulum or hazel twig..... :wink:
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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giselle

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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You had me checking on 'wen', I had pictured a small animal too, one who's pesky ways are a nuisance. The poem seems to contemplate some rather nasty outcomes for the poor soul. The idea of a 'charm' is interesting, working by some mysterious way it speaks to the subject critter and persuades it to take some action that would not happen without intervention.

In the process of casting about on 'wens', I found this poem by Penelope Shuttle ... background quote from UK Poetry International Web " “In my poetry I give primacy to the breath. For me it is the way the poem breathes that gives it form.” Penelope Shuttle lives in Falmouth on the south coast of Cornwall not far from Land’s End, the toe of England. She was married to the poet Peter Redgrove, who died in 2003, and has a grown-up daughter, Zoe.

So when you read this, look out for the 'wennikins' lines and watch your breathing ...

TAKING THE DRIP OUT
Then one afternoon
in a little private office
the consultant Zoe and me
there’s no more to be done for you,

they’re going to remove
the feeding drip, up the drug dosage,
‘...and he’ll just slip away’

Already high on a flying carpet
of kind morphine dreams,
you’ve nothing more to say to us,
though last week you could still moan,

‘get me out of here’

Almost as bad,
the junior doctor in the corridor
asking furtively,
‘if he has a coronary arrest,
do you want him resuscitated?’

Unanswerable question,
while a few feet away on your deathbed,
you were letting go
autumns of the future,

remembering the past maybe,
how I charmed your wart away,
pressing the raw steak to your cheek,
reciting,

‘O wen, o little wennikins,
Here shall you build not, here have no abode...’
Then buried the chunk of meat
In the north of our garden...
Or maybe you dreamed of our modest travels,

You, who like Rembrandt never visited Rome,
But like the Master of the small landscape,
loved the microcosm, sand-grains, water-droplets,
chips of granite, the exact quota of crystals

packed into a geode no bigger than an egg

On the day they take the drip out
there’s so much we don’t know,
how long it will be
before life can ever be normal again,

above all we don’t know,
Zoe and I,
how beautiful and welcoming
the sunlit sands of Maenporth will be

(o come unto these yellow sands)

nor how the equinoctial blue sky
will watch over us,
like a witty person struck silent,
as I scatter your ashes into the bright waves,
and the sea, nature’s perfectionist,

bears you away in triumph.
Last edited by giselle on Sat Jul 23, 2011 1:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Penelope

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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Thanks giselle. What a very moving poem.

Vis a Vis - charming the wart. That is something I do know about. I have rid many a wart in my time. You cut a potato in half and rub it on the wart or warts, then bury the potato in the garden. As the potato degrades into the soil, so the wart disappears. I have honestly never known this to not work.

Of course I was taught that you should do it when there is a waning moon but I think that is just to make it seem more witchy. Now the steak as used in the poem would have been for a black eye - not a wart imo.

I have in my great grandfather's botany books, a charm written to cure ringworm. I haven't ever tried it because I haven't actually come across ringworm.....thankfully.
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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giselle

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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I'm a little tardy with the C poems, but I'm making up some ground now!! Here's 3 of them with some theme similarity (but only some) ... I particularly like the last one. Just seems to speak clearly of a child's world and a child's imagination.

The Child Dying

Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.

You are so great, and I so small:
I am nothing, you are all:
Being nothing, I can take this way.
Oh I need neither rise nor fall,
For when I do not move at all
I shall be out of all your day.

It's said some memory will remain
In the other place, grass in the rain,
Light on the land, sun on the sea,
A flitting grace, a phantom face,
But the world is out. There is not place
Where it and its ghost can ever be.

Father, father, I dread this air
Blown from the far side of despair
The cold cold corner. What house, what hold,
What hand is there? I look and see
Nothing-filled eternity,
And the great round world grows weak and old.

Hold my hand, oh hold it fast-
I am changing! - until at last
My hand in yours no more will change,
Though yours change on. You here, I there,
So hand in hand, twin-leafed despair -
I did not know death was so strange.

Edwin Muir

Code: Select all


A Child’s Pet

When I sailed out of Baltimore,
    With twice a thousand head of sheep,
They would not eat, they would not drink,
    But bleated o'er the deep 

Inside the pens we crawled each day
    To sort the living from the dead;
And when we reached the Mersey's mouth
    Had lost five hundred head. 

Yet every night and day one sheep,
     That had no fear of man or sea
Stuck through the bars its pleading face,
     And it was stroked by me. 

And to the sheep-men standing near,
    'You see,' I said, 'this one tame sheep?
It seems a child has lost her pet,
     And cried herself to sleep.' 

So every time we passed it by
    Sailing to England's slaughterhouse,
Eight ragged sheep-men -- tramps and thieves --
    Would stroke that sheep's black nose.

W. H. Davies


Child’s Song

My cheap toy lamp
Gives little light
All night, all night,
When my muscles cramp.

Sometimes I touch your hand
Across my cot,
And our fingers knot,
But there’s no hand

to take me home –
No Carribean
Island, where even
The shark is at home.

It must be heaven.
There on that island
The white sand shines
Like a birchwood fire.

Help, saw me in two,
Put me on the shelf!
Sometimes the little muddler
can’t stand itself!

Robert Lowell
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giselle

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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Penelope wrote:Thanks giselle. What a very moving poem.

Vis a Vis - charming the wart. That is something I do know about. I have rid many a wart in my time. You cut a potato in half and rub it on the wart or warts, then bury the potato in the garden. As the potato degrades into the soil, so the wart disappears. I have honestly never known this to not work.

Of course I was taught that you should do it when there is a waning moon but I think that is just to make it seem more witchy. Now the steak as used in the poem would have been for a black eye - not a wart imo.

I have in my great grandfather's botany books, a charm written to cure ringworm. I haven't ever tried it because I haven't actually come across ringworm.....thankfully.
Penny - sounds like you know quite a bit about charms and how they deal with nasty things like warts and ringworm ... and you do hail from an area of the world (or at least nearby) that is famous for its witches, so, you know, putting two and two together .. ? but anyway that's ok, I'm sure you're not a wicked one ! :D
Last edited by giselle on Mon Jul 25, 2011 5:46 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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And some verse from William Blake:

The Chimney Sweeper

A little black thing among the snow,
Crying 'weep! weep!' in notes of woe!
'Where are thy father and mother! say?'
'They are both gone up to the church to pray.

'Because I was happy upon the heath,
'And smil'd among the winter's snow,
'They clothed me in the clothes of death,
'And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

'And because I am happy and dance and sing,
'They think they have done me no injury,
'And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King,
'Who make up a heaven of our misery.'

William Blake
From Songs of Experience


The Clod and the Pebble

'Love seeketh not Itself to please,
'Not for itself hath any care,
'But for another gives its ease,
'And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.'

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

'Love seeketh only Self to please,
'To bind another to Its delight,
'Joys in another's loss of ease,
'And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.'

William Blake
From Songs of Experience
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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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William Blake sounding very much before his time.

I know he was a mystic and spiritual person, but judging from 'The Chimney Sweeper' he didn't like churches and organised religion.


The Clod and the Pebble has made me think about the nature of love. I have recently fallen in love with my new grandson and want him to be here with me so that I can keep touching him and looking at him in admiration, so that is a selfish love, a wanting to keep him near for my own satisfaction. I suppose that is 'pebble' love.

The Clod's love is more of a nurturing love, where one works to provide a comfortable home and good food and all the practicalities for ones partner and children. I think both are valid but it is true that the clod's love gives more satisfaction. The emotional kind of love of the pebble, hurts a bit when the loved one is not around.
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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giselle

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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Penelope wrote:The Clod and the Pebble has made me think about the nature of love. I have recently fallen in love with my new grandson and want him to be here with me so that I can keep touching him and looking at him in admiration, so that is a selfish love, a wanting to keep him near for my own satisfaction. I suppose that is 'pebble' love.
I suppose there is an element of selfishness in your love for your grandson but ultimately your love will benefit him, as love does for all children, so I think you should go for it and never mind Blake!

Cocaine Lil and Morphine Sue

Did you ever hear about Cocaine Lil?
She lived in Cocaine town on Cocaine hill,
She had a cocaine dog and a cocaine cat,
The fought all night with a cocaine rat.

She had a cocaine hair on her cocaine head.
She had a cocaine dress that was poppy red:
She wore a snowbird hat and sleigh-riding clothes,
On her coat she wore a crimson, cocaine rose.

Big gold chariots on the Milky Way,
Snakes and elephants silver and gray.
Oh the cocaine blues they make me sad,
Oh the cocaine blues make me feel bad.

Lil went to a snow party one cold night,
And the way she sniffed was sure a fright.
There was Hophead Mag with Dopey Slim,
Kankakee Liz and Yen Shee Jim.

There was Morphine Sue and the Poppy Face Kid,
Climbed up snow ladders and down they skid;
There was the Stepladder Kit, a good six feet,
And the Sleigh-riding Sister who were hard to beat.

Along in the morning about half past three
They were lit up like a Christmas tree;
Lil got home and started for bed,
Took another sniff and it knocked her dead.

They laid her out in her cocaine clothes:
She wore a snowbird hat with a crimson rose;
On her headstone you'll find this refrain:
'She died as she lived, sniffing cocaine.'

Anon

Well, I think this poem is a meant in a light vein but all I can think of is Amy Winehouse and others that went before her in sad circumstances.
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Penelope

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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I agree with you giselle, before I read your comment at the end, I was thinking about Amy Winehouse whilst reading it from the very first line. Now, I knew about Amy Winehouse, but I am so out of touch with pop culture that I never have listened to her work....but it is so sad, and so cruel the way the media bated her.

An example of having everything and yet nothing I think. So sad. I hope that through the recent News International debacle, the media will draw up some new rules of behaviour....and stick to them.

I don't care for the poem anyway, it sounds a bit like one of those jazz songs by George Melly (whom I did enjoy).....One called the tale of Willy the Weeper. Now, I never was into drug culture, living in the wilds of rural Lancashire, I never encountered it......but I did like this one when performed by 'Gorgeous George'.


Willie the Weeper

Did you ever hear the story of Willie the Weeper?
He had a job as a chimney sweeper,
He had the habit, and he had it bad.
Listen, while I tell you 'bout the dream had.

cho.

Teet tee dee dee x2
Toot too do do do x2
Yah da da de da x2
Yah yah yah x2

He went to a hop-house the other night
Where the lights were always shining bright.
Guess he smoked a dozen pills or more;
When he woke, 'twas on a foreign shore.

The Queen of Sheba was the first he met,
She called him her darlin' and her lovin' pet.
She gave him a fancy automobile
With a diamond headlight and a golden wheel.

He landed with a splash, in the river Nile
A'ridin' a sea-goin' crocodile.
He winked at Cleopatra, she said "Aint he a sight!
How about a date for next Saturday night?"

He went to Monte Carlo, where he played roulette
He couldn't lose a penny, and he won every bet.
He played and he played 'till the bank went broke
Then he turned around, and took another smoke.

He went off to Turkey, by special request,
He stayed 7 years, as the sultan's guest
But when he got in with that harem crew
What was a poor fellah like Willie to do?

He had a million cattle and a million sheep.
He had a million vessels on the ocean deep.
He had a million dollars, all in nickles and dimes...
Well he knew it 'cause he'd counted them a million times.

He landed in New York, one evening late
He asked his sugar to make a late date.
He started to kiss her, then he made her pout
When...bing,bang,bing...the dope gave out.

Now this is the story of Willie the Weeper
He's got a job as a chimney sweeper.
Some day a pill too many he'll take
And dreaming he's dead, he'll forget to wake.

EL
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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giselle

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Re: The Rattle Bag: The C poems

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LOL Penny. Thanks for the Chimney Sweeper poem. I haven't followed the Amy Winehouse story that carefully so I'm not sure how the media bated her but I do think that the media has become such a brutally competitive business that anything will be done for a story, including manufacturing the story using the power of the media to twist the truth and spread lies everywhere, with potentially tragic consequences for the individuals concerned.

I have grouped two Edward Thomas poems togther in this post and will add two Yeats poems tomorrow:

Cock-Crow

Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp axe of light, -
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
Each facing each as in a coat of arms:
The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.

Edward Thomas


The Combe

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
The most ancient Briton of English beasts.

Edward Thomas

from Wikipedia : "Combe" or "coombe" is a West Country word meaning a steep-sided valley."

(Penny, maybe you know a 'combe' or two? perhaps in the wilds of Lancashire? well, maybe not, I think Lancashire is pretty flat :P )

I like both of these poems and I'm going to look up some more of Thomas' poems. His imagery seems quite bright and clear. A true combe would be dark and feel ancient and maybe a little creepy. I like the line 'rabbit holes for steps' .. always a good thing to have when navigating a steep slope. I wonder, what's with the badger? Something special about killing a badger? Symbolic? British cultural thing?
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