I always debate whether it counts as poetry, but usually decide it does:
You wonder how these things begin Well, this begins with a glen It begins with a season, which, For want of a better word, We might as well call: September
It begins with a forest, Where the woodchucks woo, And leaves wax green, And vines entwine like lovers.
Try to see it, not with your eyes for they are wise. But see it with your ears: The cool green breathing of the leaves And hear it with the inside of your hand The soundless sound of shadows flicking light
Celebrate sensation. Recall that secret place, You've been there, you remember, That special place where once, Just once, in your crowded sunlit lifetime You hid away in shadows from the tyranny of time.
That spot beside the clover, Where someone's hand held your hand, Where love was sweeter than the berries Or the honey Or the stinging taste of mint.
It was September, before a rain fall A perfect time to be in love...
I caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
Comments 10
Reply
You wonder how these things begin
Well, this begins with a glen
It begins with a season, which,
For want of a better word,
We might as well call: September
It begins with a forest,
Where the woodchucks woo,
And leaves wax green,
And vines entwine like lovers.
Try to see it, not with your eyes
for they are wise.
But see it with your ears:
The cool green breathing of the leaves
And hear it with the inside of your hand
The soundless sound of shadows flicking light
Celebrate sensation.
Recall that secret place,
You've been there, you remember,
That special place where once,
Just once, in your crowded sunlit lifetime
You hid away in shadows from the tyranny of time.
That spot beside the clover,
Where someone's hand held your hand,
Where love was sweeter than the berries
Or the honey
Or the stinging taste of mint.
It was September, before a rain fall
A perfect time to be in love...
Reply
( ... )
Reply
Reply
*was fantastick*
Reply
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones ( ... )
Reply
I think I may have a few more for you. I let you know.
Reply
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.
~ Gerard Hopkins, The Windhover
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment