137. Fable - Janos Pilinsky
138. The Face of the Horse - Nikolai Alekseevich Zabolotsky
139. The Fair Maid of Amsterdam - anon
140. Fairy Tale - Miroslav Holub
141. The Faking Boy - anon
142. The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House - Thomas Hardy
143. Fear no more the heat o'the sun - William Shakespeare
144. Field-Glasses - Andrew Young
145. The Fish - Elizabeth Bishop
146. The Flight - Theodore Roethke
147. The Flood - John Clare
148. A Flower Given to my Daughter - James Joyce
149. The Flower-Fed Buffaloes - Vachel Lindsay
150. Flowers by the Sea - William Carlos Williams
151. The Fly - Miroslav Holub
152. Flying Crooked - Robert Graves
153. For a Lamb - Richard Eberhart
154. The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower - Dylan Thomas
155. Forgotten Girlhood - Laura Riding
156. Fox Dancing - Suzanne Knowles
157. Francis Jammes: A Prayer to Go to Paradise with the Donkeys - Richard Wilbur
158. Frankie and Johnny - anon
159. The Frog - anon
160. The Fury of Aerial Bombardment - Richard Eberhart
161. Futility - Wilfred Owen
162. from Games - Vasco Popa
163. The garden of Love - William Blake
164. The Garden Seat - Thomas Hardy
165. Gathering Leaves - Robert Frost
166. The Gazelle Calf - D H Lawrence
167. The Germ - Ogden Nash
168. Girl - anon
169. Giving Potatoes - Adrian Mitchell
170. A Glass of Beer - James Stephens
171. The Goose and the Gander - anon
172. Great and Strong - Miroslav Holub

Here's the first 'F' poem!

Fable

Once upon a time
there was a lonely wolf
lonelier than the angels.

He happened to come to a village.
He fell in love with the first house he saw.

Already he loved its walls
the caresses of its bricklayers.
But the windows stopped him.

In the room sat people.
Apart from God nobody ever
found them so beautiful
as this child-like beast.

So at night he went into the house.
He stopped in the middle of the room
and never moved from there any more.

He stood all through the night, with wide eyes
and on into the morning when he was beaten to death.

Janos Pilinszky
Detail from the KZ-Oratorio, Dark Heaven
From the Hungarian (trans. Ted Hughes)

I like the poem, such simple language yet powerful metaphor of the wolf and people, but sometimes I wonder about translations, here is some background on the poet and translations of his work:

"Pilinszky first became known to the English-speaking world through the brilliant translations by Ted Hughes, published in 1976 in England by Carcanet Press. A new translation of Pilinszky's work by Emery George gives the English-speaking reader an opportunity to appreciate Pilinszky's achievement; the collection contains seventy-two poems, about one-third of Pilinszky's total output. George has contributed a helpful and substantial introductory essay that places Pilinszky in the context of both Hungarian and European poetry. The poems are translated from the Hungarian by a poet who knows both Hungarian and English (previous translators like Ted Hughes and Peter Jay knew no Hungarian). The translations are more faithful to the Hungarian originals than those of Hughes, and take fewer liberties; they remind us that Pilinszky used complex and rhymed structures. George describes his intentions as translator in this way:

I wanted the unpretentiousness to come across, but also the craft, the sheer courage, for example, of making some of the Holocaust poetry in a passionately rhymed and metered medium. I have tried . . . to be faithful to the form and total sound of a poem . . . because I wanted to show the reader without access to the originals precisely what kind of poet Pilinszky was."

Michigan Quarterly Review

In the room sat people.
Apart from God nobody ever
found them so beautiful
as this child-like beast.

The people, made in God's image - so God finds them beautiful.

The beast finds them beautiful too, in his innocence. But he is perceived as a Wolf who will behave in a wolf-like manner because that is how he was created, by God.

The Face of the Horse

Animals do not sleep. At night
They stand over the world like a stone wall.

The cow's retreating head
Rustles the straw with its smooth horns,
The rocky brow a wedge
Between age-old cheek bones,
And the mute eyes
Turning sluggishly.

There's more intelligence and beauty in the horse's face.
He hears the talk of leaves and stones.
Intent, he knows the animal's cry
And the nightingale's murmur in the copse.

And knowing all, to whom may he recount
His wonderful visions?
The night is hushed. In the dark sky
Constellations rise.
The horse stands like a knight keeping watch,
The wind plays in his light hair,
His eyes burn like two huge worlds,
And his mane lifts like the imperial purple.

And if a man should see
The horse's magical face,
He would tear out his impotent tongue
And give it to the horse. For
This magical creature is surely worthy of it.

Then we should hear words.
Words large as apples. Thick
As honey or buttermilk.
Words which penetrate like flame
And, once within the soul, like fire in some
hut,
Illuminate its wretched trapping.
Words which do not die
And which we celebrate in song.

But now the stable is empty,
The trees have dispersed,
Pinch-faced morning has swaddled the
hills,
Unlocked the fields for work.
And the horse, caged within its shafts,
Dragging a covered wagon,
Gazes out of its meek eyes,
Upon the enigmatic, stationary world.

Nikolai Alekseevich Zabolotsky
From the Russian (trans. Daniel Weissbort)

I like some of the images in this poem ... like "words large as apples", quite effective because one can picture this but also because apples are a treat for horses (traditionally anyway) ... "pinch-faced morning" is good too.

The Fair Maid of Amsterdam

In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid,
Mark well what I do say;

In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid,
And she was a mistress of her trade.
And I'll go no more a-roving
With you, fair maid.
A-roving, a-roving,
Since roving's been my r-u-i-n,
I'll go no more a-roving
With you, fair maid.

Her cheeks was red, her eyes was brown,
Mark well what I do say;

Her cheeks was red, her eyes was brown,
Her hair like glow-worms hanging down.
And I'll go no more a-roving
With you, fair maid.
A-roving, a-roving,
Since roving's been my r-u-i-n,
I'll go no more a-roving
With you, fair maid.

We used to sing this at school - It should be Plymouth Town, not Amsterdam.

I still love it though.

Here's the proof:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mh0vMKh_gUA

and it's called 'The Rover' and it's a sea shanty which is always sung when we have folk'song evenings. One of those where everyone joins in because it's such a catchy tune.

So I'm thinking Penny that Plymouth is down the south of England there .. a real sea side town?

giselle wrote:

So I'm thinking Penny that Plymouth is down the south of England there .. a real sea side town?

Plymouth is quite a refined seaside place, not bawdy and shabby like Brighton or Blackpool.

Yes, Plymouth is where the Pilgrim Fathers set sail from to America and colonised because, being Puritans, they didn't like the established religion here. Much to the detriment of the Native Americans we are now taught.

Also, Plymouth is where Sir Francis Drake was playing bowls when they came to tell him that the Spanish Armada was about to invade us. He gets the kudos for having defeated the Armada although now we are told that there was a very fortuitous storm at sea which blew the Armada off course and that is why there is so much Spanish blood in Irish people.......

Isn't it funny how history is adjusted over time? One of the reasons that I like folk-songs though.

The Faking Boy

The faking boy to the trap is gone,
At the nubbing chit you'll find him;
The hempen cord they have girded on,
And his elbows pinned behind him.
'Smash my glim!' cries the reg'lar card,
'Though the girl you love betrays you,
Don't split, but die both game and hard,
And grateful pals shall praise you!'

The bolt it fell -a jerk, a strain!
The sheriffs fled asunder;
The faking boy ne'er spoke again,
For they pulled his legs from under.
And there he dangles on the tree,
That soul of love and bravery.
Oh, that such men should victims be
Of law, and law's vile knavery!

Anon

And one more poem for today, this one from Thomas Hardy .... I like it. There is something special about deer eyes,a nd they are so quiet especially in snow. The repetition of the lines 'one without looks in tonight' and 'we do not discern those eyes' is interesting, breaking the six line verses two lines of three and the rhyming patterns of the two verses are matched.

The Fallow Deer at the Lonely House

One without looks in tonight
Through the curtain-chink
From the sheet of glistening white;
One without looks in tonight
As we sit and think
By the fender-brink.

We do not discern those eyes
Watching in the snow;
Lit by lamps of rosy dyes
We do not discern those eyes
Wandering, aglow
Four-footed, tiptoe.

Thomas Hardy