Ophelia's Nun

FinsburyParkCarrots

I

Stretched green cloth's pulled tight about the board
and gilded at the spine. It's long acquainted
with dust and coffee rings, inkblots and thumbprints,
and the sweat of dreaming pupils' heads
splashed by a clap from the master.This cloth
gives a populist codex, a prizegiving primer
a cloak of mock spring in a wintered Empire.
A single volume, a portable octavo,
opening to a sepia, steel engraved portrait -
a plate of the poet in profile,
the bearded Laureate, drawn by Stoddart
(the plate veiled with tissue now aged and spotted, discoloured brown) -
affords this book the imperial air of a first edition,
1894, with its dedicatory poem to Her Majesty
the first in the collection.

But the title plate says 1920, the twentieth impression:
octavo top and fore edge folds and cuts are uneven,
serrated insets jut out at angles suggesting cheap labour,
stitching whispers brokenly of the Bookbinders' strike,
and in the back of the book is a page of advertisements
selling cheap editions of patriotic verse for a shilling a go.

II

Young widows
pale
tired
in factories
for days upon days
after Armistice
cut
and sewed the papers,
gathering them
into a prizegiving book
sold
to teach
their half-orphaned children

The Glory of Empire

as the poppy fields in France

still grew

under cold, forgotten
blood,

every drop
a headbowed
sweetheart's sigh

every drop
a life
unbound

ungathered.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Right now, as in right now, and now, this now
and this one, I am trying to say "Now
is one round moment, one whole now, a now
of nowness moulded in a poem"; now
I find each now is then and that each now
is somewhat different, but still a now
of sorts, but not the now as was the now
back then: oh wait, that now's now then, not now!
Whatever can we do, to make each now
now, forever? Now, I know! Each now
I've written in this poem is a now
each time you read it! That's the answer, now!

FinsburyParkCarrots

"We have to stop the lying men in charge.
So, close the schools right now, and shut each small
marketplace. Block rivers from the barge
of trade, and then rip up the roads. Install
within the soil the tallest trees there are;
then live on berries, don't exploit the meat.
Close down each sewer duct and reservoir.
Unshirt your backs and then unshoe your feet."

Learn how to shirk the language, shun codes, all
shaped by another's need. Begin to grunt.
And learn to stoop. In time, begin to crawl,
Then go back to the ocean, splash and shunt
across the sea without a spine. Still, then
you'll taste where man's polluting lies have been.

Barroom Hero

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
"We have to stop the lying men in charge.
So, close the schools right now, and shut each small
marketplace. Block rivers from the barge
of trade, and then rip up the roads. Install
within the soil the tallest trees there are;
then live on berries, don't exploit the meat.
Close down each sewer duct and reservoir.
Unshirt your backs and then unshoe your feet."

Learn how to shirk the language, shun codes, all
shaped by another's need. Begin to grunt.
And learn to stoop. In time, begin to crawl,
Then go back to the ocean, splash and shunt
across the sea without a spine. Still, then
you'll taste where man's polluting lies have been.

Hmmmmm. Interesting...

Why "without a spine?" Become a fish? Why become a fish to taste where man's lies have been?

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by Barroom Hero
Hmmmmm. Interesting...

Why "without a spine?" Become a fish? Why become a fish to taste where man's lies have been?

Questions, questions!

I've edited out my first attempt of an interpretation of the poem because really, it's what you like it to mean that matters.

Cheers,
Richard.

Colors of Musid

Bravo!

FinsburyParkCarrots

"You're in good focking luck! The greatest tongue, it flatters you!"

That tongue's in rotten luck. It's grated dung. That matters? Ewww!!

PJfaninmaine

excellento my good friend!
Of course all you post are excellent!

Buru

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
Right now, as in right now, and now, this now
and this one, I am trying to say "Now
is one round moment, one whole now, a now
of nowness moulded in a poem"; now
I find each now is then and that each now
is somewhat different, but still a now
of sorts, but not the now as was the now
back then: oh wait, that now's now then, not now!
Whatever can we do, to make each now
now, forever? Now, I know! Each now
I've written in this poem is a now
each time you read it! That's the answer, now!

haha you silly man!!
now I am confused

for if this is now, what comes next?
and if this is now, what was then?

FinsburyParkCarrots

I'll tell you what comes next.

I say goodnight. Nicely. Thanks!

Buru

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
I

Stretched green cloth's pulled tight about the board
and gilded at the spine. It's long acquainted
with dust and coffee rings, inkblots and thumbprints,
and the sweat of dreaming pupils' heads
splashed by a clap from the master.This cloth
gives a populist codex, a prizegiving primer
a cloak of mock spring in a wintered Empire.
A single volume, a portable octavo,
opening to a sepia, steel engraved portrait -
a plate of the poet in profile,
the bearded Laureate, drawn by Stoddart
(the plate veiled with tissue now aged and spotted, discoloured brown) -
affords this book the imperial air of a first edition,
1894, with its dedicatory poem to Her Majesty
the first in the collection.

But the title plate says 1920, the twentieth impression:
octavo top and fore edge folds and cuts are uneven,
serrated insets jut out at angles suggesting cheap labour,
stitching whispers brokenly of the Bookbinders' strike,
and in the back of the book is a page of advertisements
selling cheap editions of patriotic verse for a shilling a go.

II

Young widows
pale
tired
in factories
for days upon days
after Armistice
cut
and sewed the papers,
gathering them
into a prizegiving book
sold
to teach
their half-orphaned children

The Glory of Empire

as the poppy fields in France

still grew

under cold, forgotten
blood,

every drop
a headbowed
sweetheart's sigh

every drop
a life
unbound

ungathered.

beautiful and very descriptive as always (and wordy!)
I like the shift in the poem and the very different styles in I and II, and the accusatory tone in the second

Buru

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
I'll tell you what comes next.

I say goodnight.

oh... good night
but what shall I do now that you're gone?
I think I'll go too, maybe after reading a few...

gnight Fins

FinsburyParkCarrots

Goodnight, Buru. Thanks!

FinsburyParkCarrots

It's not too often I resort to cheap
propagandising. Well here's my leap
from artistry to saying what I feel.
Is it not good time you said, 'Don't kneel
to Bu$h and Ridge's terror scares, and shit
to make you tick "Republican" when it
comes to that election day?' ... Vote Kerry.
Otherwise, eat filth on Bush's berry.

olderman

i found it to be a strange lot.. some thought of the day as one in which all should be sober and bow to the ballot.. yet, most of us who gathered at Jack's Bar thought otherwise.. in fact, led by a host of characters, each to his own wickedness a pleasure derived, indeed, though never having voted, the mob decided to hang the bastard from the highest fucking branch of the closest oak tree and the process of elimination which eliminated all of us from having any worthwhile thing to contribute as, is the fact, we were all a bunch of drunks with not much, indeed nothing at all to sssss.....say

FinsburyParkCarrots

There comes, through these deep flowing ululations
in lipping waterkissings on the verge
of bankside rushes, wave vibrations,
a pulse, a coded whisper in a surge.

"Your name, your name, my love, your name, your name,
A moving riverflush, delicious shame."

Barroom Hero

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
There comes, through these deep flowing ululations
in lipping waterkissings on the verge
of bankside rushes, wave vibrations,
a pulse, a coded whisper in a surge.

"Your name, your name, my love, your name, your name,
A moving riverflush, delicious shame."

WOW. Something about that last stanza instills in me some soul power.

The iambic sound of "your name your name my love your name your name" and then the connotations of "riverflush" and "delicious" appeal greatly to my sensibilities. Can't tell you exactly why it gives me a good feeling, but thanks.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Thanks.

Thanks to everyone who has contributed to "Ophelia's Nun". I've had a blast on it.

I just feel like going back to writing little threads again.

Thank you,
Finsbury.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Long live big. Just as long as this boring old fart of a thread doesn't annoy anyone, I'll keep it up. I don't do this big thread for ego purposes. But it does help me to know where all my poems are.

Okay, World Blue....

I'll put it here.

Unclose my eyes, my world blue morning love
and lay your golden hair upon my arm;
Let love's bejewelling whisper kissings prove
Earth treasuries of magic in a warm
Red sun dawning. Oh! How you now soar
Beyond whole continents of signed ground
to make the ocean's original roar!
My love! World blue, world wordless, world unbound.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Plumeria, red royal poinsetta,
and yellow shower trees sundazzling,
are nodding in the breeze of island shores

and my lover's heart flies skying
upon the blue, the deep true island blue,
she a crimson I'iwi bird, sunsoaring,

transcended, a golden ‘akiapola‘au.