#Poetry Thursday

[seraphim-eternal]

My soul is sorrowful, even unto death.

Matthew 26:38

[dreamlogic]

Because the most difficult part about making something, also the best, Is existing in the middle, Sustaining an act of radical imagination, I simmered a broth: onion, lemon, a big handful of mint. The phone rang. So with my left  Hand I answered it, Sautéing the rice, then adding the broth Slowly, one ladle at a time, with my right. What’s up? The miracle of risotto, it’s easy to miss, is the moment when the husks dissolve, Each grain of rice releasing its tiny explosion of starch. If you take it off the heat just then, let it sit While you shave the parmesan into paper-thin curls, It will be perfectly creamy, But will still have a bite. There will be dishes to do,  The moon will rise, And everyone you love will be safe.

"Thursday" by James Longenbach

[beccawise7]

Love. Love with a fierceness that frightens the disingenuous and comforts the meek.

Give of your entire being.  Holding nothing back, even knowing you'll experience pain in the end.

Laugh with the innocence of a child who no longer can, so you do it for them with joy.

Live your life in a manner with which, at the end of it, you have no regrets about the human being you were when you walked this earth.

~beccawise7💜🖤 ('21@c)

[too-antigonish]

How did Endeavour manage to pull off...poetry cops?

Seriously! Nowhere else will you ever see mid-century policemen—finding themselves suddenly overcome by emotion—believably recite poetry to each other.

I have no actual answer to my question. I can only say that they did it and did it well.

And sure there are lots of literary references and other characters reciting bits of poetry throughout the series—but a lot of shows manage that. In this show though, there are two just straight-out "I'm-now-going-to-take-a-moment-to-recite-this-poem-to-you" moments:

Morse recites the last stanza of Housman's "How Clear, How Lovely Bright," as he and Thursday face almost certain death in Neverland. And at the end of Colours, Thursday recites the first stanza of Henry Reed's "Naming of Parts."

And miracle of miracles, both times, it's completely convincing in the context and in-character. What a strange and wonderful thing to pull off so well!

Full text of poems:

How Clear, How Lovely Bright

Naming of Parts

Edited to add:

S9 Trailer with Shaun Evans reciting "How Clear, How Lovely Bright"

Scene from IM (Remorseful Day) where Morse recites last stanza of "How Clear, How Lovely Bright"

[oeuvrinarydurian]

Following in the footsteps of the legendary “Banbury Station, 3 a.m.”, produced by @too-antigonish, and the acclaimed follow up produced by @astridcontramundum, I present to you, the spoken word stylings of our own Simple Country Pathologist, Max DeBryn.

Fellow Tumblrians, please join me at the album release party at The Eagle and Child, as we lift a glass and enjoy our favourite Declaimer of Death as he shares Deep Thoughts and Medical Bon Mots.

Track listing (with bonus track at the end featuring a surprise guest).

Love and Fishing: The Wit and Wisdom of Max DeBryn

Nothing Here to Frighten the Horses

Something of a Salmagundi

“I'm a Pathologist, Not a Road Sweeper”; a witty homage to DeForrest Kelley

The Last of the Red Hot Livers, or, I Never Met a Neil Simon Pun I Didn’t Like

Alimentary, My Dear Morse:  A Meditation on Saveloy and Chips 

This Was No Punting Accident (It Wasn't a Boat Propeller. And It Wasn't Lizzie Borden):  A Cautionary Tale About Water

 Love's Very Popular

Tripes in a Tub (featuring Baby Morse)

Numb To Life (A Ode to Seconal)

Septic Tank. What a Treat.

Been At the Keats Again, Sergeant? (featuring Jim Strange)

 Just a Hint of Sucrose (People Do Despair, Morse)

 An Elegant Sufficiency, a.k.a. Deficient to the Tune of One Head

A Man Loves What He Loves:  Steak and Kidney at the Eagle.

All That Flesh (To Be Read At a Stag Do)

"And one was fond of me: and all are slain."/“Ask me no more, for fear I should reply.”, A. E. Housman Was a Friend of Mine, a Lament with E. Morse

Bonus Track:  Signs and Wonders, Feat. Fred Thursday 

[creatingnikki]

and every thursday afternoon you wondered why you had to go on living and every thursday afternoon you made yourself iced coffee and lay on the cool marble floor for seven minutes willing yourself to find an answer. any answer at all. and you found it in the way the floor held you and in the way the coffee kissed your lips ever so briefly and in the way the birds didn't get tired of chirping and in the way the clouds covered the sky and in the way you never truly gave up on life. no matter the year, no matter the state of your heart, no matter your bank balance, no matter your address. but the urge to die a little came every thursday afternoon like an old friend who had promised to never give up on you. so how could you fault it for its consistency? for its punctuality? for its commitment? didn't you value these traits? of course you did. so it was decided then. you would reserve your thursday afternoons for these maroons.

[melancholicnightfall]

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[apoemaday]

Thursday

by James Longenbach

Because the most difficult part about making something, also the best, Is existing in the middle, Sustaining an act of radical imagination, I simmered a broth: onion, lemon, a big handful of mint.

The phone rang. So with my left Hand I answered it, Sautéing the rice, then adding the broth Slowly, one ladle at a time, with my right. What’s up?

The miracle of risotto, it’s easy to miss, is the moment when the husks dissolve, Each grain of rice releasing its tiny explosion of starch.

If you take it off the heat just then, let it sit While you shave the parmesan into paper-thin curls, It will be perfectly creamy, But will still have a bite.

There will be dishes to do, The moon will rise, And everyone you love will be safe.

[talltalestogo]

Bells

Fresh blueberries fall, /

clap against the metal bowl. /

The bells of summer.

.

.

#bells #blueberries #summer #metal #bowl #fresh #haiku #poem #poetry #haiga #photo #oldnorthknoxville #dabidebooker #june #thursday #062724 #2024

[melestasflight]

Throwback Thursday

summoned by the lovely @sallysavestheday. Here's a throwback to Elrond the poet, Elrond the besotted, Elrond who comes home, at last.

On this day, a day he had not dared dream in his long winter, Elrond finds himself in Celebrían’s home. She had not waited for him upon the docks of Tol Eressëa with Elwing, nor welcomed him with fresh bread and sweet water beside Idril. He stands now in Celebrían’s small house, a green-roofed cabin between the trunks of ancient trees. All windows and doors are open wide as if inviting any beast of the wood to dwell as a guest here. There are few things but the house does not feel empty. A neatly folded piece of paper sits on the small table in the only room. It is for him, Elrond knows. Winters and summers Will come and go but      You will come to me. The world shall change And the roads curve but      You will come to me. None shall remember The people we were but      You will come to me. Tho Tilion descends With Arien from the skies      You will come to me. His hands shake by the time he reads the last verse. And when he looks up from the paper, she stands there watching him, renewed and more beautiful than in any of Elrond’s memories. I have no poem for you, he wants to say but does not dare speak, afraid that he shall shatter this moment and never regain it again. ‘I knew you would come to me,’ his beloved says and spreads her arms wide. Elrond lets his heart open and be slowly filled with wonder and delight as he steps forward to fall into Celebrían’s embrace. They do not need words for this.

For more Celrond poetry: filled with wonder and delight

@polutrope @elentarial @eilinelsghost if you'd like, give a snippet of something that's been standing on the shelves

[decisions-at-3am]

We met waiting for the train. And when it went astray, You asked if I'd seen it pass. I said I thought it was delayed.

Apparently that's all it took, To strike up a conversation. The world seems less lonely. What luck, I was at the station.

[beccawise7]

Keep your pretty words and spoken promises.

Give me your eyes...

For everything you feel, desire and intend is written within them, like the words scripted on the pages of a beloved novel.

Your eyes tell me everything I need to know, and all the secrets you wish to hide.

~beccawise7 💜🖤

[too-antigonish]

"The best of us never came home..."

-Fred Thursday, S5E2: Cartouche

It's Memorial Day in the US. I was very close to my grandfathers, both of whom did come home. Their experiences—one in the European theater and one in the Pacific—were tame compared to most but affected them for life. The stories they told me have had a big impact on who I am.

I didn't know that Henry Reed, the poet who wrote "Naming of Parts," (the poem Thursday recites at the end of S5E4: Colours) worked on codes and ciphers at Bletchley Park during WWII. How much more fitting for Endeavour could a poet be!

The following is a somewhat idiosyncratic recitation of the poem that I really like. Let your ear get used to it and stick with it. It's really moving.

[whatisthiswitchcraft]

microdosing on application for release from the dream (2024) by reading application for release from the dream (2015)

[atclouds]

Im about ready for this to be over

Theres a ghost standing in the corner of my room and i want to bash it in with a metal pole

I do not know what it wants from me

One of us is dead and one of us is deaf

Im the one screaming at it to go away

To leave me alone

But my skin crawls when im lonely

My teath shiver and shatter as i sleep

The inside of my palms hate me

You can tell alot by looking at someones hands

Im not a particularly kind person

Mainly to myself

29/8/24

[ceeceetv]

WIP Wednesday

[Thursday] Thanks for the tags, @in-my-loki-feels and @punch-love <3

How about a short poem from Mobius this time?

Had it really taken nothing but a spark? His reality, ash in his hands.  They’re lying to you. Flue opened, formidable facade fading like clearing smoke.  Subjugation, predetermination—a holy imperative.  An illusion. When all your gods are dead, what’s left of divinity? And why does it feel like maybe you didn’t kill all of them.