May 13th Poetry Newsletter

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POETRY GROUP NEWSLETTER
MAY 13TH 2020


TOPICS FROM MAY 5th  GROUP


Damian did a sterling job of telling us about Francis Ledwidge and his historical context that I intend to add just a few titbits that may entertain people.

The link below is a link to his obituary in the Cornhill Magazine. 
https://archive.org/details/n726cornhillmag121londuoft/page/696/mode/2up  

There is an Irish  museum dedicated to him. Their website is below.
http://www.francisledwidge.com/

Finally, the link below will take you to the Century Ireland ( an online magazine of Irish History) site about him which contains a link to a Irish television programme on him which is available to watch on You Tube and not only interesting but the country side looks so very lovely in our present confinement.
https://www.rte.ie/centuryireland/index.php/articles/the-life-and-death-of-francis-ledwidge

EXTRA POEM

The Flower
How fresh, oh Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shriveled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite underground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown,
                      Where they together
                      All the hard weather,
         Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

         These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell
         And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
                      We say amiss
                      This or that is:
         Thy word is all, if we could spell.

         Oh that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
         Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither;
                      Nor doth my flower
                      Want a spring shower,
         My sins and I joining together.

         But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own,
         Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone
                      Where all things burn,
                      When thou dost turn,
         And the least frown of thine is shown?

         And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
         I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. Oh, my only light,
                      It cannot be
                      That I am he
         On whom thy tempests fell all night.

         These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
         Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;
                      Who would be more,
                      Swelling through store,
         Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

George Herbert
1593–1633


   I’m not absolutely sure why I chose him, perhaps because there was no clear single reason- I remember singing his hymns at school, I’ve always loved him and Donne who have many differences and many similarities, and he has associations with Little Gidding and Nicholas Farrarr when we come to finish our T S Eliot epic voyage . And maybe because I look forward to the frost fading and the flower’s return in our present circumstances.


FINALLY

Liz has chosen the poem.
Best Wishes
Elizabeth




Comments

  1. Anonymous12 May 2020 at 11:05

    How amazing to see a George Herbert Poem. I have a book of his poems (The Temple) in old English given to me in 1969 by a very religious friend at University. I will now revisit these. Barbara

    ReplyDelete

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