In Memory

In memory of my mother who departed from us five years ago today.

Sailing Away

Five years since you set sail on endless oceans,
We watched as you serenely left the quay;
Slipping the hawser that bound you to our shoreline,
You heaved onto the spirit’s boundless sea.

Our close horizons could not keep you anchored,
This harbour was too small for you to bide;
Your vessel strained to catch the fairest breezes
To launch you safe upon celestial tides.

We watched as you pushed slowly through the harbour
And took the swelling of the heaving sea;
And when your vessel dipped below the sight-line,
We felt forever and eternity.

Where are you now, we ask as we are mindful
Of all the days you walked upon our shore?
What great mysteries have you discovered
To keep you from our heartland and our door?

Whatever Cosmic Islands tempt your vessel
Still further from this bleak temporal shore;
Deep within our hearts the tide of memory
Brings welcome sightings of your ship once more.

Sometimes we too are found around the harbour,
Preparing crafts as life bids us to do;
In time we’ll slip our moorings and head seaward,
Expectant of the moment you’ll heave-to!

So as upon that endless tide you move
We trim our sails and think of you with love.

© David McLoughlin-Tasker – York – March 2011

Poem and the Reader

There is a rejection by many of 'rhyming form' today. Like all things, poetic form changes regularly as witnessed by the many forms of poetry through the centuries. However, several generations live side by side and were influenced by different poetic forms and styles. My step-father is one such person...brought up to a strong rhyming form in poetry, it was important that when I wrote a poem to remember my mother's passing, that I used a form that he could easily understand.

Here is the poem I wrote...old fashioned style some would say...yes...but written for a mind that was reared to it:

Sailing Away


Five years since you set sail on endless oceans,
We watched as you serenely left the quay;
Slipping the hawser that bound you to our shoreline,
You heaved onto the spirit’s boundless sea.

Our close horizons could not keep you anchored,
This harbour was too small for you to bide;
Your vessel strained to catch the fairest breezes
To launch you safe upon celestial tides.

We watched as you pushed slowly through the harbour
And took the swelling of the heaving sea;
And when your vessel dipped below the sight-line,
We felt forever and eternity.

Where are you now, we ask as we are mindful
Of all the days you walked upon our shore?
What great mysteries have you discovered
To keep you from our heartland and our door?

Whatever Cosmic Islands tempt your vessel
Still further from this bleak temporal shore;
Deep within our hearts the tide of memory
Brings welcome sightings of your ship once more.

Sometimes we too are found around the harbour,
Preparing crafts as life bids us to do;
In time we’ll slip our moorings and head seaward,
Expectant of the moment you’ll heave-to!

So as upon that endless tide you move
We trim our sails and think of you with love.


© David McLoughlin-Tasker - York - March 2011

Why I Want England's Woodland Protected

North East in Eden

At the borders where North meets West and East,

Hillsides slide into northern flatlands…

Exhaling ravishment.

Seduced with levity,

I forget darker scenes -

Ulster’s hillsides,

Sucking life to premature death.

Black despair

Tearing reason’s staff,

From solid ground.

A twisted mind,

Tortured by deaths...

Hate’s rhetoric,

The stench of corrupting goodness

Rising from rivers of unworthy termination,

Now seeks the meandering streams of memory;

Sticklebacks skimming in idle becks,

Pond Skaters on quiet pools,

Swallows darting -

Chirruping cheerful summers,

Curlews crying a plaintiff strain...Stay.

Larks raising me to past joys,

Butterflies drawing me down their fluttering path,

Where the Damselfly hovers

Over my safe earth,

My Tranquil lake -

Where Reed Mace whispers peace.

Opened by desiccating sun,

Crazed earth

Echoes my shattered mind,

Cracked by bigoted intolerance,

The rantings of the right

Their hostility ringing round half-forgotten Ulster hills.

Now…

Surrounded by the scented air

And ripening Barley fumes,

Hogwort raises her mature head,

Acknowledging the fertile sun

Settling on her bed of hungry children,

And slumbering poppies wave at me

Without addictive platitudes

That promise vapid dreams of paradise

And forever.

Northward, dark woodland

Whispers serenity,

Her dark, garlic-scented sweetness

Drawing death’s bitter cud...

Purging it.

I had left for hillocks of the dead,

Where those who breathed tomorrow

Lie in unquiet rest -

Exterminated innocence.

From landscapes of mourning,

She called me home.

Cypress - tall and motionless,

Breathe the perfumed exhalations.

Moon rising behind

Streaks the Barley heads with mellow glow.

Peace here.

Green fields without the staining of lost life,

Pure rivers

Not red

Like the raging torrents of the dead.

Mind flees to boyhood earth...

Where eternal orbs illuminate the

Cooling Towers at Selby,

I am returned to Eden,

Inhaling her tomorrows.

© David McLoughlin August 2010

York...Once Home of W H Auden

I pass the house each week where Auden lived. This poem 'What is That Sound' is read in such a way as to raise almost childlike awe in me.

"O What is That Sound" by W H Auden , posted with vodpod

Same Poet - Another Voice

Here are the words of the Hollow men by T.S.Eliot followed by a link to a recitation by a modern reader...for me, this rendition allows me to access the meaning and the emotional impact of the poem.

In the video clip of The Waste Land you will have noticed at the beginning, a draft of the poem which has been altered many times by Eliot - his jottings and deletions are across the page in his own hand. I am convinced that great poetry is crafted out of thought, patience and the willingness to keep working with words and with meaning. I remain certain that good poetry seldom arises  out of first drafts.

The reader in this video has imposed his understanding of The Hollow Men by setting it around images of the First World War. As you read or listen to the poem, what meaning does it hold for you?

Click her for the The Hollow Men video.


Here is the text:

The Hollow Men

T. S. Eliot

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Online text © 1998-2011 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From The Hollow Men | 1925

The Influential Poets

A poet friend of mine reflects a widely held view when he says that T.S. Eliot revolutionised modern poetry.

Having read poetry all my life, I have come under the influence of many different styles of poetry and have internalised those schemes and rhyming patterns that appealed most to my natural inclination. Some say that this is reflected in my writing...some even say there is an edge of another century in my voice? Well, I am not so sure of that. What I am sure of, is that many writers have contributed to the way I think. Exposing yourself to a range of authors will assist you in finding a style of composition that suits your natural inclination.

Here is a video presentation of T.S. Elliot reading Part 1 of the Wastelands...some of the images give us a living insight to the man and the voice helps us to see how great poetry is constructed and how vocal presentation has changed in modern times. Click On This Text To View. In a later posting I will present a modern reader reciting The Hollow Men by Eliot, in it you will find that a different voice helps you to access the emotion of the poem. This is my favourite recitation of that poem.

Earn While Writing Poetry

Have you ever had you dream of being a writer challenged?

This has happened to most aspiring writers. Sometimes the challenge comes from family and friends with statements such as 'get a proper job' or 'writing won't pay the gas bill' etc. Sometimes the challenge comes from circumstances and harsh reality; you go to the cupboard to gather the ingredients to make a meal and it is bare, or that utility bill came in and you were struggling to pay it. In situations like these, it is all too easy to cave-in and decide that writing is a bad career choice. However, though the demands of living in the real world have to be met, there remains the possibility of earning a good income from writing.

One of the areas of writing that I would suggest for consideration is that of writing for the Internet. Many writers while working on their cherished manuscripts and struggling to make ends meet, overlook this rich source of revenue. The reality is, there is a whole world of writing opportunities on the Web and with as little as forty minutes a day you can be earning an income that will support you in all your other writing aspirations. You may even find that being a web author is so rewarding that you go on to make this your primary source of income.

Freelance writing online is enjoying growth and people are fulfilling their writing dreams by providing copy for information hungry websites. If you have access to a computer, have good writing skills, can present information logically and clearly, then there are opportunities for you to support your writing career.

Writing your own Blog can become a way of making that much needed extra cash. By clicking this link you will find an almost instant way to make extra cash while you write your poetry. http://www.my-blogging-site.com/vipinvite/special-M059

Submit a Poem

There are eleven spots on this blog for a Poem of the Month.

I welcome your submissions as a way of showcasing your work and helping you to be seen. Maybe you have a favourite poem that has meant something to you. Why not submit it with a short statement saying what it means to you.

I look forward to your postings.

Crossing The Bridge

Christmas is just a memory, but we have crossed that Bridge and now the shores of the New Year offer up endless possibilities. Why not set yourself a few simple goals:

Redraft that poem that you just aren't sure about.
Ask a fellow poet for help...T S Elliot did.
Enter a competition or more than just one.
Submit to a publication of your choice.
Gather all your work together and appraise them for publication.
Read poetry old and new and of all styles.

These are just a few of the many things that you can do to make your dream of writing poetry come true. To get you started, I have included a link to the Online Writing Community to which I belong. The journey into new landscapes does not have to be an isolated one.