the rat! hahaha, probably curious why are the locals
making such a big fuss
anyway, i noticed in your passage that there´s something we
might share and that is the sensitivity to the detail, discovering
the unusual in a certain thing; or even the ordinary, forced
to such extent that because of it´s quality it becomes
perceptible to the individual.
Berlin... you either hate it, or love it. Apart from your personal
perceptions and impressions of it, it can easily become your
home, or if it doesn´t like you, it will show you the evil side of it´s
face.
I´m probably one of the rare people who have seen the whole
face.
it´s sunday today. my mind should be resting.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Desperate for words,
To read them, to write them,
To reshape them
As a soft lump of gold
Make them shine,
Put them in few lines
And then observe your reader´s face.
Predicting a twitch or two,
One positive and perhaps a negative sign too,
But left empty
When drawing clear conclusions.
Need for more material,
More input, more stimuli to wake up nerves,
Make my fingers fidget
Push them to the limit
My eye absolutely restless, it observes
How wrinkles constrict and relax again -
It is an indicator for a busy mind,
Estimating sound by sound…
Disappointment about one´s own creation,
Feeling that there is far more to say
But the thoughts, when thinking, somehow they just fade.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I must admit that i posses only the essential knowledge about Yeats and his work.
However, I will never stop studying literature and so I´m curious about this too and to what extent is my last poem related to his work.
and thank you for reading it.
talking to Whitney at the moment
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
The fascination of what's difficult
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart. There's something ails our colt
That must, as if it had not holy blood
Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
As though it dragged road-metal. My curse on plays
That have to be set up in fifty ways,
On the day's war with every knave and dolt,
Theatre business, management of men.
I swear before the dawn comes round again
I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
I still travel back in time sometimes,
Although I know I shouldn´t do so;
Reopening my wounds from time to time
Questioning myself about how low can I still go.
Nurturing the minds, I did, and still do at times,
Forgetting all about my own, just writing lines
That is the medicine my brain needs, and always will desire,
Brings me back to life, extinguishes the burning fire.
Only the past time knows the true story of this creature,
Laying hands on my heart as it goes,
It could be something for amusement,
Perhaps an exercise to make me even stronger.
If you follow me when travelling in Past,
You will see how things developed, minding signs,
But somewhere in the middle you might change your minds,
Yes, this route is troublesome; you better try some other path.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
This is a powerfully effective poem, which provokes the horrific imagination of a subtext of a past that seethes. The nature of the past trauma referred to in the poem is never explicated, but the reference to a creature laying hands on the speaker's heart is hardly a euphemism either. The poem also emphasises the speaker's belief in writing as catharsis, while questioning the role of the reader in this act of writing to purge demons.
So much is there still for me to find,
Crying, because I cannot reach the shelf
Where all the books could tell so much about myself,
Hidden in the corner, alas, I won´t be there on time.
Ambivalence of thoughts is balancing my head,
I am a character playing in his tragic play
And in The Globe he puts me on the stage,
To reveal my pattern of the chaos and foresee…
My habits every day the same with roots so deep
But what can change the change of life,
If you´re the master of your rhyme all of such kind
That causes nightmares, takes away your sleep.
This rhyme, you say, I´ve never met, I may not ever see,
Am I therefore incapable of loving?
But I am sick of all that mourning,
Please, leave the platform and continue this walk with me.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
You are the fund of words to which we come.
The words you write say all about your heart
Before you might consult each hallowed tome
of poetry by others. You'll learn art
From reading others' works, but who you are
is in the words you speak, so frank, so true.
Of course we'll leave the platform, walk with you.
if no other, I know you´ll always find the core.
(thanks for the hint on the word phrase)
beautiful poetry of yours in your thread, created by the
pen of love that reaches across the Atlantic...
it is shaped the way that people cannot envy you;
even the hearts of most desperate souls have to cheer up
after following the flow of your verse.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
There are some who proclaim they are great poets and produce something mundane, but there are also others who take the substance of their everyday life of experience and imagination, and make art of it. You are of the latter group.
I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started…
If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
(Hemingway)
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Many times I catch my mind in meditation,
When it should be, loosely, working on a new creation.
Having trouble waking up the poet,
Feeling like my soul was given out for rent.
Look at him! His words so simply flow,
Singing every moment, mapping his ideas as he goes.
He would never, even for a blink
Put his pen down, overthink;
No, a writer of this kind I could never be,
I better find my chair again, sit down and study.
Turning to you, poets, with this question:
Have you ever felt your power dwindling,
Your glory fading, losing it´s perfection?
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I shall greet the voles in Hobson's Brook,
all scrunchy-nosing reeds, heads out from burrows.
I shall salute the starling and the rook,
on my allotment's broad potato furrows.
I shall halloo the colleges and spires
and sing when Hill's Road Churchbells sound in chime.
I shall greet warmly smells of rustic fires
Blowing in the wind this havest time.
I shall shout your name for you, and hear
its echoes on the fenlands far and near.
So loud, so lively still the voices calling,
Inviting me to join their party
On the surface of the summer sun
Dancing till the day is gone.
It feels like making love with views
Of this land, so much is there to choose,
From the grounds and up to peoples eyes
So honest, so pure, free of all dark lies.
If even flying through it´s fields,
Above, the sky covered with different-blue sheets,
You cannot fail to see the nature´s art
Playing with the colours-engraving on your heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by exhale So loud, so lively still the voices calling,
Inviting me to join their party
On the surface of the summer sun
Dancing till the day is gone.
It feels like making love with views
Of this land, so much is there to choose,
From the grounds and up to peoples eyes
So honest, so pure, free of all dark lies.
If even flying through it´s fields,
Above the sky covered with different-blue sheets,
You cannot fail to see the nature´s art
Playing with the colours-engraving on your heart.
This is a beautiful example of an elegiac construction of Englishness, and it reminds me very much of the work of "Georgian Poets" (poets alive during the reign of George V, 1910-1935, but mainly writing between 1910 and 1918, from England rather than from the trenches of WW1). The Georgian Poets often wrote melancholically, wistfully and reflectively of an essentially rural England that they perceived to be becoming supplanted by metropolitanism.
Here is a poem by the poet Edward Thomas, called "Adlestrop", which is similar in tone to your poem:
Yes, I remember Adlestrop--
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
The velvet blanket outside my window
Covering the surface of the grounds,
I wish you all good night, we´ll meet again tomorrow,
Embroidering the planet, writing names on the stars.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
hope you don't mind me putting in my version of Adlestrop here....which I wrote a couple of years ago.....after reading Austerlitz.......it's really I remember Austerlitz.....if anyone has read the book, they'll know what the poem means.....(sorry Exhale)....
Yes. I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon....
I saw him in St Denis
where the gloom had stopped its fasting
Where late one day while walking
he just appeared
and barges basking in the Paris
sun were geared for motionless
for stranded sunlit standing
and it seemed that he was
walking on the air like Jesus
so hazy and so deceptive
were my senses all calmed and slowed
then he said....we've hardly seen each other
since the end of June
and much as I am busy
and disposed, I feel we're out of tune
we talked....we picked up all the threads
and I can't begin to tell you where
our journey led....
but through the wolds of oxfordshire
and right through all his life
we went in St Denis that day
and if I bore you now with
tales of Adlestrop
or saddle you with him
it's only for the sake of
life or maybe just a whim
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
and no, I haven´t read this book either but I might
if you convince me of it´s quality
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
yeah Exhale....I recommend it....a bad translation into English from German.....it's by S G Sebald.....Austerlitz.....very poignant.....a better book is The Reader......or the Dog King.....incredible translation......brilliant book.....author lives in Ireland - can't remember name....(all German themes)
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
might choose them books as the topic for my finals in German.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
oh, that's so cool.....read The Dog King by Christoph Ransmeyer....I think.....also The Reader is special because it's a love story between a boy and a woman......the woman was a Nazi.....but the link between them is reading.....without spoiling it for you.....but The Dog King is special......remember the day I picked it off the library shelf in Westminster Library in Victoria.....also got The Idiot from that library.....
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
A blood red portrait I see in your face,
Screaming for a breath, eyes gazing through the lace.
Your body seized with a painful muscle cramp
Shaping a queer posture, resembling a tramp.
I know that I must write,
Unless the thought coagulates and becomes a stone.
A multitude of such is already resting on my mind,
Even heavier the burden resides in my heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Life!
Such beautiful a dance of roses and sunrays,
Holding hands,
Swinging blooms from side to side in rhythm,
As a sign of approving of this vital being,
Oh, let me out!
A little bee
Caught in a fly-trap on the window;
Captured while an excursion of the strange, wide meadow:
To see,
To learn,
To make friends with species still unknown to her,
Invite herself to places which homes are being called,
Listening to different speeches - and while she does that
Steal hints,
Observe the moves,
Ask thousand questions, of course she dares!
But now she can´t,
She is paralyzed.
Her blood is frozen.
This blood hasn´t circled round for more than only 14 times
And already she would pray to die.
Her wings are broken.
Completely soaking wet
As she fell into a pool of Sekt.
She cannot see the rapist, although she´s laid face up,
Her eyes are colour-blind.
No blue,
No yellow,
No scarlet she no more defines.
She no longer can be recognized
As happiness and love personified;
She has turned into an ugly fly,
A malicious, loathsome beast that we all despise.
Alas! She´s still alive…
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Why is it so quiet here tonight?
Not a single word to write, no fight?
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Low the sky on earth has fallen,
And the sun wasn´t left behind,
Every cloud on soil is crawling,
A bough to grab nowhere to find.
Drowning slowly in the mud of broken dreams,
You have painted them but now you want to flee,
You´ve caused the silence on my lips
I can´t believe you´re really saying this.
After I am calm and willing to participate again,
I´ll put up the mask of the best smile I´ve ever had,
You will feel that this smile is not the same,
I´ll quote my poetry and words will be my last…
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Comments
making such a big fuss
anyway, i noticed in your passage that there´s something we
might share and that is the sensitivity to the detail, discovering
the unusual in a certain thing; or even the ordinary, forced
to such extent that because of it´s quality it becomes
perceptible to the individual.
Berlin... you either hate it, or love it. Apart from your personal
perceptions and impressions of it, it can easily become your
home, or if it doesn´t like you, it will show you the evil side of it´s
face.
I´m probably one of the rare people who have seen the whole
face.
it´s sunday today. my mind should be resting.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
To read them, to write them,
To reshape them
As a soft lump of gold
Make them shine,
Put them in few lines
And then observe your reader´s face.
Predicting a twitch or two,
One positive and perhaps a negative sign too,
But left empty
When drawing clear conclusions.
Need for more material,
More input, more stimuli to wake up nerves,
Make my fingers fidget
Push them to the limit
My eye absolutely restless, it observes
How wrinkles constrict and relax again -
It is an indicator for a busy mind,
Estimating sound by sound…
Disappointment about one´s own creation,
Feeling that there is far more to say
But the thoughts, when thinking, somehow they just fade.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
However, I will never stop studying literature and so I´m curious about this too and to what extent is my last poem related to his work.
and thank you for reading it.
talking to Whitney at the moment
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart. There's something ails our colt
That must, as if it had not holy blood
Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
As though it dragged road-metal. My curse on plays
That have to be set up in fifty ways,
On the day's war with every knave and dolt,
Theatre business, management of men.
I swear before the dawn comes round again
I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
Although I know I shouldn´t do so;
Reopening my wounds from time to time
Questioning myself about how low can I still go.
Nurturing the minds, I did, and still do at times,
Forgetting all about my own, just writing lines
That is the medicine my brain needs, and always will desire,
Brings me back to life, extinguishes the burning fire.
Only the past time knows the true story of this creature,
Laying hands on my heart as it goes,
It could be something for amusement,
Perhaps an exercise to make me even stronger.
If you follow me when travelling in Past,
You will see how things developed, minding signs,
But somewhere in the middle you might change your minds,
Yes, this route is troublesome; you better try some other path.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Thanks, exhale. You're good.
Crying, because I cannot reach the shelf
Where all the books could tell so much about myself,
Hidden in the corner, alas, I won´t be there on time.
Ambivalence of thoughts is balancing my head,
I am a character playing in his tragic play
And in The Globe he puts me on the stage,
To reveal my pattern of the chaos and foresee…
My habits every day the same with roots so deep
But what can change the change of life,
If you´re the master of your rhyme all of such kind
That causes nightmares, takes away your sleep.
This rhyme, you say, I´ve never met, I may not ever see,
Am I therefore incapable of loving?
But I am sick of all that mourning,
Please, leave the platform and continue this walk with me.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
The words you write say all about your heart
Before you might consult each hallowed tome
of poetry by others. You'll learn art
From reading others' works, but who you are
is in the words you speak, so frank, so true.
Of course we'll leave the platform, walk with you.
if no other, I know you´ll always find the core.
(thanks for the hint on the word phrase)
beautiful poetry of yours in your thread, created by the
pen of love that reaches across the Atlantic...
it is shaped the way that people cannot envy you;
even the hearts of most desperate souls have to cheer up
after following the flow of your verse.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
(Hemingway)
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
(Brendan Behan)
That quotation always appealed to me.
When it should be, loosely, working on a new creation.
Having trouble waking up the poet,
Feeling like my soul was given out for rent.
Look at him! His words so simply flow,
Singing every moment, mapping his ideas as he goes.
He would never, even for a blink
Put his pen down, overthink;
No, a writer of this kind I could never be,
I better find my chair again, sit down and study.
Turning to you, poets, with this question:
Have you ever felt your power dwindling,
Your glory fading, losing it´s perfection?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
all scrunchy-nosing reeds, heads out from burrows.
I shall salute the starling and the rook,
on my allotment's broad potato furrows.
I shall halloo the colleges and spires
and sing when Hill's Road Churchbells sound in chime.
I shall greet warmly smells of rustic fires
Blowing in the wind this havest time.
I shall shout your name for you, and hear
its echoes on the fenlands far and near.
Inviting me to join their party
On the surface of the summer sun
Dancing till the day is gone.
It feels like making love with views
Of this land, so much is there to choose,
From the grounds and up to peoples eyes
So honest, so pure, free of all dark lies.
If even flying through it´s fields,
Above, the sky covered with different-blue sheets,
You cannot fail to see the nature´s art
Playing with the colours-engraving on your heart.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
thank you
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
This is a beautiful example of an elegiac construction of Englishness, and it reminds me very much of the work of "Georgian Poets" (poets alive during the reign of George V, 1910-1935, but mainly writing between 1910 and 1918, from England rather than from the trenches of WW1). The Georgian Poets often wrote melancholically, wistfully and reflectively of an essentially rural England that they perceived to be becoming supplanted by metropolitanism.
Here is a poem by the poet Edward Thomas, called "Adlestrop", which is similar in tone to your poem:
Yes, I remember Adlestrop--
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Covering the surface of the grounds,
I wish you all good night, we´ll meet again tomorrow,
Embroidering the planet, writing names on the stars.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Yes. I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon....
I saw him in St Denis
where the gloom had stopped its fasting
Where late one day while walking
he just appeared
and barges basking in the Paris
sun were geared for motionless
for stranded sunlit standing
and it seemed that he was
walking on the air like Jesus
so hazy and so deceptive
were my senses all calmed and slowed
then he said....we've hardly seen each other
since the end of June
and much as I am busy
and disposed, I feel we're out of tune
we talked....we picked up all the threads
and I can't begin to tell you where
our journey led....
but through the wolds of oxfordshire
and right through all his life
we went in St Denis that day
and if I bore you now with
tales of Adlestrop
or saddle you with him
it's only for the sake of
life or maybe just a whim
and no, I haven´t read this book either but I might
if you convince me of it´s quality
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
might choose them books as the topic for my finals in German.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Screaming for a breath, eyes gazing through the lace.
Your body seized with a painful muscle cramp
Shaping a queer posture, resembling a tramp.
I know that I must write,
Unless the thought coagulates and becomes a stone.
A multitude of such is already resting on my mind,
Even heavier the burden resides in my heart.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Such beautiful a dance of roses and sunrays,
Holding hands,
Swinging blooms from side to side in rhythm,
As a sign of approving of this vital being,
Oh, let me out!
A little bee
Caught in a fly-trap on the window;
Captured while an excursion of the strange, wide meadow:
To see,
To learn,
To make friends with species still unknown to her,
Invite herself to places which homes are being called,
Listening to different speeches - and while she does that
Steal hints,
Observe the moves,
Ask thousand questions, of course she dares!
But now she can´t,
She is paralyzed.
Her blood is frozen.
This blood hasn´t circled round for more than only 14 times
And already she would pray to die.
Her wings are broken.
Completely soaking wet
As she fell into a pool of Sekt.
She cannot see the rapist, although she´s laid face up,
Her eyes are colour-blind.
No blue,
No yellow,
No scarlet she no more defines.
She no longer can be recognized
As happiness and love personified;
She has turned into an ugly fly,
A malicious, loathsome beast that we all despise.
Alas! She´s still alive…
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Not a single word to write, no fight?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
And the sun wasn´t left behind,
Every cloud on soil is crawling,
A bough to grab nowhere to find.
Drowning slowly in the mud of broken dreams,
You have painted them but now you want to flee,
You´ve caused the silence on my lips
I can´t believe you´re really saying this.
After I am calm and willing to participate again,
I´ll put up the mask of the best smile I´ve ever had,
You will feel that this smile is not the same,
I´ll quote my poetry and words will be my last…
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.