(The discussion thread is getting a little sparse lately so in an attempt to getting it going a bit how about this... The name of the poet who first drew you to write poetry...and then no more than six (shortish) exerpts (not the whole poems) from his/her poems?)

Here goes...poet - Francis Thompson


From... Arab Love-Song

The hunchèd camels of the night
Trouble the bright
And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon
Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering.

Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.

(Anglicised Arabian nights)



From... LOVE DECLARED

I looked, she drooped, and neither spake, and cold,
We stood, how unlike all forecasted thought
Of that desir-ed minute! Then I leaned
Doubting; whereat she lifted--oh, brave eyes
Unfrighted:--forward like a wind-blown flame
Came bosom and mouth to mine!
That falling kiss
Touching long-laid expectance, all went up
Suddenly into passion; yea, the night
Caught, blazed, and wrapt us round in vibrant fire.

(Wow!)



From...THE MISTRESS OF VISION

But woe's me, and woe's me,
For the secrets of her eyes!
In my visions fearfully
They are ever shown to be
As fring-ed pools, whereof each lies
Pallid-dark beneath the skies
Of a night that is
But one blear necropolis.
And her eyes a little tremble, in the wind of her
own sighs.

(Double wow!)



From...DAISY.

The hills look over on the South,
And southward dreams the sea;
And with the sea-breeze hand in hand -
Came innocence and she.

(Drug addict poignantly meets innocence)



From... Ex ore Infantium

Little Jesus, wast Thou shy
Once, and just so small as I?
And what did it feel like to be
Out of Heaven, and just like me?
Didst Thou sometimes think of THERE,
And ask where all the angels were?

(This `cutie` makes one -incarnationally - think.



From...AN ANTHEM OF EARTH

............... Death, that doth flush
The cumbered gutters of humanity;
Nothing, of nothing king, with front uncrowned,
Whose hand holds crownets; playmate swart o' the strong;
Tenebrous moon that flux and refluence draws
Of the high-tided man; skull-hous-ed asp
That stings the heel of kings; true Fount of Youth,
Where he that dips is deathless; being's drone-pipe;
Whose nostril turns to blight the shrivelled stars,
And thicks the lusty breathing of the sun;

(So does this)



Thompson has the unique distinction of being suspected (by some nutcase utterly devoid of poetic sensitivity) of being Jack the Ripper...how much more modern can you get than that?

Hello Harry.

I'm the nutcase who is promoting the idea that Francis Thompson is Jack the Ripper. Actually this was first suggested by Dr. Joseph Rupp, a Texan forensic pathologist in 1988. The reason the media jumped on it, is because my research shows that he lived less than 100 yards from one of the murders and was carrying a dissecting scalpel. I found it interesting that you began your extracts of Thompson's poetry with his beautiful "An Arab Love Song". It was that poem that, in 1997 set me on the road investigating him. You may be interested in my website that contains the press reports about the theory as well as some articles and interviews.

francisjthompson.com

Believe it or not I do appreciate Thompson's verse despite my lack of poetic sensitivity.

All the best,
Richard.

Hi Richard....Thanks for your comments.

The nutcakery - of course - refers not to yourself nor Dr Rupp but to the theory that Francis Thompson might have been Jack the Ripper.

An answer to the theory (including your own comments) can be found on this web site.

www. ncregister.com/blog/tmcdonald/was-a-famous-catholic-poet-jack-the-ripper

I am more interested in the extrapolation of Thompson`s psychology from poetry to murder (which the theory of suspicion suggests).

For instance...this: (about girlhood) ?

Who wear'st thy femineity
Light as entrailed blossoms, that shalt find
It erelong silver shackles unto thee.
Thou whose young sex is yet but in thy soul; -
As hoarded in the vine
Hang the gold skins of undelirious wine,
As air sleeps, till it toss its limbs in breeze:-


Or this: (about the physical human
contact he forsook)?

In pairing-time, we know, the bird
Kindles to its deepmost splendour,
And the tender
Voice is tenderest in its throat;
Were its love, for ever nigh it,
Never by it,
It might keep a vernal note,
The crocean and amethystine
In their pristine
Lustre linger on its coat.


Or this (about the prostitute who fed
him and saved his life): ?

I waited the inevitable last.
Then there came past
A child; like thee a Spring-flower; but a flower
Fallen from the budded coronal of Spring,
And through the City streets blown withering.
She passed,—O brave, sad, lovingest, tender thing!
And of her own scant pittance did she give
That I might eat and live.
Then fled, a swift and trackless fugitive.


I truly think that to suspect that the man who could write such things about the female sex could be a murderer of women is to be lacking in poetic sensitivity.

charles bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke


_____________________________________________


if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.


_______________________________________________


Those faces you see every day on the streets were not created entirely without hope: be kind to them: like you they have not escaped

As a child I inhaled nursery rhymes, like essential air. I soon discovered turning a few choice words into rhyme and metre was dead easy to do, and so I started the 'poetry engine' which has purred along ever since.

One poem that gobsmacked me was 'The Song of Hiawatha' by Longfellow, probably age 14. I wrote an essay on it for English class. Upon receipt of a decent grade, I said, 'I really did read all of it.' And the teacher smiled, 'Oh, yes. I could tell.' Apparently, my prose lilted along in perfect rhythm, an effect I couldn't escape.

Another impact poem was 'The Snake' by D.H. Lawrence, the sheer power of of its imagery exploring such a simple subject

Nice thread.
I will have to go and think. So many.

My first poems (thankfully lost) were written because the English teacher wanted us to write something for the school magazine. Then there were the religious poems from my religious conversion at 17 (again, thankfully lost...)

But the first poet I really got captured by was probably Ted Hughes:

The Thought-Fox by Ted Hughes

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

I loved the energy of it. I've moved on to other poets and poetries since, but I still love this.

My first really inspirational poet was Bob Dylan. He shook a small village boy into understanding people and their faults and weaknesses.

Leonard Cohen taught me cynicism, sarcasm and grief.

I always resort to Shakespeare when I try to be clever with words.

What a dinner party that would be!

You've got a lotta nerve to say you are my friend
When I was down you just stood there grinnin'
You've got a lotta nerve to say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on the side that's winnin'

You say I let you down, ya know its not like that
If you're so hurt, why then don't you show it?
You say you've lost your faith, but that's not where its at
You have no faith to lose, and ya know it

I know the reason, that you talked behind my back
I used to be among the crowd you're in with
Do you take me for such a fool, to think I'd make contact
With the one who tries to hide what he don't know to begin with?

You see me on the street, you always act surprised
You say "how are you?", "good luck", but ya don't mean it
When you know as well as me, you'd rather see me paralyzed
Why don't you just come out once and scream it

No, I do not feel that good when I see the heartbreaks you embrace
If I was a master thief perhaps I'd rob them
And tho I know you're dissatisfied with your position and your place
Don't you understand, its not my problem?

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is to see you

Bob Dylan - Positively 4th Street


Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows that the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes
Everybody knows
Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died

Everybody talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long stem rose
Everybody knows

Everybody knows that you love me baby
Everybody knows that you really do
Everybody knows that you've been faithful
Ah give or take a night or two
Everybody knows you've been discreet
But there were so many people you just had to meet
Without your clothes
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

And everybody knows that it's now or never
Everybody knows that it's me or you
And everybody knows that you live forever
Ah when you've done a line or two
Everybody knows the deal is rotten
Old Black Joe's still pickin' cotton
For your ribbons and bows
And everybody knows

And everybody knows that the Plague is coming
Everybody knows that it's moving fast
Everybody knows that the naked man and woman
Are just a shining artifact of the past
Everybody knows the scene is dead
But there's gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose
What everybody knows

And everybody knows that you're in trouble
Everybody knows what you've been through
From the bloody cross on top of Calvary
To the beach of Malibu
Everybody knows it's coming apart
Take one last look at this Sacred Heart
Before it blows
And everybody knows

Everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Oh everybody knows, everybody knows
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

Leonard Cohen- Everybody knows

Inspirational.....

Longfellow
Robert Browning
Dylan Thomas
John Masefield

Gus Jonsson he's good too!

Yes, it was Bob Dylan for this teenager.
Sublime imagery which contrasted with so much banality in others' lyrics.

Yes, to dance beneath a diamond sky
With one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea...

(Mr Tambourine Man)

When God is in his Heaven
And we all want what's his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is

(Blind Willie McTell)

I have seen him perform twice in the past 10 years (at Sheffield and Newcastle) and now he's pinching money.

I Like the different responses that have come on this.
(though - it must be said - Bob Dylan seems to be
nosing ahead)

I was struck, in Steven`s quote, at the way Hughes`
`Till, with sudden sharp `hot stink of fox`seems, (after the introducing the poetically furtive delicacy of the stealthy approach) to foretell -in a `wake us up` manner - the abruptness of Hughes`(later?) Crow poems. (even though it is about the poem stealing up and hitting you)...is it that `materialistic` punch line?
(Or is this just meandering)

I like bukowski (for demonstrating to so many people
that they could also `do it` (but wish he had given us an
example of his `Bluebird` (in his own style)
Despite a nostalgiac longing for the days when the poems
dropped down from heaven nearly complete, I think that
the advice of the second bukowski quote is the worst
advice ever offered to poets.

Cynthia`s example made me wonder if anyone had ever
done anything else modernly significant with that `indian
dance` troaic tetrameter?

Henri and Mcgough, both of whom I had the good fortune
to actually read with - but not Brian Patten - also greatly
helped to get people writing poetry again. (It would be of
interest to hear Colin`s choice (comeclose and sleepnow)
read in a more `intimate` voice - rather than Rogers `not
quite, but almost` throwaway modern style

To get back to Bob Dylan :
I sometimes wonder if his kind of stuff (it was a bit too `scattered all over everything` for me) played a major part in keeping the musicallity of poetry alive during the prosaically barren times. (so much of it is rhymed, for instance...I think the muisic was essential for any kind of popularity.

I hope blogs keep up on this thread (but maybe a few more
short - but admired - quotes)

My love of poetry early, and my mother had a copy of Keat's poems, which I would get people to read to me, as I was late in learning to read, preferring to listen to others reading aloud. I loved the music of his words. The old fashioned language didn't bother me with its thee's and thou's. I lived on the edge of the countryside and spent a lot of time out of doors, with holidays on a farm.
The idea of a Autumn as a character seemed natural to me, as children are told all kinds of stories about nature which personify aspects. These are the first two verses. The opening is a cliche these days, simply because nobody has ever said it so beautifully since.

Ode to Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

I learnt a lot of poetry in school, mainly as a punishment for being late. It was a long time before they realised I enjoyed it.
I fell for Dylan Thomas, and Yeats, and anyone with music in their words.
I studied Christopher Fry at college, and loved his use of metaphor.
Later I became a Stratford-on-Avon Groupie and absorbed hours of Shakespeare there, and discovered Bob Dylan too. He certainly had a massive impact on the poets here.

Blimey!
(It must be age) I meant Bob Dylan - not Dylan Thomas

Changing it.

I was struck by how - in the above examples - Cohen
borders on the insultingly vituperative and Dylan is
quite sure that all are aware of the general hypocrisy
and greed and corruption, and they both do what they
do very well...However all the rebellious `modern` stuff
always seemed to be only `about` the state of the world
...It seemed to be narcotically escapist. It`s `Howl` just
beat style noise.

I say this because Gus included Browning in his list of
`Likes` and I would have loved him to have included an
exerpt From Brownings `Child Roland to the Dark Tower
came` I think Browning says more about what the actual
`human condition` actually is - and how we should carry
on to it`s end - than any of the beat stuff.


Example...first three -starting out - stanzas

My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

What does anyone else think?

Funny - it was Patten rather than the other two Liverpool poets I was inspired by first. Though I once read with Adrian, and it was only last year that I finally saw Brian perform.

Hiawatha - Longfellow. What child could resist that rhythm and the exoticism of another world? Then then later discovery that poetry didn't have to be serious and impenatrable - Roger McGough and the wonderful Spike Milligan.

The Triple Fool

By John Donne

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where's that wiseman, that would not be I,
If she would not deny?

The rest of the poem can be found here.



https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44130


It perhaps should be a law that no poet's poems are published in their life time.