THE HAIKU PAGE

at the second tee

the sparrows are fluttering

in the sprinkler's spray

Sunday morning

a howling dog competes

with the church bells

the moon keeps dodging

out of sight

behind the storm clouds

pulling petals off

he loves me he loves me not - 

best out of three?

-o=0=o-

The new blog begins tomorrow

SCENES OF EVERYDAY LIFE IN ART

http://scenesofeverydaylifeinart.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

SATURDAY WITH THOMAS HARDY

IN THE SERVANTS' QUARTERS

"Man, you too, aren't you, one of these rough followers of the criminal?

All hanging hereabout to gather how he's going to bear

Examination in the hall." She flung disdainful glances on

The shabby figure standing at the fire with others there,

Who warmed them by its flare.

"No indeed, my skipping maiden: I know nothing of the trial here,

Or criminal, if so he be. I chanced to come this way,

And the fire shone out into the dawn, and morning airs are cold now;

I, too, was drawn in part by charms I see before me play,

That I see not every day."

"Ha, ha!" then laughed the constables who also stood to warm themselves,

The while another maiden scrutinised his features hard,

As the blaze threw into contrast every line and knot that wrinkled them,

Exclaiming, "Why, last night when he was brought in by the guard,

You were with him in the yard!"

"Nay, nay, you teasing wench, I say! You know you speak mistakenly.

Cannot a tired pedestrian who has footed it afar

Here on his way from northern parts, engrossed in humble marketings,

Come in and rest awhile, although judicial doings are

Afoot by morning star?"

"O, come, come!" laughed the constables. "Why, man, you speak the dialect

He uses in his answers; you can hear him up the stairs.

So own it. We shan't hurt ye. There he's speaking now! His syllables

Are those you sound yourself when you are talking unawares,

As this pretty girl declares."

"And you shudder when his chain clinks!" she rejoined. "O yes, I noticed it.

And you winced, too, when those cuffs they gave him echoed to us here.

They'll soon be coming down, and you may then have to defend yourself

Unless you hold your tongue, or go away and keep you clear

When he's led to judgement near!"

"No! I'll be damned in hell if I know anything about the man!

No single thing about him more than everybody knows!

Must not I even warm my hands but I am charged with blasphemies?" 

. . . 

His face convulses as the morning cock that moment crows,

And he stops, and turns, and goes.

A New Art Blog begins on Monday 1st August  - SCENES OF EVERYDAY LIFE IN ART

http://scenesofeverydaylifeinart.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

A New Art Blog begins on Monday 1st August

SCENES OF EVERYDAY LIFE IN ART

http://scenesofeverydaylifeinart.blogspot.com

THE LISTENERS

Walter de la Mare 1873-1958

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grass

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:

Aye, 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. 

-o=0=o-

A New Art Blog begins on Monday 1st August

SCENES OF EVERYDAY LIFE IN ART

http://scenesofeverydaylifeinart.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

I'M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU?

Emily Dickinson 1830-86

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

-o=0=o-

THE ROSE

Amanda McBroom b.1947

Some say love, it is a river

That drowns the tender reed.

Some say love, it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed.

Some say love, it is a hunger,

An endless aching need.

I say love, it is a flower,

And you it's only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance.

It's the dream afraid of waking

That never takes the chance.

It's the one who won't be taken,

Who cannot seem to give,

And the soul afraid of dying

That never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been to long,

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong,

Just remember in the winter

Far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed that with the sun's love

In the spring becomes the rose.

-o=0=o-

GIFTS

James Thomson 1834-82

Give a man a horse he can ride, 

         Give a man a boat he can sail; 

And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, 

         On sea nor shore shall fail. 

Give a man a pipe he can smoke, 

         Give a man a book he can read: 

And his home is bright with a calm delight, 

         Though the room be poor indeed. 

Give a man a girl he can love, 

         As I, O my love, love thee; 

And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, 

         At home, on land, on sea. 

-o=0=o-

CASABIANCA

Felicia Dorothea Hemans 1793-1835

The boy stood on the burning deck

  Whence all but he had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

  Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

  As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

  A proud, though childlike form.

The flames rolled on - he would not go

  Without his Father's word;

That father, faint in death below,

  His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud "say, Father, say

  If yet my task is done?"

He knew not that the chieftain lay

  Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once again he cried,

  "If I may yet be gone!"

And but the booming shots replied,

  And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

  And in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death

  In still yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,

  "My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

  The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,

  They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,

  Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound - 

   The boy - oh! where was he?

Ask of the winds that far around

  With fragments strewed the sea! -

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

  That well had borne their part-

But the noblest thing which perished there

  Was that young faithful heart.

Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old was the son of the admiral of the Orient. He remained at his post in the Battle of the Nile, after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned. He died in the explosion of the ship when the flames reached the powder.

-o=0=o-

THE HAIKU PAGE

sunset at the pier
the creaking of timbers
wind in the rigging

at the dolls' party 

we sit on the grass

drinking invisible tea

trailing in the stream

the willow branches gently

sway in the current

Of course this is not a haiku. It has 9 lines and each of them has 4 syllables. Just a bit of fun!

sitting alone
at the party
in a corner
during a lull
this is my chance
I clear my throat
they turn to me
I hesitate
I say nothing

-o=0=o-

SATURDAY WITH THOMAS HARDY

A HOUSE WITH A HISTORY

There is a house in a city street

Some past ones made their own;

Its floors were criss-crossed by their feet,

And their babblings beat

From ceiling to white hearth-stone.

And who are peopling its parlours now?

Who talk across its floor?

Mere freshlings are they, blank of brow,

Who read not how

Its prime had passed before

Their raw equipments, scenes, and says

Afflicted its memoried face,

That had seen every larger phase

Of human ways

Before these filled the place.

To them that house's tale is theirs,

No former voices call

Aloud therein. Its aspect bears

Their joys and cares

Alone, from wall to wall.

-o=0=o-

SHE SAW A MAN ON TELEVISION

Sophia White

She saw a man on television

In a suit and tie

And he wore a fine felt hat

Cocked over his eye.

She saw him sing and whistle

And dance a little step

And she wished the men today

Would not be so unkempt.

She saw a man on television

Woo a pretty lass

With smiles, winks, and daffodils,

And diamonds made of glass.

She saw him tip his hat to her

And offer her his arm

And lead her to the dance floor

With gentlemanly charm.

She saw a man on television

Smile with easy grace

And wished that she could find a man

With such an honest face.

But she knew that man on television

Was a dying breed

And suits and ties and tall felt hats

Had all grown obsolete.

-o=0=o-

TIME OF ROSES

Thomas Hood 1799-`1845

It was not in the Winter

 Our loving lot was cast;

It was the time of roses - 

 We pluck’d them as we pass’d!

That churlish season never frown’d

 On early lovers yet:

O no - the world was newly crown’d

 With flowers when first we met!

’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,

 But still you held me fast;

It was the time of roses - 

 We pluck’d them as we pass’d!

-o=0=o-

THE DRINKING SONG

J.R.R. Tolkien 1892-1973

Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go

To heal my heart and drown my woe.

Rain may fall and wind may blow,

And many miles be still to go

But under a tall tree I will lie,

And let the clouds go sailing by.

-o=0=o-

THE LICORICE FIELDS AT PONTEFRACT

John Betjeman 1906-2084

In the licorice fields at Pontefract

My love and I did meet

And many a burdened licorice bush

Was blooming round our feet;

Red hair she had and golden skin,

Her sulky lips were shaped for sin,

Her sturdy legs were flannel-slack'd

The strongest legs in Pontefract.

The light and dangling licorice flowers

Gave off the sweetest smells;

From various black Victorian towers

The Sunday evening bells

Came pealing over dales and hills

And tanneries and silent mills

And lowly streets where country stops

And little shuttered corner shops.

She cast her blazing eyes on me

And plucked a licorice leaf;

I was her captive slave and she

My red-haired robber chief.

Oh love! for love I could not speak,

It left me winded, wilting, weak,

And held in brown arms strong and bare

And wound with flaming ropes of hair.

-o=0=o-

ABSENCE

Robert Bridges 1844=1930

When my love was away, 

Full three days were not sped, 

I caught my fancy astray 

Thinking if she were dead, 

And I alone, alone: 

It seem'd in my misery 

In all the world was none 

Ever so lone as I. 

I wept; but it did not shame 

Nor comfort my heart: away 

I rode as I might, and came 

To my love at close of day. 

The sight of her still'd my fears, 

My fairest-hearted love: 

And yet in her eyes were tears: 

Which when I question'd of, 

"O now thou art come," she cried, 

''Tis fled: but I thought to-day 

I never could here abide, 

If thou wert longer away."

-o=0=o-

THE HAIKU PAGE

between each wave
crashing on the rocks
a moment's respite

childhood memory

waking to the sounds and smells

of gaslit breakfasts

steam clearing slowly

from the bathroom mirror

an old face looks out

turning a corner

the redness of the poppies

field after field

-o=0=o-

SATURDAY WITH THOMAS HARDY

GREAT THINGS

Sweet cyder is a great thing,

A great thing to me,

Spinning down to Weymouth town

By Ridgway thirstily,

And maid and mistress summoning

Who tend the hostelry:

O cyder is a great thing,

A great thing to me!

The dance it is a great thing,

A great thing to me,

With candles lit and partners fit

For night-long revelry;

And going home when day-dawning

Peeps pale upon the lea:

O dancing is a great thing,

A great thing to me!

Love is, yea, a great thing,

A great thing to me,

When, having drawn across the lawn

In darkness silently,

A figure flits like one a-wing

Out from the nearest tree:

O love is, yes, a great thing,

A great thing to me!

Will these be always great things,

Great things to me? . . .

Let it befall that One will call,

"Soul, I have need of thee:"

What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings,

Love, and its ecstasy,

Will always have been great things,

Great things to me!

-o=0=o-

TO BLOSSOMS

Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay here yet a while,

To blush and gently smile;

And go at last.

What! Were ye born to be

An hour and half's delight;

And so to bid goodnight?

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth

Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave:

And after they have shown their pride

Like you a while, they glide

Into the grave.

-o=0=o-

ROMANCE

Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-94

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,

Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,

And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white

In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,

The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, that only you admire,

Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

-o=0=o-

I DO NOT LOVE THEE

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton 1808-76

I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!

And yet when thou art absent I am sad;

   And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,

Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,

Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:

   And often in my solitude I sigh

That those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,

I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)

   Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone

Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,

With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,

   Between me and the midnight heaven arise,

Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

-o=0=o-

MARY OLIVER b.1935

THE JOURNEY

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice -

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations _

though their melancholy

was terrible. It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice,

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do - determined to save

the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver is an American poet who has won the Pulitzer Prize (1984) and the National Book Award (1992).

o=0=o-

RUDYARD KIPLING 1865-1936

-o0o-

THE VAMPIRE

A fool there was and he made his prayer

(Even as you or I)

To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,

(We called her the woman who did not care)

But the fool he called her his lady fair -

(Even as you or I)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,

And the work of our head and hand

Belong to the woman who did not know

(And now we know that she never could know)

And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,

(Even as you or I)

Honour and faith and a sure intent

(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant)

But a fool must follow his natural bent

(Even as you or I)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost

And the excellent things we planned

Belong to the woman who didn't know why

(And now we know that she never knew why)

And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,

(Even as you or I)

Which she might have seen when she threw him aside - 

(But it isn't on record the lady tried)

So some of him lived but the most of him died - 

(Even as you or I)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame

That stings like a white-hot brand -

It's coming to know that she never knew why

(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)

And never could understand!

NOW ONLINE
LOVELY TO LOOK AT - DELIGHTFUL TO LISTEN TO
featuring Yuja  Wang the classical concert pianist
http://lovelytolookat-delightfultolistento.blogspot.com

-o=0=o-

THE HAIKU PAGE

the old house empty
our tiny footprints still there
on the concrete path

on the common

two old men among the boys

flying their kites

spring sunshine

the kitten and her shadow

lie down together

at our store of nuts

for the birds, a tiny mouse

scurrying away

-o=0=o-

SATURDAY WITH THOMAS HARDY

THE TORN LETTER

I tore your letter into strips

No bigger than the airy feathers

That ducks preen out in changing weathers

Upon the shifting ripple-tips.

In darkness on my bed alone

I seemed to see you in a vision,

And hear you say: "Why this derision

Of one drawn to you, though unknown?"

Yes, eve's quick mood had run its course,

The night had cooled my hasty madness;

I suffered a regretful sadness

Which deepened into real remorse.

I thought what pensive patient days

A soul must know of grain so tender,

How much of good must grace the sender

Of such sweet words in such bright phrase.

Uprising then, as things unpriced

I sought each fragment, patched and mended;

The midnight whitened ere I had ended

And gathered words I had sacrificed.

But some, alas, of those I threw

Were past my search, destroyed for ever:

They were your name and place; and never

Did I regain those clues to you.

I learnt I had missed, by rash unheed,

My track; that, so the Will decided,

In life, death, we should be divided,

And at the sense I ached indeed.

That ache for you, born long ago,

Throbs on; I never could outgrow it.

What a revenge, did you but know it!

But that, thank God, you do not know.

-o=0=o-

MAYA ANGELOU 1928-2014

Maya Angelou at York College of Pennsylvania, February 2013

Photo by York College ISLGP

-o0o-

STILL I RISE

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? 

Why are you beset with gloom? 

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? 

Bowed head and lowered eyes? 

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you? 

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you? 

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise

-o=0=o-

Born Marguerite Annie Johnson, this amazing American woman was an author, poet, dancer, actress and singer. She was also a producer and director of plays, films and TV programmes.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

INTERLUDE

Amy Lowell  1874-1925

When I have baked white cakes

And grated green almonds to spread upon them;

When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries

And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;

When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;

What then?

To-morrow it will be the same:

Cakes and strawberries,

And needles in and out of cloth.

If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,

How much more beautiful is the moon,

Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;

The moon,

Wavering across a bed of tulips;

The moon,

Still,

Upon your face.

You shine, Beloved,

You and the moon.

But which is the reflection?

The clock is striking eleven.

I think, when we have shut and barred the door,

The night will be dark

Outside.

-o=0=o-

INVENTORY

Dorothy Parker 1893-1967

Four be the things I am wiser to know:

Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I'd been better without:

Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:

Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:

Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.

-o=0=o-

GOING DOWNHILL ON A BICYCLE

(A Boy’s Song)

Henry Charles Beeching 1859-1919

With lifted feet, hands still,

I am poised, and down the hill

Dart, with heedful mind;

The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift,

Till the heart with a mighty lift

Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—

“O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

“Is this, is this your joy?

O bird, then I, though a boy,

For a golden moment share

Your feathery life in air!”

Say, heart, is there aught like this

In a world that is full of bliss?

‘Tis more than skating, bound

Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float

Awhile in my airy boat;

Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,

My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill

Must end in a vale; but still,

Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er,

Shall find wings waiting there.

-o=0=o-

SHE

Herbert Kretzmer b.1925

She may be the face I can't forget,

A trace of pleasure or regret

May be my treasure or the price

I have to pay.

She may be the song that summer sings,

May be the chill that autumn brings,

May be a hundred different things

Within the measure of a day.

She may be the beauty or the beast,

May be the famine or the feast,

May turn each day into a heaven

Or a hell.

She may be the mirror of my dream,

A smile reflected in a stream,

She may not be what she may seem

Inside her shell.

She who always seems so happy in a crowd

Whose eyes can be so private and so proud,

No-one's allowed to see them

When they cry.

She maybe the love that cannot hope to last,

May come to me from shadows of the past,

That I'll remember 'til

The day I die.

She may be the reason I survive,

The why and wherefore I'm alive,

The one I'll care for through the

Rough and rainy years.

Me, I'll take her laughter and her tears

And make them all my souvenirs,

For where she goes I've got to be,

The meaning of my life is she.

-o=0=o-

Read more: Charles Aznavour - She Lyrics | MetroLyrics 

THE HAIKU PAGE

the old house empty

our tiny footprints still there

on the concrete path

in the mirror shop

a dozen images

confirm my ageing

Sunday morning

my reflection follows me 

round the boating pond

three tin openers

lie mangled - defeated 

by a can of soup

-o=0=o-

SATURDAY WITH THOMAS HARDY

ON THE DOORSTEP

The rain imprinted the step's wet shine

With target-circles that quivered and crossed

As I was leaving this porch of mine;

When from within there swelled and paused

A song's sweet note;

And back I turned, and thought,

"Here I'll abide."

The step shines wet beneath the rain,

Which prints its circles as heretofore;

I watch them from the porch again,

But no song-notes within the door

Now call to me

To shun the dripping lea

And forth I stride.

-o=0=o-

ALL IN THE DOWNS

Tom Hood (The Younger) 1835-1874

I would I had something to do - or to think!

Or something to read, or to write!

I am rapidly verging on Lunacy’s brink,

Or I shall be dead before night.

In my ears has been ringing and droning all day,

Without ever a stop or a change,

That poem of Tennyson’s - heart-cheering lay! -

Of the Moated Monotonous Grange!

The stripes in the carpet and paper alike

I have counted, and counted all through.

And now I’ve a fervid ambition to strike

Out some path of wild pleasure that’s new.

They say if a number you count, and re-count,

That the time imperceptibly goes: -

Ah, I wish - how I wish! - I’d ne’er learnt the amount

Of my aggregate fingers and toes.

“Enjoyment is fleeting,” the proverbs all say,

“Even that, which it feeds upon, fails.”

I’ve arrived at the truth of the saying today,

By devouring the whole of my nails.

I have numbered the minutes, so heavy and slow,

Till of that dissipation I tire.

And as for exciting amusements - you know

One can’t ALWAYS be stirring the fire!

-o=0=o-