megustaleer

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone. There Will Come Soft Rains - Sara Teasdale

St George was out walking He met a dragon on a hill, It was wise and wonderful Too glorious to kill It slept amongst the wild thyme Where the oxlips and violets grow Its skin was a luminous fire That made the English landscape glow Its tears were England’s crystal rivers Its breath the mist on England’s moors Its larder was England’s orchards, Its house was without doors St George was in awe of it It was a thing apart He hid the sleeping dragon Inside every English heart So on this day let’s celebrate England’s valleys full of light, The green fire of the landscape Lakes shivering with delight Let’s celebrate St George’s Day, The dragon in repose; The brilliant lark ascending, The yew, the oak, the rose The True Dragon - Brian Patten

Between the brown hands of a server-lad The silver cross was offered to be kissed. The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad, And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced. (And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.) Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had, (And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.) Young children came, with eager lips and glad. (These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.) Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte. Above the crucifix I bent my head: The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead: And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling. (I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.) Maundy Thursday - Wilfred Owen

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost. The Enkindled Spring - D.H. Lawrence

One for St Patrick's Day When things go wrong and will not come right Though you do the best you can When life looks black as the hour of night A pint of plain is your only man When money's tight and hard to get And your horse has also ran When all you have is a heap of debt A pint of plain is your only man When health is bad and your heart feels strange And your face is pale and wan When doctors say you need a change A pint of plain is your only man When food is scarce and your larder bare And no rashers grease your pan When hunger grows as your meals are rare A pint of plain is your only man In time of trouble and lousy strife You have still got a darling plan You still can turn to a brighter life A pint of plain is your only man The Workman’s Friend - Flann O’Brien

And one for Shrove Tuesday, by Christina Rossetti: Mix a pancake, Mix a pancake, Stir a pancake, Pop it in the pan; Fry the pancake, Toss the pancake— Catch it if you can.

A bit of Dylan Thomas for St David's Day Here In This Spring Here in this spring, stars float along the void; Here in this ornamental winter Down pelts the naked weather; This summer buries a spring bird. Symbols are selected from the years' Slow rounding of four seasons' coasts, In autumn teach three seasons' fires And four birds' notes. I should tell summer from the trees, the worms Tell, if at all, the winter's storms Or the funeral of the sun; I should learn spring by the cuckooing, And the slug should teach me destruction. A worm tells summer better than the clock, The slug's a living calendar of days; What shall it tell me if a timeless insect Says the world wears away?

A few days late with this, but for those with leftover haggis still to eat, here are the first three stanzas of the traditional Burns Night greeting on its arrival at the table Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Address To A Haggis - Robert Burns

BGO is still struggling on, but there are still only a few remaining members posting with any sort of regularity. The admin who attempted a rescue is still minded to continue, but how the situation can be improved is beyond me. I expect I will be one of the few who remain until the end.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. Alfred, Lord Tennyson - 'Ring Out, Wild Bells'

All my undone actions wander naked across the calendar, a band of skinny hunter-gatherers, blown snow scattered here and there, stumbling toward a future folded in the New Year I secure with a pushpin: January’s picture a painting from the 17th century, a still life: Skull and mirror, spilled coin purse and a flower. December 31st - Richard Hoffman

BC : AD by U.A. Fanthorpe This was the moment when Before Turned into After, and the future's Uninvented timekeepers presented arms. This was the moment when nothing Happened. Only dull peace Sprawled boringly over the earth. This was the moment when even energetic Romans Could find nothing better to do Than counting heads in remote provinces. And this was the moment When a few farm workers and three Members of an obscure Persian sect. Walked haphazard by starlight straight Into the kingdom of heaven.

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock 'Now they are all on their knees.' An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease. We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kneeling then. So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! Yet I feel, If someone said on Christmas Eve, 'Come, see the oxen kneel.' IN the lonely barton by yonder coomb Our childhood used to know I should g with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so. The Oxen - Thomas Hardy

There have been so many poems written to celebrate Christmas, and so little opportunity to share them. Here is a thread for sharing your favourite seasonal poems (Advent and Christmas now, obviously, but poems for other seasons as the calendar prompts us) As we are now in Advent and public places are now, or about to be, gaily decorated in anticipation of Christmas, I give you the seasonally appropriate first half of Christmas by John Betjeman The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught the streaks of winter rain In many a stained-glass window sheen From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green. The holly in the windy hedge And round the Manor House the yew Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge, The altar, font and arch and pew, So that the villagers can say 'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day. Provincial Public Houses blaze, Corporation tramcars clang, On lighted tenements I gaze, Where paper decorations hang, And bunting in the red Town Hall Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'. And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky. As we are now in Advent and public places are now, or about to be, gaily decorated, I give you the seasonally appropriate first half of Christmas by John Betjeman

Louder than gulls the little children scream Whom fathers haul into the jovial foam; But others fearlessly rush in, breast high, Laughing the salty water from their mouthes-- Heroes of the nursery. The horny boatman, who has seen whales And flying fishes, who has sailed as far As Demerara and the Ivory Coast, Will warn them, when they crowd to hear his tales, That every ocean smells of tar. The Beach - Robert Graves