Special Offerings On Poetry

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

In memorium- salute a fellow poet

Blog Posted:9/6/2016 12:03:00 PM

Hi, folks,

This month marks the 75th anniversary of the poem 'High flight', by John Gillespie Magee junior.

Son of an American missionary Father from Pittsburgh and an English missionary Mother, born in Shanghai in 1922. After training with the Royal Canadian Air Force, he gained his pilot's wings and transferred to England in 1941. An accomplished scholar, well versed in Latin and Greek, he was also

a poet, and had written a volume of work before his sixteenth birthday. He is most well known, however, for his poem 'High flight', that came to him during a high altitude patrol. Tragically, he died a few weeks after writing it, in a mid-air collision, but his work lives on in the Library of Congress in Washington.

At some point this month, if you would, kindly read the following and raise a glass to one of the

finest poems of the last century.

I already have.

Regards, Viv.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of --Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

by John Gillespie Magee junior.


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From a blog at my poetry home site.
I read this and marveled at the greatness in this poem, one which is basically unknown
to the world at large but to me represents a poetic artistry that bows to none!
Not even to the legendary greats known now as poetic geniuses of old!--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Memory

A darkened corner, candle flame
Raindrops cling to windowpane
Ticking clock, a faded rose
An open book of Shakespeare prose
A torn picture souvenirs
A pack of letters signed with tears
And I am alone with naught to do
But think of you, but think of you.

A darkened corner, shadowed wall
Whispers from a haunted hall
Muted music, a memory
Of all the things that used to be
And I am alone with naught to do
But think of you, but think of you.

How long before a dream comes true?
How long must I but think of you.

by Jean L. Staub

Presented because this is exceptional poetry.---Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Will Not Let Thee Go

I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this?
Can it be summed up so,
Quit in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds,
As the soft south can blow
And toss the feathered seeds,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might;
Or were he reckoned slow
To bring the false to light,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
The stars that crowd the summer skies
Have watched us so below
With all their million eyes,
I dare not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Have we chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?

I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content,
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
I cannot let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands:
Thou sayest farewell, and lo!
I have thee by the hands,
And will not let thee go.

Robert Seymour Bridges
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London Snow

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled-marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them,
for the charm they have broken.
Robert Seymour Bridges


- Poem by Robert Seymour Bridges