Quizzes & Puzzles32 mins ago
October Is National Poetry Month
35 Answers
Here's one I like.
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Answers
I checked the linkIt wasn't thereNot to worryI don't care.
15:51 Thu 26th Oct 2023
Naming Of Parts Poem by Henry Reed (internetpoem.com)
While we wait for sandyRoe to find his poem, this is one that I have, for a long time, liked. Sorry that I can't provide a direct link to the poem, but something has gone wrong in that regard since AB introduced the new-style answer box.
Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica.
Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.
Another for October.
October
by Robert Frost
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
To-morrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
To-morrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow,
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know;
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away;
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes' sake along the wall.
The Listeners
BY WALTER DE LA MARE
‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Foreign
I hope I didn't wake you, Dad
We're several hours ahead
The weather's really boiling here
Too hot to stay in bed
I don't need any money, Dad
I knew that's what you'd think!
And just before you dare to ask
I've not been on the drink!
There's something I must tell you, Dad
You probably won't like it
If you can find a balance here
Then, be a pal and strike it
I've got myself a girlfriend, Dad
She's clever and she's pretty
She's from a little country town
And doesn't like the city
I met her on safari, Dad
Her father is a prince
She took me to his birthday bash
We haven't seen him since
We're going to get married, Dad
But not in any hurry
We're always really careful, so
You really needn't worry
She really is a stunner, Dad
Just like a beauty queen
She's tall and slim and sweet and...tall
The like you've never seen
So there you go, that's all my news
And Mum will love her, really
We'll see you both for Easter, Dad
Please try and learn Swahili
Mens sana in corpore sano.
You realise you might be getting on,
With pain in every limb, the rheumatiz
Has gotcha: my embracing of the damp
Has consequences: in life's marathon.
The goods acquire attendant damages,
And every twing, and every stomach cramp
Impinging on a life of sweet repose,
Recalls our younger selves, and how life goes.
My father had a sudden, natural death,
And shoved off, like á ship gone in the night:
He had the right idea, and his last breath
He gave up willingly, without a fight.
So, shape the life, and then be sure it fits
Around a body moulded by sharp wits.
Jim McCool
I love this one:
Digging
Launch Audio in a New Window
BY SEAMUS HEANEY
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
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