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Calling All Librarians and Poets
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Subject: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 07 Sep 02 - 08:10 AM I'm renaming this thread cos I think the original title might have been misleading Thanks to those who replied but I'm still searching for that elusive answer OK it's not exactly a lyric request .... more of a work request but I am appealing to all those poetic mudcatters and information workers out there... I have faith... mudcat hasn't let me down so far. I'm looking for a poem about winter (don't know author or title) but it has the lines "five barred fragility" and "sets flying fifteen rooks" in it. My gut feeling is it's probably 20th century but I may be wrong. I also wondered if it's Sylvia Plath or Ted Hughes but can't find anything. I'll earn lots of gold stars if I crack this one so thanks in advance everyone. I know someone out there will provide the answer Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sorcha Date: 07 Sep 02 - 10:13 AM I have looked and looked and just can't find this. Are you sure the quotes are correct? Even for moderns poetry they are a little strange........... |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Amos Date: 07 Sep 02 - 12:51 PM Not googleable as written, Do you have any additional data about the thing? How do you know it exists? Have you encountered it yourself somewhere? Do you remember where? A |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Peg Date: 07 Sep 02 - 01:05 PM found this by Sylvia Plath; promising but does not contain those lines... Winter Landscape, With Rooks Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone, plunges headlong into that black pond where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind which hungers to haul the white reflection down. The austere sun descends above the fen, an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look longer on this landscape of chagrin; feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook, brooding as the winter night comes on. Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice as is your image in my eye; dry frost glazes the window of my hurt; what solace can be struck from rock to make heart's waste grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place? Sylvia Plath
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Peg Date: 07 Sep 02 - 01:32 PM Oops! Sorry the linebreaks did not come out. Here is a doozy by Oscar Wilde. I did put the line breaks in this one. Extraordinary. Rooks and winter but not what you need I guess. 61. HUMANITAD IT is full Winter now: the trees are bare, Save where the cattle huddle from the cold Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear The Autumn's gaudy livery whose gold Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew From Saturn's cave; a few thin wisps of hay Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer's day From the low meadows up the narrow lane; Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep From the shut stable to the frozen stream And back again disconsolate, and miss The bawling shepherds and the noisy team; And overhead in circling listlessness The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack, Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck, And hoots to see the moon; across the meads Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck; And a stray seamew with its fretful cry Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky. Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings His load of faggots from the chilly byre, And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings The sappy billets on the waning fire, And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare His children at their play; and yet,—the Spring is in the air, Already the slim crocus stirs the snow, And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom again With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow, For with the first warm kisses of the rain The winter's icy sorrow breaks to tears, And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie, And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly Across our path at evening, and the suns Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see Grass-girdled Spring in all her joy of laughing greenery Dance through the hedges till the early rose, (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!) Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose The little quivering disk of golden fire Which the bees know so well, for with it come Pale boys-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom. Then up and down the field the sower goes, While close behind the laughing younker scares With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows, And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears, And on the grass the creamy blossom falls In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals Steal from the bluebells' nodding carillons Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine, That star of its own heaven, snapdragons With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply, And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes, Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise, And violets getting overbold withdraw From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw. O happy field! and O thrice happy tree! Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock And crown of flowre-de-luce trip down the lea, Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon. Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour, The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind, And straggling traveller's joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind. Dear Bride of Nature and most bounteous Spring! That can'st give increase to the sweet-breath'd kine, And to the kid its little horns, and bring The soft and silky blossoms to the vine, Where is that old nepenthe which of yore Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore! There was a time when any common bird Could make me sing in unison, a time When all the strings of boyish life were stirred To quick response or more melodious rhyme By every forest idyll;—do I change? Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range? Nay, nay, thou art the same: 'tis I who seek To vex with sighs thy simple solitude, And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood; Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare To taint such wine with the salt poison of his own despair! Thou art the same: 'tis I whose wretched soul Takes discontent to be its paramour, And gives its kingdom to the rude control Of what should be its servitor,—for sure Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea Contain it not, and the huge deep answer "'Tis not in me." To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect In natural honour, not to bend the knee In profitless prostrations whose effect Is by itself condemned, what alchemy Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued? The minor chord which ends the harmony, And for its answering brother waits in vain, Sobbing for incompleted melody Dies a Swan's death; but I the heir of pain A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise. The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom, The little dust stored in the narrow urn, The gentle XAIPE of the Attic tomb,— Were not these better far than to return To my old fitful restless malady, Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery? Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd God Is like the watcher by a sick man's bed Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said, Death is too rude, too obvious a key To solve one single secret in a life's philosophy. And Love! that noble madness, whose august And inextinguishable might can slay The soul with honied drugs,—alas! I must From such sweet ruin play the runaway, Although too constant memory never can Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian Which for a little season made my youth So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence That all the chiding of more prudent Truth Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O Hence Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis! Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,— Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow Back to the troubled waters of this shore Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near, Hence! Hence! I pass unto a life more barren, more austere. More barren—ay, those arms will never lean Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul In sweet reluctance through the tangled green; Some other head must wear that aureole, For I am Hers who loves not any man Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian. Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page, And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair, With net and spear and hunting equipage Let young Adonis to his tryst repair, But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel. Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed In wonder at her feet, not for the sake Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take. Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed! And, if my lips be musicless, inspire At least my life: was not thy glory hymned By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre Like Æschylus at well-fought Marathon, And died to show that Milton's England still could bear a son! And yet I cannot tread the Portico And live without desire, fear, and pain, Or nurture that wise calm which long ago The grave Athenian master taught to men, Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted, To watch the world's vain phantasies go by with unbowed head. Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips, Those eyes that mirrored all eternity, Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne Is childless; in the night which she had made For lofty secure flight Athena's owl itself hath strayed. Nor much with Science do I care to climb, Although by strange and subtle witchery She draw the moon from heaven: the Muse of Time Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry To no less eager eyes; often indeed In the great epic of Polymnia's scroll I love to read How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war Against a little town, and panoplied In gilded mail with jewelled scimetar, White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede Between the waving poplars and the sea Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall, And on the nearer side a little brood Of careless lions holding festival! And stood amazèd at such hardihood, And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore, And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o'er Some unfrequented height, and coming down The autumn forests treacherously slew What Sparta held most dear and was the crown Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew How God had staked an evil net for him In the small bay of Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim, Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel With such a goodly time too out of tune To love it much: for like the Dial's wheel That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies. O for one grand unselfish simple life To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills, Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century! Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is He Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal Where Love and Duty mingle! Him at least The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom's feast, But we are Learning's changelings, know by rote The clarion watchword of each Grecian school And follow none, the flawless sword which smote The pagan Hydra is an effete tool Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow? One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod! Gone is that last dear son of Italy, Who being man died for the sake of God, And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully. O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower, Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or The Arno with its tawny troubled gold O'erleap its marge, no mightier conqueror Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty Walked like a Bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell With an old man who grabbled rusty keys, Fled shuddering for that immemorial knell With which oblivion buries dynasties Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast, As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed. He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome, He drave the base wolf from the lion's lair, And now lies dead by that empyreal dome Which overtops Valdarno hung in air By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody! Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies That Joy's self may grow jealous, and the Nine Forget a-while their discreet emperies, Mourning for him who on Rome's lordliest shrine Lit for men's lives the light of Marathon, And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun! O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower, Let some young Florentine each eventide Bring coronals of that enchanted flower Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide, And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes. Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings, Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings Of the eternal chanting Cherubim Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay, He is not dead, the immemorial Fates Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain, Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates! Ye argent clarions sound a loftier strain! For the vile thing he hated lurks within Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin. Still what avails it that she sought her cave That murderous mother of red harlotries? At Munich on the marble architrave The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas Which wash Ægina fret in loneliness Not mirroring their beauty, so our lives grow colourless For lack of our ideals, if one star Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe For all her stony sorrows hath her sons, but Italy! What Easter Day shall make her children rise, Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet Shall find their graveclothes folded? what clear eyes Shall see them bodily? O it were meet To roll the stone from off the sepulchre And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of Her Our Italy! our mother visible! Most blessed among nations and most sad, For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell That day at Aspromonte and was glad That in an age when God was bought and sold One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold, See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily, And no word said:—O we are wretched men Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword Which slew its master righteously? the years Have lost their ancient leader, and no word Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears: While as a ruined mother in some spasm Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm Genders unlawful children, Anarchy Freedom's own Judas, the vile prodigal Licence who steals the gold of Liberty And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real One Fratricide since Cain, Envy the asp That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp Is in its extent stiffened, monied Greed For whose dull appetite men waste away Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed Of things which slay their sower, these each day Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street. What even Cromwell spared is desecrated By weed and worm, left to the stormy play Of wind and beating snow, or renovated By more destructful hands: Time's worst decay Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness, But these new Vandals can but make a rainproof barrenness. Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing Through Lincoln's lofty choir, till the air Seems from such marble harmonies to ring With sweeter song than common lips can dare To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow For Southwell's arch, and carved the House of One Who loved the lilies of the field with all Our dearest English flowers? the same sun Rises for us: the seasons natural Weave the same tapestry of green and grey: The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed away. And yet perchance it may be better so, For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen, Murder her brother is her bedfellow, And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set; Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate! For gentle brotherhood, the harmony Of living in the healthful air, the swift Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free And women chaste, these are the things which lift Our souls up more than even Agnolo's Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o'er the scroll of human woes, Or Titian's little maiden on the stair White as her own sweet lily and as tall, Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,— Ah! somehow life is bigger after all Than any painted angel could we see The God that is within us! The old Greek serenity Which curbs the passion of that level line Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes And chastened limbs ride round Athena's shrine And mirror her divine economies, And balanced symmetry of what in man Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the span Between our mother's kisses and the grave Might so inform our lives, that we could win Such mighty empires that from her cave Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin Would walk ashamed of his adulteries, And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled eyes. To make the Body and the Spirit one With all right things, till no thing live in vain From morn to noon, but in sweet unison With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain The Soul in flawless essence high enthroned, Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned, Mark with serene impartiality The strife of things, and yet be comforted, Knowing that by the chain causality All separate existences are wed Into one supreme whole, whose utterance Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance Of Life in most august omnipresence, Through which the rational intellect would find In passion its expression, and mere sense, Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind, And being joined with in harmony More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary, Strike from their several tones one octave chord Whose cadence being measureless would fly Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord Return refreshed with its new empery And more exultant power,—this indeed Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed. Ah! it was easy when the world was young To keep one's life free and inviolate, From our sad lips another song is rung, By our own hands our heads are desecrate, Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest. Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown, And of all men we are most wretched who Must live each other's lives and not our own For very pity's sake and then undo All that we live for—it was otherwise When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies. But we have left those gentle haunts to pass With weary feet to the new Calvary, Where we behold, as one who in a glass Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity, And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise. O smitten mouth! O forehead crowned with thorn! O chalice of all common miseries! Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne An agony of endless centuries, And we were vain and ignorant nor knew That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we slew. Being ourselves the sowers and the seeds, The night that covers and the lights that fade, The spear that pierces and the side that bleeds, The lips betraying and the life betrayed; The deep hath calm: the moon hath rest: but we Lords of the natural world are yet our own dread enemy. Is this the end of all that primal force Which, in its changes being still the same, From eyeless Chaos cleft its upward course, Through ravenous seas and whirling rocks and flame, Till the suns met in heaven and began Their cycles, and the morning stars sang, and the Word was Man! Nay, nay, we are but crucified and though The bloody sweat falls from our brows like rain, Loosen the nails—we shall come down I know, Staunch the red wounds—we shall be whole again, No need have we of hyssop-laden rod, That which is purely human, that is Godlike, that is God. |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Amos Date: 07 Sep 02 - 01:57 PM Boy!! Try publishing a poen that long in our ADD'led age. Wouldn't happen. A |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Peg Date: 07 Sep 02 - 06:13 PM true enough Amos. I could not even manage to get the spacing right!! I think a return to this sort of epic poetry writing would be a wondrous thing. I have known some attempts from time to time but they are usually self-indulgent doggerel or worse. Most of the poetic writing I see these days on any sort of scale seems to be in novels (A.S. Byatt for example). BTW quite a few lines from that poem have ended in my coven's rituals...
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Amos Date: 07 Sep 02 - 09:05 PM Wow!! I am wondering whether old Oscar W. would be dancing on his grave or spinning in it at the thought. Well, he was always inclined to explore breakthrough lifestyles, so probably the former! :>) Oh, I wanna be an Oscar Wild-type wienie.... ;>) love, A |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Peg Date: 08 Sep 02 - 12:22 AM I think he would approve Amos; the man who put the rituals together was a very flamboyantly gay man!
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Amos Date: 08 Sep 02 - 01:47 AM I loves ya, Peg. You know that, right? A |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Thomas the Rhymer Date: 08 Sep 02 - 02:52 AM Ah... the importance of being earnest... Well? and what about Dorian Grey? Yes, well Peg, I'll have to finnish the epic tomorrow, cause I always save the best for last! Thanks for posting it! ttr |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Mudlark Date: 08 Sep 02 - 03:17 AM Have you tried the research desk at your local library? I was amazed when the librarian at my little rural library was able to come up with a poem for me just from a phrase I'd seen written on a wall in a movie: "Angels keep their ancient places, Turn but a stone and start a wing." It took her less than 5 minutes to find it in a huge research desk type tome full of first lines, quotable lines, etc. from a vast array of poetry. (This one was by Francis Thomas, and the quatrain ends..."Tis ye, tis your estranged faces, That miss the many-splendored thing." |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Kate Date: 08 Sep 02 - 03:32 AM Libraries are very good for that. I know that in Essex there's a phone service called Answers Direct and they seem to have an answer for pretty much anything. Maybe you could try that? |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: GUEST Date: 08 Sep 02 - 11:57 AM Catalogued elegance by the row Organised eloquence in the know Drama toned exagerants just say no Initiates and relevance for to grow ttr
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: MAG Date: 08 Sep 02 - 07:18 PM You need a library with Granger's Poetry Index in the CD format, so you don't have to search through all the different volumes. It's spendy, so my library doesn't have it; above poster is right; most larger libraries have a phone reference service with people sitting at a bank of tools. They even have a listserv called "Stumpers" (used by many others of us)where these specialists pool their knowledge. Good luck. Sounds lovely. MAG |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 09 Sep 02 - 03:51 AM Wow I am stunned by all these replies as I get back to work today!!! Thanks so much. .... but alas no luck yet with the lines. I also found the Sylvia Plath but it's not the one he's after. He swears blind that these are the correct lines but can't remember the author or title I'm trying to track down someone who might have the Chadwyk Healey Poetry Online access but it's very expensive and well out of my library budget. Anyway if anyone out there fancies still trying to solve this one I'd be very grateful. Loved the Oscar Wilde one - pity it wasn't the one I was after. Thanks again Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Jeanie Date: 09 Sep 02 - 04:46 AM I've been racking my brains ever since you posted this, Sarah, because the lines seem familiar to me, but like everyone else, have so far not been able to find them. This may turn out to be a total red herring, but I have a feeling they come from a poem in an anthology I had as an 'A' Level set book way back in 1971 (hence the vague memory !) called : "A Book of Commonwealth Poetry" and it is a poem called, I think, "A Field in Winter" which may or may not be by Thom Gunn. I've tried searching Google for that book and for that title and lines under Thom Gunn - and no result. If your school hangs on to its stock of (very) old set books, you may well be able to check it out, or from a library. It was set by London Exam Board for 'A'Level, and I have a hunch that's where this poem may be found. All the best, - jeanie
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Brian Hoskin Date: 09 Sep 02 - 07:05 AM I did a quick check for books of commonwealth poetry of around that vintage and came up with: O'Donnell, M. (Ed) (1963) An Anthology of Commonwealth Verse London: Blackie. Sergeant, H. (Ed) (1967) Commonwealth Poems of Today London: The English Association. Sergeant, H. (Ed) (1968) New Voices of the Commonwealth London: Evans Brothers. Wollman and Spencer (Eds) (1966) Modern Poems for the Commonwealth London: Harrap. Might any of these be the book that Jeanie is trying to recall, that might just have the illusive poem? Brian |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 09 Sep 02 - 07:30 AM Jeanie This is fantastic! I've passed on the info and the english teacher reckons that it probably is this poem. I've spent hours combing thru our anthologies but to no avail. Tried Thomas Gunn but no luck there. We reckon it maybe RS Thomas so I'm hunting him down now. Brian Thanks for the anthology info Don't spose anyone out there has any of these on their shelves???? Thanks so much for your help Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Peg Date: 09 Sep 02 - 10:09 AM I just had a thought. Wouldn't it be wonderful for an unsung poet to know that someday, somewhere, perhaps long after her or his death, someone who loved their work would expend so much energy trying to find one of their poems, and had just a few select lines burning like a beacon in their brains to light the way to the poem itself? Who says we have to die?
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Jeanie Date: 09 Sep 02 - 02:47 PM Well, Sarah, if your English teacher colleague remembers this anthology, this could well be the home straight ! Of the anthologies that Brian listed, "Commonwealth Poems of Today" rings the most bells with me. I've found it advertised as available for 1.25 at Biff Books & Records of Sheffield: www.btinternet.com/~biffbooks/poetry.htm I suppose there's little use checking with the London Exam Board - they are now the much dreaded Edexcel !! It certainly sounds as though it could have been R.S.Thomas. As I remember, it describes a bare landscape, somebody fires a gun in the distance which sets the small group of birds flying, then all is still again. I've been out to the Aladdin's cave of my shed, hunting through files and folders - found essays on Chaucer: Troilus and Criseyde, Under Milk Wood, Power and the Glory and nearly all other set books - but *not* this anthology, or even confirmation of its title ! It was a wonderful anthology of poems. I wonder if your teacher who is looking for this poem also remembers the one in it about the pomegranate, and what it would be like to be inside a pomegranate before it is cut open ? And the one called Faith Healing ? There were some more well-known ones, too, like "An Arundel Tomb".Oh, and I've just remembered another one: "Blood Donors". As well as the poets and their words living on, Peg, I was having similar thoughts today about the teachers who open their students' eyes to poetry and create lasting experiences and memories of the beauty of words. I've been picturing my English teacher, Miss Stewart, long-since left this world, looking down and having a wry smile to herself that maybe her efforts on my account weren't totally in vain. Very interested to hear how this search progresses. - jeanie
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sorcha Date: 09 Sep 02 - 03:13 PM Man, there is a LOT of R.S. Thomas poetry on line, but I didn't find that one (if is him)....... |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Willa Date: 09 Sep 02 - 06:40 PM I think Jeanie is right; I knew it was familiar, and think I saw it in a school text, though I'm not sure it was'A' level - I almost think there was a picture above the poem. I've had a look through my selection, but with no luck; very tantalising! |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 10 Sep 02 - 03:35 AM The hunt continues..... thanks so much for your help catters. I'll update on any progress I make today! Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 10 Sep 02 - 04:50 PM Alas nothing new but refreshing this ..... just in case Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: GUEST,Glade Date: 10 Sep 02 - 09:18 PM umm, Sarah, I don't suppose something nice and uplifting by Rod McKuen or Helen Steiner Rice could fill the bill? How about some really, really funny Shel Silverstein or Ogden Nash lines? NO? It's this wild rook chase or nothin' huh? Argh! I've been searching since your first (other) posting with no luck for your prof's needs. In a sense, I've been very lucky having found acres of great poetry by Plath, Hughes,Thomas, & Gunn plus a Welsh magazine site. will keep looking. Glade |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 11 Sep 02 - 03:39 AM Thanks Glade - we've now put out a request via The poetry Library lost quotations and I'm checking out BiffBooks. Persistance will pay off in the end I'm sure.... I'll let everyone out there know if I get there first! Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Brian Hoskin Date: 11 Sep 02 - 04:19 AM If it's not R.S. or Dylan Thomas, might it possibly be Edward Thomas? Warning: this isn't based on informed opinion, it's just a (wild) guess! Best of luck in the continuing hunt. Brian |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Stilly River Sage Date: 11 Sep 02 - 03:36 PM I hope this appears in some kind of shape to read. It's a bunch of entries from a search on WorldCat. I didn't find anything with the lines of the poem, but I found book titles that kind of sound right, and poetry by person/s named Thom Gunn.
SRS
_________
Books with names that sound kind of like what you're looking for:
Verse and voice : a festival of poetry : Poems and ballads of the Commonwealth at the Royal Court Theatre
Fiction, drama & poetry from the Commonwealth.
The benevolence of laughter : comic poetry of the Commonwealth and Restoration /
The poetry of the commonwealth of English /
Books of poetry by people named Thom Gunn:
My sad captains, and other poems.
2. Moly, and My sad captains.
3. To the air. 4. Selected poems of Fulke Greville;
5. Positives.
6. Touch.
7. Fighting terms.
8. Moly.
9. Poems, 1950-1966: a selection.
10. Selected poems of Fulke Greville;
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Stilly River Sage Date: 11 Sep 02 - 03:38 PM P.S. My WorldCat session timed out while I was editing in the html in Notepad following cut and paste operations to get this much--there were 73 total entries that might qualify on the query for "Thom Gunn." This was just the first 10. Does your local library have access to OCLC or WorldCat? SRS
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 12 Sep 02 - 03:41 AM My local Library is stink!!! My library here at the College has a better stock. Unfortunately Surrey in the UK doesn't believe in proper funding for libraries but thanks for your help Stilly. I'll check out the references elsewhere and see what comes up.... I feel the answer to this is SO within reach!!!! Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Jeanie Date: 12 Sep 02 - 04:31 AM Have you managed to order "Commonwealth Poems of Today" from Biffbooks of Sheffield yet, Sarah ? As this source also seemed familiar to your English teacher, enquiring after this poem, I reckon this is your best bet. The poems are divided into sections of the various Commonwealth countries - Pretty sure this one is in the British section - Unless I'm very mistaken its title is "A Field in Winter" - Fairly long poem, takes up a full left-hand page and maybe 10 lines on the right-hand. I can picture the shape of it. To avoid your going on any wild goose chases, some of the anthologies of "Commonwealth" poetry refer to the period of 17th century English history, and not what you're looking for. Looking forward to hearing that your copy has arrived from Sheffield ! - jeanie |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Micca Date: 12 Sep 02 - 06:56 AM Oh I am a bold Librarian Tune :Warwickshire RHA" Oh I am a bold Librarian And I search dusty tomes all day Till a sudden thought came to my mind A "winter" poem to say I searched upon the World wide web And in all the reference books To find a poem that does include "sets flying fifteen rooks" so hurrah for the "References in verse" and the "books in Print " such fun I'm researching RS Thomas And some more by the poet Thom Gunn And I leave behind my well thumbed tomes I'm on Mudcat and whats more I'm sure someone there will come up trumps As They always have before! |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 12 Sep 02 - 07:19 AM Oh you have missed your vocation Micca!!! I'll get them to do that one in class instead!.... Hmmm wonder what the analysis will find!!! Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Brian Hoskin Date: 16 Sep 02 - 09:58 AM Any more news on your poem hunt? |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 17 Sep 02 - 03:38 AM Alas no luck. Got a reply from Biff books but it's not in that anthology. He's hunted around too but no luck anywhere. Have got the Poetry Library at the Festival Hall onto the case but no luck yet either..... One day.... Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Greyeyes Date: 20 Jul 04 - 10:44 AM Posted the poem to the original thread. Jeanie alerted me to this subsequent thread. I'm sure it's much too late to be of any use but just for interest. |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 20 Jul 04 - 11:05 AM You are SUCH STARS!!!!! I can't believe after all this time someone remembered. Thanks so much both Greyeyes and Jeanie that is amazing. I am totally stunned! Will pass the text and the link onto my colleague in the English Dept. Alas too late indeed for this year - we broke up about 10 days ago but he will probably make use of it next year. Thanks so much - isn't the mudcat just wonderful! Sarah |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Uncle_DaveO Date: 20 Jul 04 - 11:33 AM I Googled "'sets flying'" and "rooks", and got this site, called The Poetry of Reciprocity: CLICK HERE FOR SITE Dave Oesterreich |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Sarah the flute Date: 21 Jul 04 - 05:36 AM It must have only got www ed fairly recently cos when I tried it originally we had no luck at all. What a find tho' and I am just so amazed anyone remembered this thread. A very grateful Sarah! |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Greyeyes Date: 21 Jul 04 - 05:41 AM Didn't so much remember as stumble across it Sarah. Just Googled it out of interest. When I was at library school we were given a very rough estimate of how many files are added to and deleted from the net daily. Even back in the early 90s it was a staggering figure, so it's always worth revisiting sources that have previously drawn a blank. |
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Subject: RE: Calling All Librarians and Poets From: Ellenpoly Date: 22 Jul 04 - 04:38 AM SOrry, I didn't have time to read the whole thread, and by now you probably have this, but here are both those quotes in the poem below..xx..e By Charles Tomlinson Winter-Piece You wake, all windows blind - embattled sprays grained on the medieval glass. Gates snap like gunshot as you handle them. Five-barred fragility sets flying fifteen rooks who go together silently ravenous above this winter-piece that will not feed them. They alight beyond, scavenging, missing everything but the bladed atmosphere, the white resistance. Ruts with iron flanges track through a hard decay where you discern once more oak-leaf by hawthorn, for the frost rewhets their edges. In a perfect web blanched along each spoke and circle of its woven wheel, the spider hangs, grasp unbroken and death-masked in cold. Returning you see the house glint-out behind its holed and ragged glaze, frost-fronds all streaming. |
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