May meeting

A small group had a very entertaining meeting with readings from a diverse selection of poets ranging from Ted Hughes Laurie Lee, Shakespeare, Christine Rossetti and many others. Our next meeting will focus on woman poets, with thoughts of choosing our own "Poet Laureate!"
New members would be very welcome.
Next meeting at Phyl Barrett's 80 292 824 342 Woodlands Rd
27th June at 10am

After Death
Christina Rossetti

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
"Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.

April Meeting

A reduced group met on Phyllis Barrett’s house on Monday 28th April. The theme this week was LOVE in all it’s forms. Myra read some explicit poems by John Donne. “Going to Bed” and “The Flea”, which made us all smile. Phyllis read her own poem “Retirement Song”, which I for one could relate to. Myra said she would like to read it at the Wordfest at Hanger farm on Saturday 3rd May. Poems by John Betjeman, Thomas Hardy and Wiliam Butler Yeats were also read. Our next meeting is at Myra’s house on Friday 30th May 10:00 – 12:00

ELEGY XX.
TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED.
by John Donne

COME, madam, come, all rest my powers defy ;
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing, though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed-time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with your wiry coronet, and show
The hairy diadems which on you do grow.
Off with your hose and shoes ; then softly tread
In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven's angels used to be
Revealed to men ; thou, angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise ; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite ;
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O, my America, my Newfoundland,
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.
Full nakedness ! All joys are due to thee ;
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views ;
That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul might court that, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus array'd.
Themselves are only mystic books, which we
—Whom their imputed grace will dignify—
Must see reveal'd. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to thy midwife show
Thyself ; cast all, yea, this white linen hence ;
There is no penance due to innocence :
To teach thee, I am naked first ; why then,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?

March Meeting

Report on the second meeting of the U3A poetry group.

Our second meeting was a "ladies only" but again we covered a wide range of poetry.
Two members now offered their own work too.
Phyllis brought leaflets about the Great Poems which we borrowed to read. Diane gave a book on an Australian poet and Pam read Andrew Motron’s latest commission. Myra had notes about the Poet Laureate. She suggested an occasional 50p donation towards photocopying, should we need it.
We decided to bring poems on the theme of love for our next meeting.
This will take place at Phyllis Barrett’s 342 Woodlands Rd.
PLEASE NOTE A CHANGE OF DAY to avoid the U3A walking holiday.
So will meet on Monday 28th April 10 to 12.
See you there?

The inaugural meeting of U3A poetry group

The inaugural meeting of U3A poetry group was held at Myra’s from 10 am till noon on February 29 th Four ladies and one brave man (note date) offered their personal choice of poems to the rest, to entertain, move or for them to think further about.During tea breaks, possible themes were suggested for future meetings which led to a query about poet laureates / poets’ laureate? e.g. how many? since when/ etc.Something to research for the next meeting? On Friday march 28. Please contact Myra 8086 9053

AT CHERITON – OH – CHERITON!

Misty morning,
Early October,
Lets us know
Summer’s over.
Gilds the hills
With golden haze,
Promise still
Of Autumn days.

So it was,
So it glowed,
As we took
The rolling road
To Cheriton

‘Till we came
To the Flower Pots Inn.
There a brewery
Once had been,
In days long gone.

So many blooms,
Massed and mounded,
Quaint old building
Quite surrounded.
And an orchard
Lay behind.
Many an apple
Still to find.

Through the village,
Comfortable scene,
Red brick houses,
Nicely nestling,
Round the well-kept
Village green.

Beside it ran
A clear chalk stream,
Waving weeds,
Crystal, clean.
Flash of fish,
An extra treat.
Trout perhaps?
The size to eat!

On each bridge
Iron signs,
Warning, from
Former times,
Heavy traffic
Should not cross.
We walked lightly,
Took a path,
Shade with moss,
By a fine house
From the past.

Along the track
Through hedges thin,
We glimpsed the fields
And hills between.

‘Till we come
To a massive beech,
High in its boughs
A sort of tree house.
Wood bars ladder,
Too steep for us,
Kept the den
Out of reach.

After pondering,
Builder? Owner?
Once again
We set off.
Open country,
Staring sunflowers,
Blooming “midi”,
In mid-Hampshire.
Anybody seen Van Gogh?

In the ditch,
Totter’s treasure.
Dumped detritus,
New and old.
Pots and buckets,
Jars and bottles.
Which ones might be
Antique “gold”?

Down from the hill
To river and mill.
Wild cress grew,
Abundant and free.
Some had been cut,
[Would we could too]
Take it home
For our tea!

Homely cottage,
Pretty as a picture,
In its tiles
And warm brick walls,
A dozen colours
Sure to please.
Wooden hives
Set in the pasture,
Waiting for
Late summer’s bees.

Back through fields
To the inn.
Waiting too,
Our tardy friends.
Welcome smiles,
Lunch within.
So at last,
Our lovely walk ends.

Poetry at Hanger Farm

Poets in the Barn
An open mic for poets and wordsmiths
led by Hanger Farms Poets' Group
Thursday 15th Nov
Please come and support us reading
our poems - sitting at tables for a
relaxing evening.
Tickets £3
Free for readers and performers
Contact MYRA 02380869053

ACROSS THE POND, NEAR BATH!

ACROSS THE POND, NEAR BATH!

I wanted a window of sunshine
And everyone to be on time;
The train to be clean and efficient
[I’d reckoned without the Alphaline!]
The taxis to bring us and fetch us,
Like we’d arranged on the ‘phone;
The guides to be good,
Explain what they should;
The welcome to be warm;
The restaurant food to be tasty;
Our tour round the house
To be leisured, not hasty;
The shops to be full
Of quite cheap souvenirs;
The day to be mainly smiles, no tears;
The battle, to excite and please,
Delight us with its expertise;
Just these simple hopes were mine . . .
Most were fulfilled [save the Alphaline],
And we even had a bit of sunshine!

Most of us came in our distant youth.
The house was old, museum new.
So we had some idea what to expect.
Familiar pleasures, surprises too.

Whole, entire rooms transported,
Lacking only some life within.
Our guides, their details, all reported.
We imagined them with their people in.

Shawled and bonneted, spinning, sewing,
In hides and fur hats, chopping, sawing.
Bears to shoot, babies to bear,
Powder kept dry, by the fire.
Rugs to weave, truckle beds.
Wigs to wear on shaven heads.

In such a hard life, their spirit showed.
Fine things of wood, polished, glowed.
Cloaks and quilts, fashioned with skill.
Billions of stitches! Designs that thrill
Those of us who recognise
The artistry before our eyes.

Ethnic artefacts, also revealed
In clay pot or beaded work, the soul concealed.
The primitive art of artisan or slave,
To simple objects, humanity gave.
The Amish carriage, the mighty wagon
Pulled by snorting horses or oxen.

And . . .
Oh, those dresses, of the Dollar Princesses!
The cost of each could no doubt feed
A homestead family’s every need.
Edwardian overkill, extravagant elegance.
Adorning youthful American beauties,
One of them the mother of Churchill.
Enticing English aristocracy
With their sartorial over-indulgence.
Flashing their dollar bills
To buy their acceptance.

Such flaunting of much wealth
During the dire Depression.
Small wonder “The Grapes of Wrath” was written.

For lovers of cartography,
A map collection, vast, sublime.
Quite comprehensive and unique.
We only saw a small part of it.
Maybe soon, they’ll publish all
Or show it to the world, on line.

Now on the terrace lawn
The afternoon re-enactment.
Loud bangs and dressing up,
Educational entertainment!

Against the lovely valley backdrop,
Two hawks circling in the sky,
Commenced the battle, as predicted,
On the dot, at half-past three.

‘Twixt our redcoats, and colonials,
Numbering only ten plus ten.
Against the French, Marines, Canadians,
There were hordes and hordes of them!
[Well, forty]
In the [quite hot] afternoon sun.

Each had Indians to aid their fight,
Red masked and feathered, gave us a fright.
Behind the bushes, in the shade,
Our Colonel’s daughter, hid with her maid.

Muskets cracked, a firework smell.
The battlefield, a veritable hell!
Redcoat tactics, alas inferior,
Had to yield to forces superior.
And the “gallant” French our lady gave
To a brutal Indian brave,
Who clubbed to death her little maid!

Battle over, lost and won.
We booed and cheered them,
Each in their turn,
And clapped them all,
In the [quite hot] afternoon sun.

In the hills near to Bath,
There’s Aladdin’s cave,
Disguised as a Georgian mansion fine.
Fabulous treasures therein displayed.
See it soon! Make the time!
28th JULY 2007