posted on July 29, 2000 06:41:16 PM
Since we're on the subject of poetry, I would like to add one of my own, which is very personal to me.
My Face
My one half is joyous and clear and light,
My other is dark and likes the night.
Hide under a veil or face the sun,
Strangers ask me "what have you done?"
It's red, it's dark, it's bright, it's there,
I wish I could hide it with my hair.
You think it's a scar, a bruise, a burn.
Why won't people ever learn?
They stare, they point, they laugh, they heckle.
Can't they see, it's only a freckle.
A spot that's known by many names.
Like "birthmark" or even "port-wine-stain".
Don't say "omygosh" or "Ew, what's that?"
It makes me feel as small as a gnat.
So please be polite when you ask me why
I have this redness around my eye.
I'll explain it, straight out, that'll be the end
Then we can move on and become friends.
The poem you posted is called "Little Boy Blue" by Eugene Field. I learned this poem from my grandfather. You left out one verse toward the end. Here again is the poem in its entirety. It is very touching.
LITTLE BOY BLUE
By Eugene Field
The Little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And the musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of his pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue--
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place--
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.
posted on July 30, 2000 03:24:28 AM
Thanks guys. I was feeling nostalgic last night. That poem was written 3 years ago, in one of those ~low~ times. For the most part, people are pretty good, but it's amazing how outright rude some people can be.
posted on August 1, 2000 06:10:58 AMFern Hill is one of my favorite Dylan Thomas poems.
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
posted on August 1, 2000 09:48:28 AM
Hi, Dan - I've got a CD of Dylan Thomas reading Fern Hill, as well as A Child's Christmas in Wales and other selections...wonderful.
Here's one I wrote for my friend who loves to read poetry aloud...not among my best, but this thread reminds me of him.
My friend sings softly by firelight
His voice dispels the distant gloom of night.
What poetry is this you bring tonight?
Verses from an age passed long ago,
My friend sings softly by the firelight
Time ticking backward where we want to go.
He sings of love we lost and found anew,
Of knights who for the maiden fair would fight
And ever steadfast, ever brave and true
His voice dispels the distant gloom of night.
Our sad real life can find no quarter here
It moans estrangement in another room
He, warm within the deepening firelight
Dispels the certain demons of the night.
One day when we have come to paradise
Our wings unchained by time and free of flight
Then we will have eternity to sit
Softly reading verses by the light
For now we have these moments in our sight
Sweet in their rarity and hard forgot
Held in the hand a moment, then held not -
Fluttering in the heart as pure delight -
My friend sings softly by firelight
His voice dispels the certain gloom of night.
Ok, one more, not really a poem but a musing, written for a dear friend of mine who was in a great deal of pain...
Silently the minutes gobble hours
Days pass unrecognized
Weeks trip into years
Time passes…
She brushes regret from
Her long, blond hair
Holding the world at bay
With a welcoming laugh.
And the little girls dance around her
Claiming one of their own
Daisy chain of innocent faces
One would freeze in time if given the power.
The nightmares come
in the earliest morning
serpents of fear, pain, doubt
self-loathing --
And she throws herself
Toward Calgary
Salving her wounds
Through His…
And she brushes the night
From her hair like cobwebs
Painting hope with a
Bright red mouth.
The little girls
Throw their arms around her
Wanting mothers they
Have never known as well
Time passes…
I saw her in her 46th year
Walking on the beach
On an overcast day
A gaggle of giggly girls in her wake,
The white foam ebbing and flowing…
And she had become so beautiful:
Her eyes tinged with pain and lit with hope
Her long hair streaming behind her
Her hands asking shyly for more
Her shoulders set against wanting too much…
She turns and smiles,
Her hands brushing time and sand
From her hair,
She is Magdalene and Mary in that moment --
She whose tears have washed His feet --
An illusion? Or is that the hand of God
Curved protectively around her?
Is that His voice or my own:
Pass gently here, for she has suffered much…
posted on August 1, 2000 04:03:50 PM
Not so complex but nice imagery and perspective, Diana. I'm always appreciative of original creations on the boards.
