Claire Orchard | NZ Poetry Shelf
William Blake (28 November – 12 August ) was an English poet, painter, and .. Blake's marriage to Catherine was close and devoted until his death. .. Poems such as "Why should I be bound to thee, O my lovely Myrtle-tree ? mythology parallel to the Old Testament and Greek mythology"; Bonnefoy, Yves. St. Yves' Poor The poem from which these lines are taken, "Resurgam," sums up, in a . as individuals and in their social relationships—almost always intuitive and not When they had twined your myrtle buds and hung. Nickname:Myrtle Status:Current Housemate Real Name:Myrtle Abigail Porlucas Sarrosa Marunong din po akong gumawa ng poem, essays, story,paragraph.
I want them to do everything. I want them to feel and think and feel the thinking in them as you read. I want them to be quick, in the old sense of the word: I want them to not know something and try to find it out — I would never write a poem with prior knowledge — I think ignorance can be bliss or at least start the motor. And as I write more I find out more and more about musicality. What attracts you in the poetry of others?
Boldness, form the pressure of itlanguage as clear as it can be, given the difficulty or otherwise of the content, not being self-centred, engaging the reader.
Visceral was the quality Allen Curnow looked for when I had the temerity to leave a poem in his letterbox.
I adore her musical effects. I find you are able to slow down the pace of your poems so that I linger as reader upon an image, a word, an anecdote, a side-thought to see what surfaces. Does this reflect your process as a writer? I think, since I write in longhand, it may echo the pauses during composition. Do you, like Janet and countless other poets, have poetry anxieties? Just the big anxiety, the generalised one.
To be better, to get closer, to go deeper, knowing that a rigorous equation awaits. I particularly felt this in ballet: How do you see the relationship between autobiography and your poems? Ruminating portraits of friends or events illustrating a friend. Autobiography, to me, has many hazards. We all excuse ourselves and even the most honest and analytic among us favour some perspectives over others.
I feel confident that something of ourselves always gets in and reveals more than we can imagine. I know I am. Unseen, you are observing your mother move through the house from the street you gave us this introduction and see her in shifting lights.
The moment is extraordinary; are we are at our truest self when we are not observed? There is the characteristic Smither movement through the poem, slow and attentive, to the point of tilt or surprise.
The final lines reverberate and alter the pitch of looking: It reminded me of the old-fashioned way of washing linen in a river. The grandmother poems will probably be ongoing because it is such an intense experience: What do you like endings to do? Which New Zealand poets have you read in the past year or so that have struck or stuck?
Do you read widely in other genres? Yes, I particularly like hybrid forms — travelogues that turn into miniature poetry collections, diaries, memoirs that admit to no rules as if they understand the psychology of the reader who is liable to become bored, and also the limits of being an author.
My main love remains the novel, followed closely by the short story and the detective story. What poem would you pick?
- Myrtle Wilson in The Great Gatsby: Character Analysis & Quotes
And call it beauty? Wide on their sands the little streams have crept, And all the leaves have whispered murmuringly Of hope, and show'r and sunnier days to be. But still no bird lifts up triumphant voice And the old Earth is hushed as if she slept Too weary to rejoice.
Not yet shall come the triumph and the strife! Not yet, Earth-Mother, from some woodland bird Shall the full-throated psalm of love be heard. Not yet the dawns to war and labour call, But o'er the re-created tides of life Soft easeful languors fall. This is the air of which our dreams are bred, And softly-blown, sleep-singing winds are these.
With murmur and more tuneful silences The drowsy waves beat on the drowsier shore, And vaporous clouds, seen dimly overhead, Wheel southward evermore. Now o'er the fields serenely falls the night, Moonless and still in soft gray hues of rest. The rifted rain clears slowly from the west, Where lingers one translucent amber bar, And a small wandering shred of cloud, so bright It seems a star.
If I should live again, Quick of sinew and vein O God, let me be young, With the honeycomb on my tongue, All in a moment flung With the dawn on a flowing plain, Riding, riding, riding, riding Between the sun and the rain.
If I, having been, must be, O God, let it be so, Swift and supple and free With a long journey to go, And the clink of the curb and the blow Of hooves, and the wind at my knee, Riding, riding, riding, riding Between the hills and the sea. DAWN O keep the world forever at the dawn, Ere yet the opals, cobweb-strung, have dried, Ere yet too bounteous gifts have marred the morn Or fading stars have died.
O, keep the eastern gold no wider than An angel's finger-span, And hush the increasing thunder of the sea To murmuring melody In those fair coves where tempests ne'er should be. Hold back the line of shoreward-sweeping surge And veil each deep sea-pool in pearlier mist, Ere yet the silver ripples on the verge Have turned to amethyst. Fling back the chariot of encroaching day And call the winds away Ere yet they sigh, and let the hastening sun Along his path in heaven no higher run, But show through all the years his golden rim With shadows lingering dim Forever o'er the world awaiting him.
Hold every bird with still and drowsy wing, That in the breathless hush no clamorous throat Shall break the peace that hangs on everything With shrill awakening note; Keep fast the half-seen beauties of the rose In undisturbed repose, Check all the iris buds where they unfold Impatient from their hold, And close the cowslips' cups of honeyed gold. Keep all things hushed, so hushed we seem to hear The sounds of low-swung clouds that sweep the trees; Let now no harsher music reach the ear, No earthlier sounds than these, When whispering shadows move within the grass, And airy tremors pass Through all the earth with life awakening thrilled, And so forever stilled, Too sweet in promise e'er to be fulfilled.
O keep the world forever at the dawn, Yet, keeping so, let nothing lifeless seem, But hushed, as if the miracle of morn Were trembling in its dream. Some shadowy moth may pass with drowsy flight And fade before the sight, While in the unlightened darkness of the wall The chirping crickets call; From forest pools where fragrant lilies are A breath shall pass afar, And o'er the crested pine shall hang one star.
Gone are our day's red roses, So lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue. Night, and a flame in the embers Where the seal of the years was set,— When the almond-bough remembers How shall my heart forget?
When the dove is hidden and the dew is white on the corn, And the dark bee in the heather, and the shepherd with the sheep, I mind me of the little wings in the holm-oak and the thorn Who take of Him their sleep. When the brier closes and the iris-flower is furled, And over the edge of the evening the martin knows her nest, I mind me of the little hearts abroad in all the world Who find in Him their rest.
If you seek sleep, she dwells not with these things,— The prisoned wood, the voiceless reed, the stone. But where the day yields to one star alone, Softly Sleep cometh on her brown owl-wings, Sliding above the marshes silently To the dim beach between the black pines and the sea. There; or in one leaf-shaken loveliness Of birchen light and shadow, deep she dwells, Where the song-sparrow and the thrush are heard, And once a wandering flute-voiced mocking-bird, Where, when the year was young, Grew sweet faint bloodroot, and the adder-tongue Lifting aloft her spire of golden bells.
Here shall we lift our lodge against the rain, Walling it deep With tamarac branches and the balsam fir, Sweet even as sleep, And aspen boughs continually astir To make a silver-gleaming,— Here shall we lift our lodge and find again A little space for dreaming. EVENING When the white iris folds the drowsing bee, When the first cricket wakes The fairy hosts of his enchanted brakes, When the dark moth has sought the lilac tree, And the young stars, like jasmine of the skies, Are opening on the silence, Lord, there lies Dew on Thy rose and dream upon mine eyes.
Lovely the day, when life is robed in splendour, Walking the ways of God and strong with wine, But the pale eve is wonderful and tender, And night is more divine.
Fold my faint olives from their shimmering plain, O Shadow of sweet darkness fringed with rain. Give me to night again. Give me to day no more. I have bethought me Silence is more than laughter, sleep than tears.
Sleep like a lover faithfully hath sought me Down the enduring years. Where stray the first white fallings of the fold, Where the Lent-lily droops her earlier gold Sleep waits me as of old. Grant me sweet sleep, for light is unavailing When patient eyes grow weary of the day. Young lambs creep close and tender wings are failing, And I grow tired as they. Light as the long wave leaves the lonely shore, Our boughs have lost the bloom that morning bore.
Here where the flame-weed set the lands alight Lies the black upland, webbed and crowned with white. Build high the logs, O love, and in thine eyes Let me believe the summer lingers late. We shall not miss her passive pageantries, We are not desolate, When on the sill, across the window bars, Kind winter flings her flowers and her stars.
And then I have whispered, Mother hear, For the owls are awake and the night is near, And whether I lay me near or far No lips shall kiss me, No eye shall miss me, Saving the eye of a cold white star. And the old brown woman answers mild, Rest you safe on my heart, O child.
Many a shepherd, many a king, I fold them safe from their sorrowing. Gwenever's heart is bound with dust, Tristram dreams of the dappled doe, But the bugle moulders, the blade is rust; Stilled are the trumpets of Jericho, And the tired men sleep by the walls of Troy. Little and lonely, Shall I not comfort you, shepherd-boy? When the wind wakes in the apple-trees, And the shy hare feeds on the wild fern stem, I say my prayers to the Trinity,— The prayers that are three and the charms that are seven To the angels guarding the towers of heaven,— And I lay my hand on her raiment's hem, Where the young grass darkens the strawberry star, Where the iris buds and the bellworts are.
All night I hear her breath go by Under the arch of the empty sky. All night her heart beats under my head, And I lie as still as the ancient dead, Warm as the young lambs there with the sheep. I and no other. Fold my hands in her hands, and sleep. Us always were hearty aters, My feyther he wer afore. And the Laard dun't hold I a sinner, The neighbourly angel said, Because I wer set on my dinner, For a man must goo full-fed.
But now I be done wi' feedin', And a taaste at the market-town. This all so idle as Eden In the great grey lift o' the down.
Over the turf and the tillage The angels gossip in pairs, Most like to folk in the village When the pigs was fat for the fairs. He'll give I lambs to lead. I'll ask but six or seven, And I'll lay, when the hurdling's done, On the great green downs o' heaven, And sleep in the livin' Sun.
No more the long road calls him on, No more the wayside fountains sing A pleasant tune, when day has gone, To cheer him on his journeying. The wind-blown sand, the sweeping surf, Call him in vain: And he is one with leaf and blade, As changing seasons dawn again: Kith to the far-flung clouds that fade, And brother to the silver rain. Here, morn and eve, the blackbird sings, The strong-winged swallows wheel and dip; And here all great and little things Go down the days in fellowship.
Perhaps his eyes in dream have seen Those low twin-hills that rise afar, With soft blue breadth of sea between Reflecting one triumphant star. And, waking, he has thought it fair, With some diviner spirit blest To quiet ends: When I was a young man, Before my beard was grey, All to ships and sailormen I gave my heart away. Lord, I have known all fruits of this Thy world; Like Solomon king, I have been fain of all,— War, women and wine,—but mine was spirit of Nantes.
And now, O Lord, I'm old and fain for Thee. But, Lord, my soul's so grimed and weather-worn, So warped and wrung with all iniquities, Piracies, brawls, and cheated revenues, There's not a saint but would look twice at it.
So, when my time comes, send no angels down With lutes and harps, and foreign instruments, To pipe old Pieter's Spirit up to heaven Past his tall namesake sturdy at his post. But let me lie awhile in these Thy seas.
And when Thy waves have smoothed me of my sins, White as the sea-mew or the wind-spun foam, Clean as the clear-cut images of stars That swing between the swells,—then, then, O Lord, Lean out, lean out from heaven and call me thus, "Come up, thou soul of Pieter Marinus," And I'll go home.
The Sailors Grave at Clo-oose, V. Out of the winds' and the waves' riot, Out of the loud foam, He has put in to a great quiet And a still home. Here he may lie at ease and wonder Why the old ship waits, And hark for the surge and the strong thunder Of the full Straits, And look for the fishing fleet at morning, Shadows like lost souls, Slide through the fog where the seal's warning Betrays the shoals, And watch for the deep-sea liner climbing Out of the bright West, With a salmon-sky and her wake shining Like a tern's breast,— And never know he is done for ever With the old sea's pride, Borne from the fight and the full endeavour On an ebb tide.
From the clouded belfry calling, Hear my soft ascending swells; Hear my notes like swallows falling; I am Bega, least of bells.
Michael Harlow | NZ Poetry Shelf
When great Turkeful rolls and rings All the storm-touched turret swings, Echoing battle, loud and long. When great Tatwin wakening roars To the far-off shining shores, All the seamen know his song. I am Bega, least of bells: In my throat my message swells.
I with all the winds a-thrill, Murmuring softly, murmuring still, "God around me, God above me, God to guard me, God to love me. High above the morning mist, Wreathed in rose and amethyst, Still the dreams of music float Silver from my silver throat, Whispering beauty, whispering peace.
When great Tatwin's golden voice Bids the listening land rejoice, When great Turkeful rings and rolls Thunder down to trembling souls, Then my notes like curlews flying, Lifting, falling, sinking, sighing, I with all the airs at play Murmuring sweetly, murmuring say, "God around me, God above me, God to guard me, God to love me. I set the doors wide at the given hour, Took the great baskets piled with bread, the fish Yet silvered of the sea, the curds of milk, And called them Brethren, brake and blest and gave.
For O, my Lord, the house dove knows her nest Above my window builded from the rain; In the brown mere the heron finds her rest, But these shall seek in vain. And O, my Lord, the thrush may fold her wing, The curlew seek the long lift of the seas, The wild swan sleep amid his journeying,— There is no rest for these. Thy dead and sheltered; housed and warmed they wait Under the golden fern, the falling foam; But these, Thy living, wander desolate And have not any home.
I called them Brethren, brake and blest and gave. Old Jeffik had her withered hand to show, Young Jannedik had dreamed of death, and Bran Would tell me wonders wrought on fields of war, When Michael and his warriors rode the storm, And all the heavens were thrilled with clanging spears; Ah, God! But thy bruised feet have trodden on my heart.
I will get water for thee. I take from thee as I have given to thee. Dost thou not know Me, Breton? Or did you meet him walking in the honey-breathing clover, The first star flowered before him like a dream?
O far and very far away from all your quiet fountains, From all your solemn valleys rich in sleep, I only heard a shepherd singing on the mountains, Singing as he folded in the sheep. Did you know him from his fellows by the thorny bents that crowned him Among the lily-gardens that are his? O far away and far away from all the hidden meadows, From the gardens where the year goes shod in gold, I only heard a shepherd singing in the shadows As he carried home the younglings to the fold. And both Jesus was called, and His disciples, to the marriage.
Slenderly hang the olive leaves Sighing apart; The rose-and-silver doves in the eaves With a murmur of music bind our house. Honey and wine in thy words are stored, Thy lips are bright as the edge of a sword That hath found my heart, That hath found my heart. Sweet, I have waked from a dream of thee,— And of Him: He who came when the songs were done.
From the net of thy smiles my heart went free And the golden lure of thy love grew dim. I turned to them asking, "Who is He, Royal and sad, who comes to the feast And sits Him down in the place of the least? Down in the fields the thrushes sing And the lark is lost in the light above, Lost in the infinite, glowing whole, As I in thy soul, As I in thy soul.
Love, I am fain for thy glowing grace As the pool for the star, as the rain for the rill. Turn to me, trust to me, mirror me As the star in the pool, as the cloud in the sea. Love, I looked awhile in His face And was still. The shaft of the dawn strikes clear and sharp; Hush, my harp. Hush, my harp, for the day is begun, And the lifting, shimmering flight of the swallow Breaks in a curve on the brink of morn, Over the sycamores, over the corn.
Cling to me, cleave to me, prison me As the mote in the flame, as the shell in the sea, For the winds of the dawn say, "Follow, follow Jesus Bar-Joseph, the carpenter's son.
Interview with 2017 National Flash Fiction Day Judge Emma Neale
He saw the quickened valleys gleam and go And the clouds break upon a hundred hills, Till all the happy silence had a sound, Voice upon voice, small as the voice of God In Sinai, but the earth shook under them. He saw the moonlit rafters of the world, Hollowed in thunder, walled with exquisite air, Most beautiful. The leaves were laced with showers. And motionless beneath them couched the flies, Bright as small seraphs lately loosed from heaven Upon the river'd garden beautiful, Beautiful they, and beautiful the bird That flashed on him a sudden breast and fled.
Over a fire of twisted camel-thorn He saw the vast recessional of day And shivered against the dark, and knew no rest; Yet even the dark was lovely. Only he Was worn with hungering after righteousness, Fouled with strange suffering, dim with many dreams. The foxes barked against him all night long. Dawn rose in silver, shepherding few stars. He watched it, all one hunger, body and soul. There all day long the whining plane moves over The curded length of olive wood, and light Bright shavings make the footfall cedar-sweet.
A woman sits there in the shadow of leaves, Watching her men at work, two carpenters, While mirrored angels move in her still eyes. Yea, is it time? Shall one lay down His tools And turn away? To-night the fly shall sleep In lily or white cyclamen, the bird Shall find the shittim tree that held her brood.
Shall I be homeless?