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quantumofire


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Posted Sat Sep 19th, 2009 3:17pm Post subject: A poem

I just wanted to forgive you - that's all
But sitting there, surrounded by the pub dense chatter, I couldn't breathe.
I tried a long sup - but the bubbles choked me.
So I got up and walked and walked...
And leaning over the parade front, I traced distant lights far out at sea
And I thought of fishermen who risk their lives
Through storms and floods each day, each night.
For they've no time for fair-weather friends,
For promises - for smiles - for easy words.
Oh yes, you charm in smiles, in easy words
For there, is where the profit lies.

http://quantumofire.blogspot.com/

Breaking contradictions in his mind was, to him, like walking through a winter forest snapping twigs underfoot.

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Esme Montebank-Bliss


Member

Posted Mon Sep 21st, 2009 3:09pm Post subject: A poem

This is a very beautiful poem speaking of the deflation of heartbreak. Good that the poet sees strong value in the real world while fantasies collapse. It reminde me of a far inferior poem from my friend Gavin, more like the lyrics to some popular music hall really, whereas your stanza is sublime!

When It Has Gone.

Lost the words, then I lost the plot.
Further gone and further away I got.
It's true there is no coming back,
the feelings faded and her face began to crack.
Now my dreams are all stripped bare
I see her face hanging from her hair.
It can't be, should never was,
I let her gain always be my loss.

These curtains are heavy, I am stultified!
Release me with your light essence.
Carry me to my unburden, my Heathcliffe
And let the sands stop when at last embraced I.

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quantumofire


Member

Posted Mon Sep 21st, 2009 8:12pm Post subject: A poem

That you for your lovely comments. I always find that writing about something not long after the events is always difficult. It is always the more meditative poems that touch me, especially those of Thomas Hardy. Poems like Midnight on the Great Western and Afterwards I always find thought-provoking and moving, along with Remember and The Thread of Life by Christina Rossetti.

The length of a poem doesn't matter as much as the feeling that is being conveyed. I always read them over and over, out loud, so I can capture the rhythm and tone of the piece, no matter how simple the sentiment.

You looked up to the sky
But you did not cry
When you said,
'I will miss this place,
And your face.'

And I traced the mass of a cloud,
So spread like a shroud
And I said,
'I will not miss this place,
But your face?'

http://quantumofire.blogspot.com/

Breaking contradictions in his mind was, to him, like walking through a winter forest snapping twigs underfoot.

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Esme Montebank-Bliss


Member

Posted Wed Sep 23rd, 2009 2:04pm Post subject: A poem

I mark your words and thoughts regarding Master Hardy but must say that as a contemporary of mine his atheistic tendencies do un-nerve me. However, he has a wonderful fatalistic melancholia. I do like "At A Railway Station, Upways".

Keep up the good work!

These curtains are heavy, I am stultified!
Release me with your light essence.
Carry me to my unburden, my Heathcliffe
And let the sands stop when at last embraced I.

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quantumofire


Member

Posted Wed Sep 23rd, 2009 5:39pm Post subject: A poem

I had to look up 'At A Railway Station, Upways" it not in the anthology that I currently possess. It's an interesting poem, though I'm not sure at what stage of his life he produced it.

As for atheistic tendencies, he did begin as a committed Christian but later in life he began to question his own faith as in the poem 'The Convergence of the Twain" about the loss of the Titanic, where instead of talking of God he talks of: 'The Immanent Will that stirs, and urges everything.' Though this does not mean he was an atheist more that he question the current religious order.

His first wife Emma Gifford was a deeply religious person, and there is a suggestion of an estrangement between them after he published Tess and Jude the Obscure which seemed to argue against marriage. Emma deeply disapproved of the Jude.

As is well documented, after the death of his wife, he burnt all his personal correspondence, and never wrote another novel again. He always suggested, though, that he only wrote to earn a living, poetry was his real passion.

http://quantumofire.blogspot.com/

Breaking contradictions in his mind was, to him, like walking through a winter forest snapping twigs underfoot.

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