A well known opening couplet from "Leisure" a poem by Welsh poet W. H. Davies. For me, a lover of poetry all my life, it epitomises the opportunity that this awful virus has given us all, to 'stop and reassess', taking in small pleasures like bird song and the wider wonders of nature, or just to slow down with no hectic commute or long day looking at a screen. Maybe some of what we have noticed will remain with us after all this is over and reshape our appreciation of new things. I hope.
I came across the poem below in a compilation book titled, The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart. about 20 years ago and it spoke to me immediately and deeply.
Primarily because of my own struggles with my mental health it contained so much of myself and the behaviour of others within Staffords chosen words. I’ve read it so many times and still do today and it continues to resonate. I also read it during the course of my work, to staff who work in mental health, in the area of personality disorder.
A Ritual To Read To Each Other by
William Stafford
If you don’t know the kind of person I am and I don’t know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail, but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park, I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy, a remote important region in all who talk: though we could fool each other, we should consider— lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give – yes or no, or maybe— should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
Similar story to @soapy_jones why I started writing. The difference is I not only write but perform spoken word where it's such an eclectic mix, and 90% of people perform their own work. From the sublime to the shite. I find it cathartic but I will use different characters at times because you are releasing a lot of deep emotions. I love doing comedy as well but difficult if a sober audience or uptight bunch are in the building.
A few posters have mentioned poetry as a way of wrestling with the demon of less than ideal mental health. Here is a poem by John Clare, a Victorian Poet who was the son of a humble farm labourer and he wrestled with demons too, and though immensely sad, it is beautiful and resonant especially for those struggling. You are not alone.
A few posters have mentioned poetry as a way of wrestling with the demon of less than ideal mental health. Here is a poem by John Clare, a Victorian Poet who was the son of a humble farm labourer and he wrestled with demons too, and though immensely sad, it is beautiful and resonant especially for those struggling. You are not alone.
It is called 'I am'.
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
The late great Kevin Coyne set this to music on his 1978 album Dynamite Daze:
One for your earphones on a 10 minute walk if you fancy it. Spoken by the writer, not as good as an actor speaking it in my view, but authentic. No moving pictures, it is an audio thing.
Would of been my best mates birthday last Friday, he died 2 years ago of the dreaded big C. This summed the whole day for me and every day come to think of it!
sonnet 30
But if the while I think of thee, dear friend, all losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.
When you get what you want in your struggle for self And the world makes you king for a day Just go to the mirror and look at yourself And see what that man has to say.
For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife Whose judgment upon you must pass The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life Is the one staring back from the glass.
He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the rest For he’s with you, clear to the end And you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous test If the man in the glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years And get pats on the back as you pass But your final reward will be heartache and tears If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.
Many, many years ago I crossed paths with an old soldier Jack. Amusingly, Jack told of when he first joined the army as a young boy at Catterick garrison in North Yorkshire. His first sexual experience was with a prostitute who kept asking him as he performed "Have you squirted"?
Anyway I digress. Jack was a Kipling enthusiast and could quote some of his poems from memory. I remember at a mutual Friends birthday party at a village hall, packed with many folk, Jack recited Gunga Din. He had the ability to quote with the accent which received raptures applause when he finished. Here it is.
You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was “Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted “Harry By!”
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some juldee in it
Or I'll marrow you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”
'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is mussick on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was “Din! Din! Din!”
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
“Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!”
I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!”
'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
“I 'ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone—
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
Comments
A well known opening couplet from "Leisure" a poem by Welsh poet W. H. Davies.
For me, a lover of poetry all my life, it epitomises the opportunity that this awful virus has given us all, to 'stop and reassess', taking in small pleasures like bird song and the wider wonders of nature, or just to slow down with no hectic commute or long day looking at a screen.
Maybe some of what we have noticed will remain with us after all this is over and reshape our appreciation of new things. I hope.
Yorkshire Prose
Not bad for a couple of Northerners
Primarily because of my own struggles with my mental health it contained so much of myself and the behaviour of others within Staffords chosen words. I’ve read it so many times and still do today and it continues to resonate. I also read it during the course of my work, to staff who work in mental health, in the area of personality disorder.
A Ritual To Read To Each Other by
William Stafford
If you don’t know the kind of person I am
and I don’t know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.
And as elephants parade holding each elephant’s tail,
but if one wanders the circus won’t find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.
And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider—
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.
For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give – yes or no, or maybe—
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
The difference is I not only write but perform spoken word where it's such an eclectic mix, and 90% of people perform their own work. From the sublime to the shite. I find it cathartic but I will use different characters at times because you are releasing a lot of deep emotions.
I love doing comedy as well but difficult if a sober audience or uptight bunch are in the building.
Walls
The Berlin wall divided east from west,
The Mexican wall, at Trump's behest.
The wall you hit after running 20 miles,
The wall that Banksy paints, that makes you smile.
The wall you kicked a ball against a thousand times,
The wall that was scaled to commit a crime,
A Wall that traps, when being chased,
A wall that ejects, when climbed in haste.
Walls to keep you in or out,
Walls to bounce off, when you shout.
Walls, help you understand a ninety-degree angle,
Walls to head butt when in a tangle.
Four walls to play squash,
Stretching, sweating, screaming.
Four walls to entertain your lover;
Stretching, sweating, screaming.
Four walls to be so very alone.
Four walls to be geeky
And play with your phone.
He was such a condescending snob.
Here is a poem by John Clare, a Victorian Poet who was the son of a humble farm labourer and he wrestled with demons too, and though immensely sad, it is beautiful and resonant especially for those struggling.
You are not alone.
It is called 'I am'.
Also put me in mind of the wall in Midsummer Nights Dream.
https://youtu.be/LQ09mbjww2E
The poem was Donald Trump inspired, even though, I just gave him the one line.
He's got a poem of his dialect on his channel
sonnet 30
But if the while I think of thee, dear friend,
all losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.
Bill Shakespeare
Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom
Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom
Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom
Baldrick 1918
And the world makes you king for a day
Just go to the mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.
For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.
He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the rest
For he’s with you, clear to the end
And you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous test
If the man in the glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.
Dale Whimbrow 1934
Five Sheep and i by soapbox Sam 28/3/20
I traverse
the road to be a loner
to and fro
until the suburban concrete meets the vast open green and brown downs
no cars or concrete
Just nature's earth and wild flora
dovetailing with heathlands grateful fauna
which entice and entertain damaged entrails
Cajoling and calling to leave the tragic news behind and welcoming the sun and wind
I zig zag on my meandering way
avoiding people like the plague
am I protecting strangers or they me
Like ships passing we say hello
from the required distance of safety
Homo sapiens are in fear
but showing a brave face as their
dogs chase and wag tails
people become smaller as two metres
stretch out to a hundred
I descend the hill between the avenue of trees
my choir are skylarks singing their melodic songs
5 sheep appear beyond the fence and fleetingly stop devouring the grass in unison as they wonder who is talking to them
time is frozen as who will blink first
serene sensations engulf my body
sun mellows and a cool breeze kisses my cheek
I count the sheep
and drift into the sleepy world of lightness
far away and safe
while a Pandemic is enveloping the globe
5 sheep and i float away as cumulus clouds
Trees look down as we go sauntering by
Trees are integral to nature
As we breath their purified air
Trees can be lofty giants
Embracing the storm
Trees adjust to the autumn season
Standing naked and shorn
Trees have longevity
If untoppled by man
Trees put down their roots
While mankind spins around and round.
Amusingly, Jack told of when he first joined the army as a young boy at Catterick garrison in North Yorkshire.
His first sexual experience was with a prostitute who kept asking him as he performed "Have you squirted"?
Anyway I digress.
Jack was a Kipling enthusiast and could quote some of his poems from memory.
I remember at a mutual Friends birthday party at a village hall, packed with many folk, Jack recited Gunga Din.
He had the ability to quote with the accent which received raptures applause when he finished.
Here it is.
You may talk o' gin and beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. He was “Din! Din! Din! You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippery hitherao! Water, get it! Panee lao! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.” The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a piece o' twisty rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted “Harry By!” Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was “Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some juldee in it Or I'll marrow you this minute If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!” 'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done; An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made “Retire”, An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was “Din! Din! Din!” With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front-files shout, “Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!” I shan't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' he plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: It was crawlin' and it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was “Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground, An' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!” 'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died, “I 'ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on At the place where 'e is gone— Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!By Kitty O’Meara
And the people stayed home.
And read books, and listened, and rested,
and exercised, and made art, and played games,
and learned new ways of being, and were still.
And listened more deeply.
Some meditated, some prayed, some danced.
Some met their shadows.
And the people began to think differently.
And the people healed.
And, in the absence of people living in ignorant,
dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways,
the earth began to heal.
And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again,
they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images,
and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully,
as they had been healed.