Foxy,
Sorry you're having such a lousy Mother's Day.
Roll on Tuesday.

Poirot

Although I have Irish ancestors, I have yet to set foot upon Eire's shores. Your poem has been the closest to fulfilling such dreams.

Thank you.

All lovely poems so far everyone. Nice thread for a change!
Dear Foxy, I hope all goes well with the big up periscope day for you tomorrow!
I had that procedure done on myself last year and I must say I did enjoy the 'happy, forgetting' drugs I was given! Enjoy!
Cheers, Suze.

Dear Poirot,

Beautiful poem!

It brought tears to my eyes and a lump
to my throat. Thank You.

And, I must admit I can't wait for Tuesday!

Dear Horus,

Those were the days indeed!

Thanks for reminding us.

You may enjoy this one:

"I blow my pipes, the glad birds sing,
The fat young numphs about me spring,
The sweaty centaur leaps the trees
And bites his dryad's splendid knees:
The sky, the water, and the earth
Repeat aloud our noisy mirth...
Anon, tight-bellied bacchanals,
With ivy from the vineyard walls,
Lead out and crown with shining glass
The wine's red baby on the grass.

I blow my pipes, the glad birds sing,
The fat young nymphs about me spring,
I am the Lord,
I am the Lord,
I am the Lord of everything!"

Dear Suze,

I'm looking forward to the actual procedure,
it can't be as bad as the prep I've done today!
Thanks for your good wishes. I'll need them.
The problem is
the procedure is in the afternoon - so it may
be a long wait - with no food or drink allowed
after 7am tomorrow (and only liquids today).

cont'd ...

Before I go I'd like to leave another
poem. It's written by a poet, who
'happens' to be an Aboriginal. A poet
who is passionate in his concern for
humanity. Kevin Gilbert, in this poem
shows us not only his poetic intensity,
but also that he has an ear for different
rhythms and registers of language.
Especially effective is his use of
old-poeticisms such as, 'gay ribands,'
'nought,' 'epaulets, 'carnage,' and so on,
giving the poem greater vividness and
adding to the atmosphere of the 'old world'
theme of plumes, pens, and swords, as given in
the title.

"The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword."

"The pen is mightier than the sword
but only when
it sows the seed of thought
in minds of men
to kindle love and grow
through the burnt page
destroyed by huns and vandals in their rage

The sword in russet hues lies mouldering
its sharp and shiny edge now dulled by peace
and blood-lust sated between customers
like some old time worn harried whore
well past her prime
awaiting some brute hand to wield her hate

The bugler sounds, the drummer sounds his beat
bright swords refurbished tilt to marching feet
gay ribands, uniforms and epaulets
entrap the eye, the soul till madness sway
them to the dance of death the piper plays

The pen in great tragedienne lines extol
the meritorius lie, the grand excuse
justification for this carnivore
called man who can't evolve in his estate
clothed and fed, his universities
and halls of learning yet avail him nought
the jungle beasts enact the same stage plays
one kind, one king, one death the same
in duty and in worship all the same
differing nought for death wears the same cloak
regardless of technology or sport."

Dear Foxy,

Thank you for the topic.

There are many poems I thoroughly enjoy however there are a few that really grab me and shake the back teeth.

At the top of that list is from a young poet who died at the age of 19. It is called High Flight.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Blows me away every time I read it and I find myself doing so aloud. The words just tumble out and I get noticeably breathless by the end of the poem.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr. was and Anglo-american who flew spitfires in the Battle of Britain but was killed in a training mishap over Lincolnshire during the war.

Although I have para-glided and parachuted I am not a pilot yet this piece will always have a tight hold on me. Apparently the “touched the face of God” line was borrowed from another pilot but it finishes this poem so beautifully.