Poetry.. This is my favorite English poem ...Please comment

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16 Jul 2011 00:00 by paddy121 Star rating. 35 posts Send private message

  

THE LISTENERS

by: Walter de la Mare (b. 1873)

      'S there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
      Knocking on the moonlit door;
      And his horse in the silence champ'd the grasses
      Of the forest's ferny floor:
      And a bird flew up out of the turret,
      Above the Traveller's head:
      And he smote upon the door again a second time;
      'Is there anybody there?' he said.
      But no one descended to the Traveller;
      No head from the leaf-fringed sill
      Lean'd over and look'd into his grey eyes,
      Where he stood perplex'd and still.
      But only a host of phantom listeners
      That dwelt in the lone house then
      Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
      To that voice from the world of men:
      Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
      That goes down to the empty hall,
      Hearkening in an air stirr'd and shaken
      By the lonely Traveller's call.
      And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
      Their stillness answering his cry,
      While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
      'Neath the starr'd and leafy sky;
      For he suddenly smote on the door, even
      Louder, and lifted his head:--
      'Tell them I came, and no one answer'd,
      That I kept my word,' he said.
      Never the least stir made the listeners,
      Though every word he spake
      Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
      From the one man left awake:
      Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
      And the sound of iron on stone,
      And how the silence surged softly backward,
      When the plunging hoofs were gone.


_______________________
Its many a time a mans mouth broke his nose



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16 Jul 2011 14:46 by ruth Star rating in on a hill in rural L.... 117 posts Send private message

 

Thank you Paddy for this reminder. Made my heart sing.
 
I used to read this poem to my class of 5-7 year olds who would ask for it over and over again, so that by the end of the year they were able to say it along with me. I can see their faces now, eyes wide – you could hear a pin drop.
 
I was once stopped in the street years later by an ex-pupil who, in the middle of the conversation said, ‘Do you remember that poem you used to say, ‘Is there anybody there?’ I can still remember it and say it to my young ‘un sometimes.’
 
How good is that? Walter de la Mare – English, traditional, a bit old-fashioned now, but absolutely brilliant.
 
Thanks.
ruth




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16 Jul 2011 19:00 by campana Star rating in Marbella. 474 posts Send private message

campana´s avatar

A very evocative poem, Paddy.  We used to learn this at school (back in Ireland) when required to do a "recitation". 

Patricia





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16 Jul 2011 19:46 by Marilyn Star rating. 46 posts Send private message

How beautiful !

Thank you Paddy,

Marilyn





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16 Jul 2011 19:50 by camille Star rating in West Yorkshire & Her.... 121 posts Send private message

camille´s avatar

Lovely, brought back fond memories of my school days :-)





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18 Jul 2011 13:05 by TP1 Star rating in Milton Keynes and Ca.... 161 posts Send private message

Reminds me of my favourite school poem …

 

Macavity - The Mystery Cat
a poem by T S Eliot

 

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair--
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair--
But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
"It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

 





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