Poetry

Thee 'n Me

I know not thee,
Thou knowest not me,
But thou art learning more than me.

Thou see'st me,
Yet I see not thee,
An image in thy mind I be.

But am I as I seem to be?
Can thy thoughts encompass me?
Wilst thou know when thee see me?

If I know not thee,
And thou knowest not me...

I've included this poetry section as I find verse in general wonderful for relaxation and contemplation. I write poetry mainly for my own benefit and amusement and recently, while tidying my study, I found I'd collected quite a number of poems on various bits of paper which were starting to make the place more untidy than usual, so I thought I'd better copy them into a book (boring) or paste them in (much better). While covering myself in glue, I read a few which I hadn't seen for quite some time and had the idea of including a selection here on my web site together with classic works from a number of the great poets that I really like. The ones you find without credits (as above) are mine, I hope the cringe factor is not too high for you.

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight, I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan's poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. W.B.Yeats, 1865 - 1939
This poem was written in 1919 and refers to WWI aviation, but most people remember it for it's inclusion in the movie 'Memphis Belle'.

The next is a rather nice reflective poem from the early 1800's which in many ways still applies to pockets of rural countryside life in England today. Sadly, not enough of them these days though, as with most of what we used to condider to be the good things in life.

	A Wish
Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hives hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew, And Lucy at her wheel shall sing In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.
Samuel Rogers, 1763 - 1855

Today at Dawn a story

The bright white bulb above my head
Throws glaring light throughout the room.
The shadows, cast by it's protective grill,
hold still against the walls and floor.

The mind numbing drip of a leaking tap
Grates at my soul like a rasping file
Eating away at what's left of my senses
Stunned by the thought of the dawn to come.

A tempting sound catches my reverie
And sweeps away all trace of distraction.
A chance to keep my brain from screaming
Just for a short time, just for a while.

Alert now, what is it? I can't quite see.
Is there someone there, out of sight?
Will they lead me from the fate that I face?
Or cast me back to the depths of despair.

The time ticks on, minutes become seconds
Hours no longer concern my reality.
A cold sweat tries to compete with nausea
Damp palms shaking as the time draws near.

A sound of footsteps, more than one person,
Drawing closer, then the clank of the lock.
A complete and utter sense of abandonment
As the cell door swings open one last time.

The warden comes in, a sad look on his face,
The guards at his back, alert and aloof.
The priest holds his bible and prays for deliverance
Of the soul of the sinner at the end of his road.

And now it's time to go for a walk,
A short one, which will end too soon.
The shackles now tight, the grip relentless
Hurried from the cell, then down the hall.

The light burning bright, dims and wavers,
The first glow of sun climbs the wall.
The light returns to it's cold hard glare
Just as nothing had ever been there.....

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Oh, I have slippped the surly bonds of earth	HIGH
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;	FLIGHT
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there.
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John G Magee Jnr.

	LEISURE
	What is this life if, full of care,
	We have no time to stand and stare.
	No time to stand beneath the boughs
	And stare as long as sheep or cows.
	No time to see, when woods we pass,
	Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
	No time to see, in broad daylight,
	Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
	No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
	And watch her feet, how they can dance.
	No time to wait till her mouth can
	Enrich that smile her eyes began.
	A poor life this if, full of care,
	We have no time to stand and stare.
	William Henry Davies, 1871-1940