I hope everyone has had a good week so far. I have managed some lovely reading today and finished a book!
My chosen poem this week is by the British-American poet Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-1973).
O Tell me the Truth About Love
Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go round, And some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth as the edges? O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't ever there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air, I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, Or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning, Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.
My chosen poem today is by someone I have never come across before. Elinor Wylie (1885-1928) was an American poet and novelist popular in the 1920’s and 1930’s.
Velvet Shoes
Let us walk in the white snow In a soundless space; With footsteps quiet and slow, At a tranquil pace, Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk, And you in wool, White as a white cow's milk, More beautiful Than the breast of a gull.
We shall walk through the still town In a windless peace; We shall step upon white down, Upon silver fleece, Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes; Wherever we go Silence will fall like dews On white silence below. We shall walk in the snow.
I’ve been at school today but I have managed some lovely reading which has been very nice. I have also been rather busy with my Etsy business. The TBR Tickets are proving very popular!
My chosen today is by the Scottish novelist, essayist, poet and travel writer Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894).
Winter-Time
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies, At mourning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
I have chosen the poem for today because the weather people keep threatening us with snow. I have also chosen it because as you have probably noticed by now I am a huge Thomas Hardy fan.
Light Snow-Fall After Frost
On the flat road a man at last appears: How much his whitening hairs Owe to the settling snow's mute anchorage, And how much to a life's rough pilgrimage, One cannot certify.
The frost is on the wane, And cobwebs hanging close outside the pane Pose as festoons of thick white worsted there, Of their pale presence no eye being aware Till the rime made them plain.
A second man comes by; His ruddy beard brings fire to the pallid scene: His coat is faded green; Hence seems it that his mien Wears something of the dye Of the berried holm-trees that he passes nigh.
The snow-feathers so gently swoop that though But half an hour ago The road was brown, and now is starkly white, A watcher would have failed defining quite When it transformed it so.
I hope everyone has had a good week and is ready for the weekend. I am back at work on Sunday so today I have been catching up with admin and prep for Sunday and next week but I have managed some reading.
My chosen poem this week is by the post-war poet Geoffrey Hill (1932-2016).
Epiphany at Saint Mary and All Saints
The wise men, vulnerable in ageing plaster, are borne as gifts to be set down among the treasures in their familial strangeness, mystery's toys.
Below the church the Stour slovens through its narrow cut. On service roads the lights cast amber salt slatted with a thin rain doubling as snow.
Showings are not unknown: a six-winged seraph somewhere impends-it is the geste of invention, not the creative but the creator spirit. The night air sings a colder spell to come.
I hope everyone has had a good week so far. Mine has been a very busy week with work and trying to get ready for Christmas. Getting ready for Christmas is never easy for myself and my husband because we are both musicians and this is our busiest time of year.
My chosen poem this week is by William Barnes (1801-1886). Barnes was born to a farming family in Dorset. He worked as a solicitor’s clerk before becoming a schoolmaster and then he was ordained. Over his life he wrote approximately 800 poems.
A Winter Night
It was a chilly winter's night; And frost was glitt'ring on the ground, And from the gloomy plain around Came no sound, But where, within the wood-girt tow'r, The churchbell slowly struck the hour;
As if that all of human birth Had risen to the final day, And soaring from the wornout earth Were called in hurry and dismay, Far away; And I alone of all mankind Were left in loneliness behind.
My chosen poem this week is actually a song but I really like it and I read it as a poem so I thought I would share it with you. The song is by the English actor, broadcaster, and writer and performer of comic songs Michael Flanders (1922-1975).
The Hippopotamus Song
A bold Hippopotamus was standing one day On the banks of the cool Shalimar, He gazed at the bottom as it peacefully lay By the light of the evening star. Away on a hilltop sat combing her hair His fair Hippopotamus maid; The Hippopotamus was no ignoramus And sang her this sweet serenade:
Mud, mud, glorious mud, Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood! So follow me, follow Down to the hollow And there let us wallow In glorious mud!
The fair Hippopotamus he aimed to entice From her seat on that hilltop above, As she hadn't got a ma to give her advice, Came tiptoeing down to her love. Like thunder the forest re-echoed the sound Of the song that they sang as they met. His inamorata adjusted her garter And lifted her voice in duet:
Mud, mud, glorious mud, Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood! So follow me, follow Down to the hollow And there let us wallow In glorious mud!
Now more Hippopotamus began to convene On the banks of that river so wide. I wonder now what am I to say of the scene That ensued by the Shalimar side? They dived all at once with an ear-splitting splosh Then rose to the surface again, A regular army of Hippopotami All singing this haunting refrain:
Mud, mud, glorious mud, Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood! So follow me, follow Down to the hollow And there let us wallow In glorious mud!
Lady Book Dragon 