Archive for ‘Relationships’

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

The Midsummer Wish by John Hawkesworth

O Phoebus! down the western sky
Far hence diffuse thy burning ray,
Thy light to distant worlds supply,
And wake them to the cares of day.

Come, gentle Eve, the friend of Care,
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night!
Refresh me with a cooling breeze,
And chear me with a lambent light.

Lay me where o’er the verdant ground
Her living carpet Nature spreads;
Where the green bower, with roses crown’d,
In showers its fragrant foliage sheds.

Improve the peaceful hour with wine,
Let music die along the grove;
Around the bowl let myrtles twine,
And every strain be tun’d to Love.

Come, STELLA, queen of all my heart!
Come, born to fill its vast desires!
Thy looks perpetual joys impart,
Thy voice perpetual love inspires.

While, all my wish and thine complete,
By turns we languish, and we burn,
Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,
Our murmurs murmuring brooks return.

Let me, when Nature calls to rest,
And blushing skies the morn foretell,
Sink on the down of STELLA’s breast,
And bid the waking world farewell.


Date: 1748

By: John Hawkesworth (c1715-1773)

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Woman the Barricades by Rachel Warriner

And so you say this
Like it means something
Those dark made words
Our left side
Much regarded
Oh my
Left none of that in

But then this was ever
About our reasons
Not made night broken
There is melancholy
She says proudly
Left boot

Pointing and pouting
We mark back friendly
Misjudging bores and idiots
There is nothing here
I can not strike it
No matter
too late for me now
Sigh, wail, yawn bed

Your people not mine
There is no fallacy
Our win leant
Scored and scoured
Feigning reluctance
So curly
Our more marks made lively
Our turn and tour.


Date: 2015

By: Rachel Warriner (19??- )

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

Lines on Retirement, After Reading “Lear” by David John Murray Wright

For Richard Pacholski

Avoid storms. And retirement parties.
You can’t trust the sweetnesses your friends will
offer, when they really want your office,
which they’ll redecorate. Beware the still
untested pension plan. Keep your keys. Ask
for more troops than you think you’ll need. Listen
more to fools and less to colleagues. Love your
youngest child the most, regardless. Back to
storms: dress warm, take a friend, don’t eat the grass,
don’t stand near tall trees, and keep the yelling
down—the winds won’t listen, and no one will
see you in the dark. It’s too hard to hear
you over all the thunder. But you’re not
Lear, except that we can’t stop you from what
you’ve planned to do. In the end, no one leaves
the stage in character—we never see
the feather, the mirror held to our lips.
So don’t wait for skies to crack with sun. Feel
the storm’s sweet sting invade you to the skin,
the strange, sore comforts of the wind. Embrace
your children’s ragged praise and that of friends.
Go ahead, take it off, take it all off.
Run naked into tempests. Weave flowers
into your hair. Bellow at cataracts.
If you dare, scream at the gods. Babble as
if you thought words could save. Drink rain like cold
beer. So much better than making theories.
We’d all come with you, laughing, if we could.


Date: 1992

By: David John Murray Wright (1920-1974)

Monday, 14 August 2017

Fading Beauty by Richard Abbot

Fading beauty, bending o’er thee,
Here before high heaven I swear,
Doubt me not, love, I adore thee,
Thou art still my joy and care.
Still devoted and unchanging,
Through all change my heart shall be,
Nor, through all my fancies ranging
Can it rest on aught but thee.

Fading beauty! nay, not fading,
‘Tis but change of loveliness,
And my heart needs no persuading,
To believe thy charms no less.
True, the rose is turning whiter,
True, thy locks are silvery now,
But thy loving eyes, once brighter,
Still with love to me o’erflow.

Fading beauty! still unfaded,
Still the charms of riper years
Keep the light of love unshaded,
While thy beauty brighter wears;
And, though time at length succeed in
Leading captive thee, my bride,
Shall not I the same path tread in,
Linked for ever by thy side?

From: Andrews, William (ed.), North Country Poets: Poems and Biographies of Natives or Residents of Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, Durham, Lancashire and Yorkshire, Volume 2, 1889, Simpkin, Marshall & Co: London, pp. 69-70.

Date: c1875

By: Richard Abbot (1818-1904)

Friday, 11 August 2017

Love’s Sustenance by Jorge de Montemor

With sorrow, tears, and discontent
Love his forces doth augment.
Water is to meads delight,
And the flax doth please the fire;
Oil in lamp agreeth right;
Green meads are all the flocks’ desire;
Ripening fruit and wheaty ears
With due heat are well content;
And with pains and many tears
Love his forces doth augment.

From: Bullen, A. H. (ed.), Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, from Romances and Prose-Tracts of the Elizabethan Age: with Chosen Poems of Nicholas Breton, 1890, John C. Nimmo: London, p. 52.

Date: c1559 (original in Spanish); 1598 (translation in English)

By: Jorge de Montemor (?1520-1561)

Translated by: Bartholomew Young (fl. 1577-1598)

Thursday, 10 August 2017

Song of Resentment by Ban Jieyu

Newly cut white silk from Qi,
Clear and pure as frost and snow.
Made into a fan for joyous trysts,
Round as the bright moon.
In and out of my lord’s cherished sleeve,
Waved back and forth to make a light breeze.
Often I fear the arrival of the autumn season,
Cool winds overcoming the summer heat.
Discarded into a box,
Affection cut off before fulfillment.


Date: 1st century BCE (original); 2002 (translation)

By: Ban Jieyu (c48-c6 BCE)

Translated by: David R. Knegtes (19??- )

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Neither Imitation nor Resemblance by Laura Elliott

Back to my mother, abandonment is not
a word to use lightly, but deterritorialisation
in the most affective sense of the term.

To calculate, we owe her three years.
This piece of information, when relaxed
into the orchid template, plateaus.

Not seeing one has become increasingly
more deliberately an act of avoidance
than I ever intended.


Date: 2015

By: Laura Elliott (19??- )

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Imagine the South by George Woodcock

Imagine the South from which these migrants fled,
Dark-eyed, pursued by arrows, crowned with blood,
Imagine the stiff stone houses and the ships
Blessed with wine and salt, the quivering tips
Of spears and edges signalling in the sun
From swords unscabbarded and sunk in brine,
Imagine the cyclamen faces and yielding breasts
Hungered after in a dead desert of icy mists,
Imagine, for though oblivious, you too are cast
Exile upon a strange and angry coast.

Going into exile away from youth,
You too are losing a country in the south,
Losing, in the red daylight of a new shore
Where you are hemmed by solitude and fear,
The loving faces far over a sea of time,
The solid comfort and the humane dream
Of a peaceful sky, the consoling patronage
And the golden ladder to an easy age,
All these are lost, for you too have gone away
From your Southern home upon a bitter journey.

There is no home for you marked on the compass.
I see no Penelope at the end of your Odysseys,
And all the magic islands will let you down.
Do not touch the peaches and do not drink the wine,
For the Dead Sea spell will follow all you do,
And do not talk of tomorrow, for to you
There will only be yesterday, only the fading land,
The boats on the shore and tamarisks in the sand
Where the beautiful faces wait, and the faithful friends.
They will people your mind. You will never touch their hands.


Date: 1947

By: George Woodcock (1912-1995)

Sunday, 6 August 2017

A Character of W. H. W. Esquire by Mary Deverell

You have wit and politeness we all must confess,
Your air a-la-mode, with a pleasing address;
A generous temper, untainted with fear,
You are easy, you are lively, you are partly sincere;
And you seem, while you flirt, to mean what you say,
Though you laugh, and forget us as soon as away:
You lack not ambition, supported by spirit,
Nor yet to be told you’ve a something like merit:
Whether coxcomb, or not, I can’t really guess,
Sometimes I think no,—and sometimes I think yes.
To judge of your morals, I can’t declare,
Your sentiments flow in a manner so rare.
But then for your modesty—this,I must say,
You can glance a shy look in an impudent way.
You are humble,—you are bold,—you are wild, and yet grave,
Your wit may divert, while your sense may enslave;
You’re, in fine, an original problem to me,
That I never can solve, I plainly foresee.

From: Deverell, Mary, Miscellanies in prose and verse, mostly written in the epistolary style: chiefly upon moral subjects, and particularly calculated for the improvement of younger minds, Volume 2, 1781, J. Rivington: London,p. 267.

Date: 1781

By: Mary Deverell (1731-1805)

Friday, 4 August 2017

How Coventry was Made Free by Godina, Countesse of Chester by Thomas Deloney

To the Tune of Prince Arthur died at Ludlow.

Leofricus, that Noble Earle
Of Chester, as I reade,
Did for the City of Coventry,
Many a noble deed.
Great priviledges for the towne.
This Nobleman did get,
And of all things did make it so,
That they tole-free did sit:
Save onley that for horses still,
They did some custome pay,
Which was great charges to the towne,
Full long and many a day.
Wherefore his wife, Godina faire,
Did of the Earl request,
That therefore he would make it free,
As well as all the rest.
So when the Lady long had sued,
Her purpose to obtaine:
Her Noble Lord at length she tooke,
Within a pleasant vaine,
And unto him with smiling cheare,
She did forthwith proceed,
Entreating greatly that he would
Performe that goodly deed.
You move me much, faire Dame (quoth he)
Your suit I faine would shunne:
But what would you performe and do,
To have this matter done?
Why any thing, my Lord (quoth she)
You will with reason crave,
I will performe it with good will,
If I my wish may have.
If thou wilt grant one thing (said he)
Which I shall now require,
So soone as it is finished,
Thou shalt have thy desire.
Command what you thinke good, my Lord,
I will thereto agree:
On this condition that this Towne
For ever may be free.
If thou wilt thy cloaths strip off,
And here wilt lay them downe,
And at noone day on horsebacke ride
Starke naked thorow the Towne,
They shall be free for evermore:
If thou wilt not do so,
More liberty than now they have,
I never will bestow.
The lady at this strange demand,
Was much abasht in mind:
And yet for to fulfil this thing,
She never a whit repinde.
Wherefore to all the Officers
Of all the Towne she sent:
That they perceiving her good will,
Which for the weale was bent,
That on the day that she should ride,
All persons thorow the Towne,
Should keepe their houses and shut their doores,
And clap their windowes downe,
So that no creature, yong or old
Should in the street be scene:
Till she had ridden all about,
Throughout the City cleane.
And when the day of riding came,
No person did her see,
Saving her Lord: after which time,
The towne was ever free.

From: Deloney, Thomas and Mann, Francis Oscar (ed.), The Works of Thomas Deloney, 1912, Clarendon Press: Oxford, pp. 309-311.

Date: c1580

By: Thomas Deloney (c1543-1600)