Owlpen Manor

I visited Owlpen this week, the church has lots of glass and mosaic, including opus sectile. Here are some photos.

Poetry FridayX2

 

 

I wasn’t around last week so didn’t post a poem, so this week I’ll post 2!! the first of which you should have got last week is by Walt Whitman and called Song of Myself, this is the first verse, its a celebration of being an American, but could be applied to anyone. I should post it on 4th of July but I’ll be in Indianapolis celebrating with Americans.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, 
And what I assume you shall assume, 
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. 

I loafe and invite my soul, 
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. 

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air, 
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their 
parents the same, 
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, 
Hoping to cease not till death. 

Creeds and schools in abeyance, 
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, 
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, 
Nature without check with original energy. 

 

Waltman age 37 when he wrote the poem. Taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walt_Whitman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the 2nd poem is by John Dunne, you can hear Richard Burton read it here.

http://town.hall.org/radio/HarperAudio/013194_harp_01_ITH.au
The Relic
When my grave is broke up again

Some second guest to entertain,

(For graves have learn’d that woman head,

To be to more than one a bed)

And he that digs it, spies

A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,

Will he not let’us alone,

And think that there a loving couple lies,

Who thought that this device might be some way

To make their souls, at the last busy day,

Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

If this fall in a time, or land,

Where mis-devotion doth command,

Then he, that digs us up, will bring

Us to the bishop, and the king,

To make us relics; then

Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I

A something else thereby;

All women shall adore us, and some men;

And since at such time miracles are sought,

I would have that age by this paper taught

What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

First, we lov’d well and faithfully,

Yet knew not what we lov’d, nor why;

Difference of sex no more we knew

Than our guardian angels do;

Coming and going, we

Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;

Our hands ne’er touch’d the seals

Which nature, injur’d by late law, sets free;

These miracles we did, but now alas,

All measure, and all language, I should pass,

Should I tell what a miracle she was.

 

This reminds me of of Side by Side by Philip Larkin. Are they both about enduring/undying love?