[Rosemary]

 

The Little White Rose

By Hugh MacDiarmid (1892 – 1978)

1934

The rose of all the world is not for me.
I want for my part
Only the little white rose of Scotland
That smells sharp and sweet – and breaks the heart.

[Rosemary]

 

The Bonnie Scotsman

There was a bonnie Scotsman, who went out one evening fair

And you could tell by how he walked, that he’d drunk more than his share.

He stumbled on until he could no longer keep his feet,

And tumbled off the grass to sleep beside the street

Just then two young and lovely girls just happened by,

And one said to the other, with a twinkle in her eye,

“See yonder sleeping Scotsman, so strong and handsome built,

I wonder if it’s true what they don’t wear beneath the kilt.”

They crept upon the sleeping Scotsman as quiet as can be,

And lifted up his kilt about and inch so they could see,

And there behold for them to view beneath his Scottish skirt,

Was nothing more than God had graced him with upon his birth.

They marvelled for a moment, then one said, “We must be gone;

Let’s leave a present for our friend before we move along.”

So as a gift they tied a red silk ribbon in a bow,

Around the bonnie Scotsman’s star the kilt did lift and show.

The Scotsman wakes to Nature’s call and stumbles for the trees,

Behind a bush, he lifts his kilt and gawks at what he sees,

And in a startled voice he cries at what’s before his eyes,

“Och, lad, I don’t know where you’ve been, but I think you’ve won first prize!”

[harmony]

Are blue rosettes not normally second prize 

[carla78]

My personal favourite, and one i often think about:

William Henry Davies

'Leisure'

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

[Womble]

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be.
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

[Womble]

OK, not a poem this time, but my Mum sent me a link to this painting by August Friedrich Albrecht Schenck. Having spent nights in the barn yelling "Just breathe, you little *****!?" at newborn lambs, I feel the pain here. It also reminds me of our peahen who lost her only chick on Saturday. It drowned in a bath of water that next door's use to soak hay, and I couldn't sleep for listening to her calling for it all night. Our existence on this planet is so fragile, don't you think?     
 

[landroverroy]

That is a really evocative painting Womble. I don't think I could have it on my wall - it would upset me too much to constantly see it.
I can understand your sadness at the peahen losing her chick. I had it happen to one of mine a few years ago.
2 of my peahens have just hatched out some chicks and I've gone round and emptied out or covered any old containers that have gathered rain water and are deep enough to drown in.
Pity you don't live nearer Yorkshire - you could have had one of my peachicks

[Mad Goatwoman of Madeley]

That painting is so sad. All those crows gathering. Made me want to cry,

[DavidandCollette]

Don't feel sorry for the glow worm
For the glow worm is never glum
How can you be unhappy
With a light shiny from your bum?

[Womble]

It's a long while since we've posted anything here, so....

Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver.


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

[Buttermilk]

I'm a weed by T R Milford

I'm a weed, I'm a weed,
One of the old untameable breed;
I never came from a packet of seed.

I am no cossetted nursery child,
Nobody keeps my pedigree filed,
I am wild, I am wild, I am wild!

Do you think, sister Pink,
That it's nice to line borders on somebodies orders?
The man who kindly plants you,
When he no longer wants you
will throw you out to rot.

Won't you speak, Mr. Leek?
Do you like being made to stand stiffly on parade?
He'll never let you flower
Who has you in his power;
He'll boil you in a pot.

Can I suppose, Lady Rose,
That you actually enjoy being treated like a toy,
While they play genetic games on you,
And stick their fancy names on you,
Caught in a breeder's plot?

Freely I scatter my prodigal seeds;
Sun, wind and rain will provide for their needs.
Man cannot always be digging and hoeing,
While he is asleep, I get on with my growing.

I don't expect mercy, I won't ask for pardon,
And when you're all dead, I'll take over the garden.

[Womble]

 

[doganjo]

One fine morning in the middle of the night,

Two dead men got up to fight,

Back to back they faced each other,

Drew their swords and shot each other.