More Poems for National Poetry Month
Here is another collection of poems, one for each day.
Untitled by Huexotzin, Prince of Texcoco, c. 1484 (translated)
You tell me that I must perish
Like the flowers that I cherish.
Nothing remaining of my name,
nothing remembered of my fame?
But the gardens I planted still are young -
the songs I sang will still be sung!
Punishment by Seamus Henry (extract)
...I can see her drowned
body in the bog,
the weighing stone,
floating rods and boughs.
Under which at first
she was barked a sapling
that is dug up
oak-bone, brain-firkin:
her shaved head
like a stubble of black corn
her blindfold a soiled bandage,
her noose a ring
to store
the memories of love.
Little adulteress,
before they punished you
you were flaxen-haired,
undernourished, and your
tar-black face was beautiful.
My poor scapegoat,
I almost love you
but would have cast, I know,
the stone of silence.
I am the artful voyeur
of your brain's exposed
and darkened combs,
your muscles' webbing
and all your numbered bones:...
Pad, pad by Stevie Smith
I always remembered your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
In that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.
What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind
All I know is, if you were unkind, now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad
The years have taken from me. Softly I go now, pad, pad.
Here is one from my childhood:
Shearer McShingle
Shearer McShingle from South Aberdeen
Built a sensational shearing machine
In strolled the sheep to be shawn and shampooed
Six seconds later they stumbled out nude
Shortly the sheep became shivering mad
"Shocking!" They said, "We're completely unclad!
We'll show this shearer that shearing is mean!"
So saying, they shoved him inside the machine.
Shearer McShingle was shaken about
Six seconds later he stumbled back out
Now he's locked up in a public enclosure
Serving a stretch for indecent exposure.
The Moon was Seven Days Down by John Shaw Neilson (extract)
Peter she said the clock has struck
At one and two and three
And you sleep so sound and you sleep so long
You will not listen to me
I suffered long and I suffered sore
What else can I think upon
I fear no evil but oh - the moon
She is seven days gone
Peter she said the hours are long
The hours will not go by
The moon is calm but she meets her death
Bitter as women die
I think too much of the flowers I dreamed
I walked in a wedding gown
Or was it a shroud - the moon - the moon
She is seven days down.
Woman he said my ears could stand
Much noise when I was young
But year by year you weary me
Can you never rest your tongue
And here I am with my broken rest
To be up at the peep o' day
So much to do and the sheep not shorn
And the lambs not yet away
Peter she said your tongue is rude
You have ever spoken so
My aches and ills they trouble you not
This many a year I know
You talk of your lambs and sheep and wool
Tis all that you think upon
I fear no evil but oh the moon
She is seven days gone...
Continuing the bizarre circumstances that keep resulting in poems falling into my lap, dulthar found a copy of the VCE Literature exam that we both took in high school (before we met). Cue a huge discussion on the texts used, the worth of them, my schools tendency to use texts not even in the curriculum (aargh!) and me realising that while I disliked a book back then, I would like to read it again now because I think I'd appreciate it now.
There were also poems in the exam, and I've included a couple of them that attracted my fancy.
Untitled by Huexotzin, Prince of Texcoco, c. 1484 (translated)
You tell me that I must perish
Like the flowers that I cherish.
Nothing remaining of my name,
nothing remembered of my fame?
But the gardens I planted still are young -
the songs I sang will still be sung!
Punishment by Seamus Henry (extract)
...I can see her drowned
body in the bog,
the weighing stone,
floating rods and boughs.
Under which at first
she was barked a sapling
that is dug up
oak-bone, brain-firkin:
her shaved head
like a stubble of black corn
her blindfold a soiled bandage,
her noose a ring
to store
the memories of love.
Little adulteress,
before they punished you
you were flaxen-haired,
undernourished, and your
tar-black face was beautiful.
My poor scapegoat,
I almost love you
but would have cast, I know,
the stone of silence.
I am the artful voyeur
of your brain's exposed
and darkened combs,
your muscles' webbing
and all your numbered bones:...
Pad, pad by Stevie Smith
I always remembered your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
In that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.
What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind
All I know is, if you were unkind, now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad
The years have taken from me. Softly I go now, pad, pad.
Here is one from my childhood:
Shearer McShingle
Shearer McShingle from South Aberdeen
Built a sensational shearing machine
In strolled the sheep to be shawn and shampooed
Six seconds later they stumbled out nude
Shortly the sheep became shivering mad
"Shocking!" They said, "We're completely unclad!
We'll show this shearer that shearing is mean!"
So saying, they shoved him inside the machine.
Shearer McShingle was shaken about
Six seconds later he stumbled back out
Now he's locked up in a public enclosure
Serving a stretch for indecent exposure.
The Moon was Seven Days Down by John Shaw Neilson (extract)
Peter she said the clock has struck
At one and two and three
And you sleep so sound and you sleep so long
You will not listen to me
I suffered long and I suffered sore
What else can I think upon
I fear no evil but oh - the moon
She is seven days gone
Peter she said the hours are long
The hours will not go by
The moon is calm but she meets her death
Bitter as women die
I think too much of the flowers I dreamed
I walked in a wedding gown
Or was it a shroud - the moon - the moon
She is seven days down.
Woman he said my ears could stand
Much noise when I was young
But year by year you weary me
Can you never rest your tongue
And here I am with my broken rest
To be up at the peep o' day
So much to do and the sheep not shorn
And the lambs not yet away
Peter she said your tongue is rude
You have ever spoken so
My aches and ills they trouble you not
This many a year I know
You talk of your lambs and sheep and wool
Tis all that you think upon
I fear no evil but oh the moon
She is seven days gone...
Continuing the bizarre circumstances that keep resulting in poems falling into my lap, dulthar found a copy of the VCE Literature exam that we both took in high school (before we met). Cue a huge discussion on the texts used, the worth of them, my schools tendency to use texts not even in the curriculum (aargh!) and me realising that while I disliked a book back then, I would like to read it again now because I think I'd appreciate it now.
There were also poems in the exam, and I've included a couple of them that attracted my fancy.