A New Art Blog

begins on

MONDAY 20th NOVEMBER

ART FROM THE VICTORIAN ERA

artfromthevictorianera-mychoice.blogspot.com

and then will be updated every day

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This poem concludes the series.

All my blogs have now come to an end.

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FILLING STATION

Elizabeth Bishop 1911-79

Oh, but it is dirty!

- this little filling station,

oil-soaked, oil-permeated

to a disturbing, over-all

black translucency.

Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,

oil-soaked monkey suit

that cuts him under the arms,

and several quick and saucy

and greasy sons assist him

(it's a family filling station),

all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?

It has a cement porch

behind the pumps, and on it

a set of crushed and grease-

impregnated wickerwork;

on the wicker sofa

a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide

the only note of colour -

of certain colour. They lie

upon a big dim doily

draping a taboret

(part of the set), beside

a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?

Why the taboret?

Why, oh why, the doily?

(Embroidered in daisy stitch

with marguerites, I think,

and heavy with grey crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.

Somebody waters the plant,

or oils it, maybe. Somebody

arranges the rows of cans

so that they softly say:

ESSO--SO--SO--SO

to high-strung automobiles.

Somebody loves us all.

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DRAKE’S DRUM

 Henry Newbolt 1862-1938

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)    

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.    

Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships,             

    Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,    

An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin'    

    He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.    

  

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),      

Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe,    

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,    

    Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;    

If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,      

    An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago."     

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,    

    (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?),    

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,    

    An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.      

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,    

    Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;    

Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin',    

    They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.    

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WHEN THEY BEGIN THE BEGUINE

Cole Porter  1891-1964

When they begin the beguine,

It brings back the sound of music so tender,

It brings back a night of tropical splendour,

It brings back a memory ever green.

I'm with you once more under the stars

And down by the shore an orchestra's playing

And even the palms seem to be swaying,

When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavour

Except when that tune clutches my heart,

And there we are swearing to love forever

And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,

Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted

And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted,

I know but too well what they mean.

So don't let them begin the beguine,

Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,

Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,

When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play

Till the stars that were there before return above you,

Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,

And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,

When they begin the beguine.

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HOT AND COLD

Roald Dahl 1916-90

A woman who my mother knows

Came in and took off all her clothes.

Said I, not being very old,

'By golly gosh, you must be cold!'

'No, no!' she cried. 'Indeed I'm not!

I'm feeling devilishly hot!'

-o0o-

This poem is a reply to the invitation in yesterday's post "The Passionate Shepherd to his Love" by Christopher Marlowe

HER REPLY

Walter Raleigh 1552-1618

If all the world and love were young, 

And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 

These pretty pleasures might me move 

To live with thee and be thy Love. 

But Time drives flocks from field to fold; 

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 

And Philomel becometh dumb; 

The rest complains of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 

To wayward Winter reckoning yields: 

A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 

Soon break, soon wither--soon forgotten, 

In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, 

Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-- 

All these in me no means can move 

To come to thee and be thy Love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 

Had joys no date, nor age no need, 

Then these delights my mind might move 

To live with thee and be thy Love. 

-o0o-

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Christopher Marlow 1564-93

Come live with me and be my love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove, 

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 

Woods, or steepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit upon the Rocks, 

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, 

By shallow Rivers to whose falls 

Melodious birds sing Madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of Roses 

And a thousand fragrant posies, 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle; 

A gown made of the finest wool 

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; 

Fair lined slippers for the cold, 

With buckles of the purest gold; 

A belt of straw and Ivy buds, 

With Coral clasps and Amber studs: 

And if these pleasures may thee move, 

Come live with me, and be my love. 

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing 

For thy delight each May-morning: 

If these delights thy mind may move, 

Then live with me, and be my love.

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STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Robert Frost 1874-1963

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

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