Tag Archives: Poem

Awake.

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Awake, my fair, my love, awake,
So that I may gaze upon you!
And if one is eager to kiss your lips,
In your dreams this do you see,
Lo, then I myself of your dream
The interpreter will be.

Judah Halevi (1075 – 1141)

Based on the translation by Alice Lucas that’s reproduced on page 43 of A Treasury of Jewish Poetry: From Biblical Times to the Present, edited by Nathan and Marynn Ausubel (Crown Publishers, 1957).

A-Z Challenge

20130428-185254.jpg is for Xanadu and the Poem Kublai Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Now I don’t know a great deal about poetry much less Coleridge’s Kubla Khan….but trying to find something to write about beginning with X was very um…trying. So, I thought ‘Ah, Xanadu!’ And looked it up and Bingo! I found where it was from and the poem where it is mentioned.

The poem was written (or at least started) in 1797 after an opium influenced dream Coleridge apparently had after he’d read a book describing Xanadu, the summer palace of the Mongol ruler and Emperor of China KublaKhan. When he woke up, he began to write the lines of poetry that came from the dream. He was interrupted in the middle of his writing by a visitor, consequently he did not complete his work because the interruption caused Coleridge to forget the lines. One wonders if he was, in fact suffering from an opium induced hangover as the effects of the drug wore off.

However, Coleridge did publish his epic poem in 1816 on the advice of his old pal George Gordon Byron…but unfortunately some of Coleridge’s contemporaries denounced the poem and questioned his story about its origin ( they obviously didn’t partake of the poppy then) But years later Kubla Khan is now hailed by critics as one of Coleridge’s greatest works along with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Christabel

I’ll have to take their word for it I’m afraid.

Here then…for your delight is the first verse….with the word Xanadu in the first line 😄

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

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Monochrome Grey

Morning comes,
A monochrome grey,
Is it that time already?
The alarm rings,
His favourite song,
It reminds him of
a night just spent
In the arms of the lover,
Who still sleeps by his side,
Hope he is dreaming
Of me and the night
Now gone, in its place
Just monochrome grey.

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This is my first attempt at verse (I hesitate to call it poetry) so please be kind. I composed it this morning when my alarm went of at 06:30am and the room was a kind of monochrome grey.

Antony’s Last Poem.

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In my story Somewhat Musing Antony is writing something which his squire, Robert cannot see properly. But he (Robert) describes how his master is writing in a column, left to right and down and down. Dipping the quill in to the ink pot and back to paper as he writes on and on in an attempt to transfer to paper his musings on the fickleness of Fate and Fortune.

This is the poem which I imagined he was writing. It is said that Antony wrote the poem at Pontefract Castle on the eve of his execution, but I like to think he did so while still at Sheriff Hutton.

After his execution on the 25th June 1483, and when his body was stripped prior to burial Antony was found to be wearing a hair shirt under his clothes.

He and his nephew Sir Richard Grey, and Sir Thomas Vaughan were thrown, un coffined into a communal grave at a nearby monastery.

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Here is the poem in a more readable form as the photo above is a little blurred.

Somewhat musing
And more mourning,
In remembering
Th’unsteadfness;
This world being
Of such wheeling,
Me contrarying,
What may I guess?

I fear, doubtless,
Remediless,
Is now to seize
My woeful chance;
For unkindness,
Withoutenless,
And no redress,
Me doth advance.

With displeasure,
To my grievance,
And no surance
Of remedy;
Lo, in this trance,
Now in substance,
Such is my dance,
Willing to die.

Methinks truly
Bounden am I,
And that greatly,
To be content;
Seeing plainly
Fortune doth wry
All contrary
From mine intent.

My life was lent
Me to one intent.
It is nigh spent.
Welcome, Fortune!
But I ne went [neer thought]
Thus to be shent [ruined]
But she it meant;
Such is her won [custom].

Image by Oscarimages<br