20-02-2018, 07:44 PM
241
Re: Poetry please.
I love those G Herbert's works. Very meaningful . The first one posted by bobby reminds me of one written by a monk from Stanlaw Abbey in , Cheshire.Thought to be by Robert Haworth as he was the oldest monk and one of the last monks left at Stanlow in a cell of about 4/5, after the Abbey was transferred to Whalley Abbey in Lancashire. He chose to remain due to his love of the place despite so many traumas and disasters there. The Abbott Robert of Haworth remained there until his death in 1304,
Stanlaw Abbey founded 1178 by John de Lacy
Monks transferred to Whalley Abbey, Lancs in 1296.
There has always been a poem named Stanlaw , and a bit of poetic licence had been used. We managed to find the original translation from Latin.
This is the better known one, translated by F G Slater.
STANLAW
"Stanlaw ! where I hope to lie
when my hour shall come to die,
Hard thy lot and brief thy fame
Still thou teachest by thy name -
STAN and LAW together blending
Name all neighbour names transcending
LAW is Hill - I lift my eyes
To the hills beyond the skies.
STAN is Stone - O! Corner Stone !
What art thou but Christ alone ?
Alter Stone, on thee there lies
That blest Bread of Sacrifice
Stanlaw ! 'tis the Lord above
Gave thy name to tell his love '
First of the ACTUAL translations of the Stanlaw poem:
*****************
Epitaph praising places
O Stanlaw when death releases me and entrusts me to you
Not in vain did nature give you your name for this place,
Although cruel fate has now extinguished your fame.
Until now your brief hour powerfully transcends that of nearby places.
Stan and Law are different but turned around to Law and Stan are sadly fitting;
Thus the two divided things become one and fit together.
Law is hill, Stan is the stone which gives relief to the weary.
These words make sense to the grateful sinner, taking away the cloak of mystery.
Christ is the cornerstone, and hill alone the profoundness of the Lord.
Holy altar stone on which lies the saving meal given to mankind.
So Stanlaw, given such a great name confers authority.
and then this , the most accurate , translated recently.
Epitaph in praise of a place
O Stanlaw, death will place my grave with you when I die;
Not in vain has the name for the local character of the place been given to you under a figure of speech.
Allowed to be suppressed by cruel fate, you now emerge with slight reputation, you are by no means the least.
As yet the fleeting hour remains in which you surpass the neighbouring places.
Stan and Law are opposites, but Stan has been turned to Law, having been placed beside it.
Let not these two be separated, they are both turned into one and become a united whole.
Law is hill and Stan is stone on which the weary bee finds rest.
If you understand the substance of this saying, you will thankfully understand the meaning of the place.
Christ is the cornerstone and the unparalleled height of the hill of the Lord.
The stone lies on the sacred altar, on which the saving food becomes a gift to mankind.
Oh Stanlaw, the creator of your name has given you that name as a sign.
The most accurate translation of the Stanlaw poem so far. Many thanks to Catherine Jones 2017
22-02-2018, 01:00 PM
244
Re: Poetry please.
Knitting.My Mother in the evenings would sit in front of our old T.V.
With clicking clacking needles and her knitting on her knee
Row on row of plain and purl
Fairisle too, which needs a swirl
Just a glance to see how it's doing
Then turn back to the T.V. viewing.
Sadly now her hands won't let her do the task
Arthritus has claimed them and knitting a thing of the past
But I can still remember the sound that those needles made
At the end of a Winters day, the memory doesn't fade.
22-02-2018, 01:05 PM
245
Re: Poetry please.
Naughty Me!When I was a small kid
At my party I wanted rid
Of this girl, such a pain
Who drove me insane
Into our pond I pushed her, I did.
She screamed and then she lied
Now my goose it really was fried
"Naughty girl, go to bed"
My stern Father said
To explain to him,Oh, how I tried.
"Not my fault", I did say,
"She provoked me that way".
But it did me no good,
Fathers orders they stood
Was my 8th birthday, crime does not pay.
22-02-2018, 01:08 PM
246
Re: Poetry please.
This poem was on the back page of the very first copy of The CORNISH TIMES, DATED JANUARY 3rd 1857. It was their 150th Aniversary that year. I have no idea who wrote it. I did phone the paper but they didn't know either. Anyway here it is..............The Winters Coming Fast.
Again the summer's reign is o'er,
Again hath autum's chilling blast
Stripped woodland, bower, and copse, and grove
And winter's coming fast;
To bind within his icy chain
All things within his wide domain.
From many a lately laden bough
The tempting ruddy fruit is gone;
Waving no more with golden grain,
The fields a gloom put on;
For summer's radiant glow is past
And winter now is coming fast!
The late luxuriant hills look bleak;
In the once gay, now cheerless, grove
Delight is hushed; and hushed the voice
Of harmony and love;
The wild winds sigh through branches sere
And tell us winter's drawing near.
The hum of the industrious bee,
Forth issuing at the peep of day,
To kiss from every opening flower
The honied sweets away,
Is heard no more, his labour past,
And dreary winter's comimg fast!
No blooming flowerets now regale,
Our senses when abroad we stray;
Their beauties and their fragrance too-
Alas, have passed away;
Like a delightful dream they're gone,
And ah! stern winter's coming on!
Thus does life's-summer pass away,
Thus fade before the autumnal blast
Our earthly pleasures and delights;
And death, approaching fast,
Locks us within his cold embrace,
And of our being leaves no trace.
But as the cheering spring succeeds
Drear winter's stern and gloomy reign,
And with fresh verdure, leaf and flower,
Bids nature bloom again,
So man, transformed, again shall rise,
And bloom anew in Paradise!
ANON, which is sad, as I would love to have known who wrote it.
23-02-2018, 03:59 PM
247
Re: Poetry please.
I wrote this poem when I was Robert Junior & before I MORPHED into Robert Jnr.Some live the life of a butterfly
the truth from them concealed
not them then wisdom uttered by
to them nothing is revealed
yet others feel the world wide pain
of those who are less fortunate
mans inhumanity to man
increases yet it ’s not too late.
a billion pairs of eyes worn-out
will this day be their very last
a billion pairs of eyes turned out
from those crowds last gasps
Dead are the eyes who've seen too much
their suffering all in vain
No healing balm or gentle touch
history repeats and repeats again.
(C)
RJ 2013
23-02-2018, 04:24 PM
249
Re: Poetry please.
Originally Posted by Robert Jnr.
->
Upon reading these words again I think that the scenario I was pondering could apply to Syria or countless other hell holes in the world.
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