ibis wrote:

Kate P wrote:

I like Rich - one of the poems I linked earlier is by her. This one is not high on my list of favourites by her - it's a bit obvious and rhymy for me. And a bit overtly feminist which is never becoming. My favourite poem by her is Roofwalker but I like this one too

I must admit, I preferred the first one - the second has some misfires, although still good. I wouldn't call the first one feminist, either.

Do any of you write poetry?

Have you read Jane Eyre? Feminist theorists would have it that the madwoman in the attic is the wild side of serene Jane; the tigers here are the fearless and liberated aunt Jennifer who is currently suffering under the massive weight of uncle's wedding band. It's a subversion of her embroidery, a feminine and inoffensive craft where consciously or not, she lives a 'wild' life.

Not feminist?

Kate P wrote:

ibis wrote:

Kate P wrote:

I like Rich - one of the poems I linked earlier is by her. This one is not high on my list of favourites by her - it's a bit obvious and rhymy for me. And a bit overtly feminist which is never becoming. My favourite poem by her is Roofwalker but I like this one too

I must admit, I preferred the first one - the second has some misfires, although still good. I wouldn't call the first one feminist, either.

Do any of you write poetry?

Have you read Jane Eyre? Feminist theorists would have it that the madwoman in the attic is the wild side of serene Jane; the tigers here are the fearless and liberated aunt Jennifer who is currently suffering under the massive weight of uncle's wedding band. It's a subversion of her embroidery, a feminine and inoffensive craft where consciously or not, she lives a 'wild' life.

Not feminist?

Not feminist. They're simply talking shite.

Right.
Post up your favourite poems there, till we have a look at them. Or something you've written yourself.

Kate P wrote:

Right.
Post up your favourite poems there, till we have a look at them. Or something you've written yourself.

What do you think of this? Any ideas on the author?....

so much depends

upon



a red wheel

barrow



glazed with rain

water



beside the white

chickens.

winter snowlight


down your white back -

my fingers toboggan

I like that one very much - William Carlos Williams. I remember the first time I read it too. I also like this one in a slightly similar vein by Ezra Pound.

In a Station of the Metro

THE apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Kate P wrote:

I like that one very much - William Carlos Williams. I remember the first time I read it too. I also like this one in a slightly similar vein by Ezra Pound.

In a Station of the Metro

THE apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

There was a Derry kid playin in the All-Ireland Minor football final last September called Carlos Mc Williams. I was talkin to him a while after and he had never heard of him? The youth today teh.... teachers....imbeciles.....bring back the priests I say..... your father didn't die in two world wars for nuttin.......I'm 53 ye know

I like the long roads
past the crooked thorntrees
and the hills rising :
the tumbling valley water
and slow river winding
the distant gold gleam of the sea ;
these the roads walking
past the black bog lying
and the heather is stirred
by the wind
dark weather blooming
over high hills lonely
grey the cold rain stroking
the crooked wandering road

ibis wrote:

I like the long roads
past the crooked thorntrees
and the hills rising :
the tumbling valley water
and slow river winding
the distant gold gleam of the sea ;
these the roads walking
past the black bog lying
and the heather is stirred
by the wind
dark weather blooming
over high hills lonely
grey the cold rain stroking
the crooked wandering road

Do you have a title on it, ibis? I like it very much - feels inspired by Kavanagh and Hopkins.

Kate P wrote:

ibis wrote:

I like the long roads
past the crooked thorntrees
and the hills rising :
the tumbling valley water
and slow river winding
the distant gold gleam of the sea ;
these the roads walking
past the black bog lying
and the heather is stirred
by the wind
dark weather blooming
over high hills lonely
grey the cold rain stroking
the crooked wandering road

Do you have a title on it, ibis? I like it very much - feels inspired by Kavanagh and Hopkins.

Hmm. I thought you might like that one, actually. Mostly I don't put titles on them...I think I only ever wrote one or two with titles.

ibis wrote:

Kate P wrote:

ibis wrote:

I like the long roads
past the crooked thorntrees
and the hills rising :
the tumbling valley water
and slow river winding
the distant gold gleam of the sea ;
these the roads walking
past the black bog lying
and the heather is stirred
by the wind
dark weather blooming
over high hills lonely
grey the cold rain stroking
the crooked wandering road

Do you have a title on it, ibis? I like it very much - feels inspired by Kavanagh and Hopkins.

Hmm. I thought you might like that one, actually. Mostly I don't put titles on them...I think I only ever wrote one or two with titles.

As Stonewall Jackson would have said "Very commendable....very commendable". Kate has nailed it with the influences

It rolls like the valleys - the punctuation is very effective; and it's sparse like the landscape. I like sparseness in poetry - few words and much meaning appeals to me greatly. Lines 6 and 14 are the only two that are heavy on adjectives.

Do you write much?

Kate P wrote:

It rolls like the valleys - the punctuation is very effective; and it's sparse like the landscape. I like sparseness in poetry - few words and much meaning appeals to me greatly. Lines 6 and 14 are the only two that are heavy on adjectives.

Do you write much?

Much less than I used to - I spent my twenties wandering about wooing women, so I wrote rather a lot then. Thanks for the kind words, although bear in mind what happens when you thank brownies.

For the record, I'm afraid I've read no Hopkins I can think of, and almost no Kavanagh. Also, I'm sorry to say, I'm very fond of Yeats.

There is a lot of modern poetry knocking about, and I'm not too enamoured with the style. The lack of structure and rhyme equates a bit to the fad in modern painting style.

I prefer the 'U2 boom and bass' of Tennyson anyday.

There's nothing to be ashamed of in being fond of Yeats. Inisfree is possibly the most perfect harmony of sound, vision and meaning. Of the ones I studied and taught I like Sailing to Byzantium and The Circus Animal's Desertion best of all.

But that's no excuse for not familiarising yourself with Kavanagh!! Did you have any part of your schooling in Ireland?

I'm not a great fan of yeats. I think I studied him too much at college or else it was the Yeats essay hangin over me that turned me from him. Have you ever read 'm'fhile caol dubh' le Padraic Ó Conaire? I think its an all out assault on Yeats with eerie inversed reminders of the Maud Gonne/John Mc Bride court debacle. Still, the oul doll used to rhyme him off so I can't really hate him even though I do tend to agree with Myles' opinion of Anglo-Irish Literature most of the time - "Not English, Not Irish and certainly not literature".

To the rose upon the rood of time stood out but only when read on his level

Kate P wrote:

There's nothing to be ashamed of in being fond of Yeats. Inisfree is possibly the most perfect harmony of sound, vision and meaning. Of the ones I studied and taught I like Sailing to Byzantium and The Circus Animal's Desertion best of all.

But that's no excuse for not familiarising yourself with Kavanagh!! Did you have any part of your schooling in Ireland?

Only college (science).

SeathrúnCeitinn wrote:

I'm not a great fan of yeats. I think I studied him too much at college or else it was the Yeats essay hangin over me that turned me from him. Have you ever read 'm'fhile caol dubh' le Padraic Ó Conaire? I think its an all out assault on Yeats with eerie inversed reminders of the Maud Gonne/John Mc Bride court debacle. Still, the oul doll used to rhyme him off so I can't really hate him even though I do tend to agree with Myles' opinion of Anglo-Irish Literature most of the time - "Not English, Not Irish and certainly not literature".

To the rose upon the rood of time stood out but only when read on his level

Oddy, that's one of the ones I don't like.

ibis wrote:

Kate P wrote:

There's nothing to be ashamed of in being fond of Yeats. Inisfree is possibly the most perfect harmony of sound, vision and meaning. Of the ones I studied and taught I like Sailing to Byzantium and The Circus Animal's Desertion best of all.

But that's no excuse for not familiarising yourself with Kavanagh!! Did you have any part of your schooling in Ireland?

Only college (science).

Kavanagh would have been virtually required reading had you done your leaving cert here.

You may have come across some of these before. Reading them in the order they appear will give you a good idea of where he's coming from.

Stony Grey Soil
Epic
Advent
Canal Bank Walk

What about this poem by Derek Mahon? I think it's one of his best:

ANTARCTICA
(for Richard Ryan)

"I am just going outside, and may be some time."
The others nod, pretending not to know.
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He leaves them reading and begins to climb,
Goading his ghost into the howling snow;
He is just going outside and may be some time.

The tent recedes beneath its crust of rime,
And frostbite is replaced by vertigo:
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Need we consider it some sort of crime,
This numb self-sacrifice of the weakest? No,
He is just going outside and may be some time --

In fact, for ever. Solitary enzyme,
Though the night yield no glimmer there will glow,
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He takes leave of the earthly pantomime
Quietly, knowing it is time to go.
"I am just going outside and may be some time."
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

-- Derek Mahon, b. 1941 Belfast, Co. Antrim

I really liked that Derek Mahon poem, thanks for that. Will have to investigate more of Mahon.

Well, somewhat like Kate, I paced back and forth behind the house learning reams of Kavanagh, Yeats and Hopkins for the LC. And I'm glad I did. I still have a Collected Yeats from many years ago which I sometimes take with me on the Tube to work.

I also (perversely according to my friends) liked Old and Middle English, along with Donne, Marlowe and Marvell.

This is gorgeous too

Achill
Derek Mahon

im chaonaí uaigneach nach mór go bhfeicim an lá

I lie and imagine a first light gleam in the bay
After one more night of erosion and nearer the grave,
Then stand and gaze from the window at break of day
As a shearwater skims the ridge of an incoming wave;
And I think of my son a dolphin in the Aegean,
A sprite among sails knife-bright in a seasonal wind,
And wish he were here where currachs walk on the ocean
To ease with his talk the solitude locked in my mind.

I sit on a stone after lunch and consider the glow
Of the sun through mist, a pearl bulb containèdly fierce;
A rain-shower darkens the schist for a minute or so
Then it drifts away and the sloe-black patches disperse.
Croagh Patrick towers like Naxos over the water
And I think of my daughter at work on her difficult art
And wish she were with me now between thrush and plover,
Wild thyme and sea-thrift, to lift the weight from my heart.

The young sit smoking and laughing on the bridge at evening
Like birds on a telephone pole or notes on a score.
A tin whistle squeals in the parlour, once more it is raining,
Turf-smoke inclines and a wind whines under the door;
And I lie and imagine the lights going on in the harbor
Of white-housed Náousa, your clear definition at night,
And wish you were here to upstage my disconsolate labour
As I glance through a few thin pages and switch off the light.

From Selected Poems, published by Viking/Gallery, 1991. Copyright © 1991 by Derek Mahon. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

However, my poem for you tonight is totally new to me, only just discovered Jackie Kay very recently, though I gather she is on the English curriculum in the UK.

Mixed race, adopted by a white couple in Glasgow, born in 1961 to a Scottish mother and Nigerian father. Have only read her collection The Adoption Papers but look forward to reading more.

Read with a Glaswegian accent! ...


My Grandmother

My Grandmother is like a Scottish pine,
tall, straight-backed, proud and plentiful,
a fine head of hair, greying now
tied up in a loose bun.
Her face is ploughed land.
Her eyes shine rough as amethysts.
She wears a plaid shawl
of our clan with the zeal of an Amazon.
She is one of those women
burnt in her croft rather than moved off the land.
She comes from them, her snake's skin.
She speaks Gaelic mostly, English only
when she has to, then it's blasphemy.

My grandmother sits by the fire and swears
There'll be no darkie baby in this house

My grandmother is a a Scottish pine,
tall, straight-backed proud and plentiful,
her hair tied with pins in a ball of steel wool.
Her face is as tight as ice
and her eyes are amethysts.

Thanks Audi, I definitely like Mahon!

Seathrun, I know I'm being lazy here, but could you post an O'Conaire poem? Ideally original Irish with English translation ... please don't hate me!