Comments on: How Do You Carry Yours?

By: Pippa

Pippa — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 11:47:43 +0000

I saw a guy called Rob Evans perform his poetry at Stanza a few years back and his delivery was brilliant – really got it across. I was blown away by his life stories, frankness and dry humour. I picked up his first collection Snake’s Kin (my first collection too) and have enjoyed it ever since. I carry one of them saved on my phone:

On Being Heckled With The Question,
“Why Are You Such a Miserable Bastard?”

I’m fifty-four years old
and in my life
I’ve lost a father, two faithful dogs,
one not-so-faithful wife
and, on top of all that
I’ve had cancer
twice. So there’ your answer;
that’s why this miserable bastard’s
on the loose.
Now tell me, sunshine,
what’s your f****** excuse?

Brilliant.

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By: Lady P

Lady P — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 12:14:02 +0000

I have a little clutch of beautiful poems, which carry me through difficult, thoughtful times – but… and I realise this is stretching the concept – nothing makes me laugh more than the limerick my Dad taught me when I was little – it works every time!

The boy stood on the burning deck,
His feet were full of blisters,
The flames came up and burned his pants,
and now he wears his sisters.

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By: Tricia Gray

Tricia Gray — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 17:44:56 +0000

Auguries of Innocence
Blake

‘Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.’

I think of that poem when I see Darfur on the news etc., gamblers in Vegas on TV, when I was on the Make Poverty History march……. it’s so appropriate for so many reasons. I have copied that part, printed it and put it in a small frame in my loo with an aimage of a new born baby. It does not just relate to material welath and poverty, I feel it relates to human relationships as well eg Fred and Rose West’s children. It’s very difficult to write such wonderful poetry but some people like Bob Dylan make it look so easy with his one man prolific word factory.

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By: Monseigneur D Gilchrist

Monseigneur D Gilchrist — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 17:24:22 +0000

I carry this in my heart and on a scrap of Christmas wrapping signed by Loggins himself…

Revvin’ up your engine
Listen to her howlin’ roar
Metal under tension
Beggin’ you to touch and go
Highway to the Danger Zone
Ride into the Danger Zone
Headin’ into twilight
Spreadin’ out her wings tonight
She got you jumpin’ off the track
And shovin’ into overdrive
Highway to the Danger Zone
I’ll take you
Right into the Danger Zone
You’ll never say hello to you
Until you get it on the red line overload
You’ll never know what you can do
Until you get it up as high as you can go
Out along the edges
Always where I burn to be
The further on the edge
The hotter the intensity
Highway to the Danger Zone
Gonna take you
Right into the Danger Zone
Highway to the Danger Zone

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By: Sandy Dundas

Sandy Dundas — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 15:09:36 +0000

I carry the poem The Dead by Billy Collins in my heart. A good friend gave me a copy of it, and I find it so calming and comforting when thinking of the recent passing away of loved ones.

The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.

They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,

which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

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By: Gwenda Adams Ward

Gwenda Adams Ward — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 14:25:16 +0000

I carry the poem “Barter” by Sara Teasdale in my heart. I was first exposed to it as a 13 year old and it has stayed with me ever since. I especially like the lines “Life has loveliness to sell / Music like a curve of gold” and later, “And for your spirit’s still delight / Holy thoughts that fill the night.” It reminds me of all the wonders and glories of life well lived or simply enjoyed.

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By: Andy Pitts

Andy Pitts — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 15:28:16 +0000

I’ve carried this poem about with me ever since I stopped being a ‘young’ man – A Kumquat for John Keats by Tony Harrison.
I’m rarely far away from a copy of it and though it’s a couple of pages long, most of it’s lodged in my head anyway.
It’s about what counts to make a ‘full life’ – that experience has to be both bitter and sweet. In it he remembers eating kumquats one morning “whole, straight off the tree, sweet pulp and sour skin – or was it sweet outside, and sour within?” and then suggests “the flesh, the juice, the pith, the pips, the peel / that this is how a full life ought to feel”.
I’ve come to think of it like a hip flask I can take a nip from whenever I need a pick-me-up. It soars onwards and upwards in heroic couplets that you just have to read out loud – Harrison laughed once in fact when I told him that I couldn’t read it without standing up. But you can’t – it’s poetic HRT.

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By: Jenny Goldsmith

Jenny Goldsmith — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 20:13:03 +0000

There is one simple little poem I have carried for ages. Cut out of a magazine, stuck into a scrapbook. Then I chucked the whole scrapbook but saved the page where it was pasted…that made its way into another scrapbook.

Occasionally I find it in its bookshelf by chance or attempted clear out and I re-read it. Sometimes it even falls helpfully out of its scrapbook and lies on the carpet right side up as if it wants to be read.

Its not particularly great or profound literature but it makes me happy every time I read it over a period of over 20 years. And that’s worth carrying for me.

Here it is. I hope you enjoy it too.

‘Tell me a story,’

Says Witch’s child,

‘About the Beast

So fierce and wild.

About a Ghost

That shrieks and groans,

A Skeleton

That rattles bones,

About a Monster

Crawley-creepy

Something nice

To make me sleepy.’

PS If anyone knows who wrote this, that would be nice to know.

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By: Peter Mitchell McCulloch

Peter Mitchell McCulloch — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 19:16:19 +0000

I carry this wee poem in my head that draws from my heart.

GODSPEED,
BONNY WEE FINCH.

Silent…calm…passing away,
Thee bonny Emerald Finch,
Thy tiny tousled feathers,
Defiled…by feline clinch.

In my hand no bid to stir,
Thine wee bit frame or feather,
Thy tiny eyes as if asleep,
Closed…sealed for ever.

As nature’s Crimson flow of life
Ebbs from beak and breast,
No more for you the misery
Fly tiny bird…
Seek a place to rest.

Poet Peter M McCulloch

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By: Sara Sheridan

Sara Sheridan — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 19:15:18 +0000

I keep Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29 on my desktop. Poetry is wordpower at its purest – reading it is like taking a very strong shot of coffee before I start writing.

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