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Thread: Poetry

  1. #11
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    The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost


  2. #12
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    A Dream Within A Dream Edgar Allan Poe


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    I'm deeply touched.

  4. #14
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    Seamus Heaney born in Derry 13 April 1939, died in Dublin 30 August 2013

    A poet, a gentleman and a supporter of Tara. RIP Seamus x[+]x


    Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heaney

    I sat all morning in the college sick bay
    Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
    At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

    In the porch I met my father crying--
    He had always taken funerals in his stride--
    And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

    The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
    When I came in, and I was embarrassed
    By old men standing up to shake my hand

    And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
    Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
    Away at school, as my mother held my hand

    In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
    At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
    With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

    Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
    And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
    For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

    Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
    He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
    No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

    A four foot box, a foot for every year.

    Seamus Heaney, Tara.jpg
    'Not all who Wander are Lost'

  5. #15
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    Quote Originally Posted by Lulu View Post
    Seamus Heaney born in Derry 13 April 1939, died in Dublin 30 August 2013

    A poet, a gentleman and a supporter of Tara. RIP Seamus x[+]x

    Seamus Heaney, Tara.jpg


    Blackberry-Picking

    Late August, given heavy rain and sun
    For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
    At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
    Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
    You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
    Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
    Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
    Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
    Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
    Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
    Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
    We trekked and picked until the cans were full
    Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
    With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
    Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
    With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
    We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
    But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
    A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
    The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
    The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
    I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
    That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
    Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

    Seamus Heaney


    Family 'moved' by Seamus Heaney stamp - UTV Live News

    00096a7f-614.jpg
    'Not all who Wander are Lost'

  6. #16
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    In Blackwater Woods

    Look, the trees
    are turning
    their own bodies
    into pillars

    of light,
    are giving off the rich
    fragrance of cinnamon
    and fulfillment,

    the long tapers
    of cattails
    are bursting and floating away over
    the blue shoulders

    of the ponds,
    and every pond,
    no matter what its
    name is, is

    nameless now.
    Every year
    everything
    I have ever learned

    in my lifetime
    leads back to this: the fires
    and the black river of loss
    whose other side

    is salvation,
    whose meaning
    none of us will ever know.
    To live in this world

    you must be able
    to do three things:
    to love what is mortal;
    to hold it

    against your bones knowing
    your own life depends on it;
    and, when the time comes to let it go,
    to let it go.

    Mary Oliver
    Herb is a gift from the earth. And what's from the earth is of the greatest worth. So before you knock it, try it first. You'll see it's a blessing and it's not a curse.

  7. #17
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    Dublin in Words

    'Not all who Wander are Lost'

  8. #18
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    Six months, hundreds of poems and thousands of nominations, comments and votes later, the people have chosen their Poem for Ireland. At a ceremony in the Royal Irish Academy on Dawson Street on Wednesday March 11th 2015, President Michael D. Higgins announced that the people's chosen RTÉ A Poem For Ireland is Seamus Heaney's ‘When all the others were away at Mass’ [from Clearances in memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984]

    When all the others were away at Mass
    I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
    They broke the silence, let fall one by one
    Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
    Cold comforts set between us, things to share
    Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
    And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
    From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.

    So while the parish priest at her bedside
    Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
    And some were responding and some crying
    I remembered her head bent towards my head,
    Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives–
    Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

    [YouTube]https://youtu.be/1HoQSU3riZg[/youtube]


    *Why are none of the videos embedding anymore??
    Last edited by osprey; 03-26-2015 at 12:37 AM.
    'Not all who Wander are Lost'

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