But in the North long since my nest is made. Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,. More Poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Break, Break, Break. The Charge of the Light Brigade. Crossing the Bar. The Eagle. See All Poems by this Author. See a problem on this page? More About This Poem.
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About this Poet. Read Full Biography. More About this Poet. Region: England. Quick Tags. Did she close her eyes and trust in God? No, she saw lighthouses Streaming in chaos Like sparks from a chimney — She had fixed her instruments on home. And now, suddenly, into a blanch-tree stillness A silence of celandines, A fringing and stupor of frost She bursts, weightless — to anchor On eggs frail as frost.
There she goes, flung taut on her leash, Her eyes at her mouth-corners, Water-skiing out across a wind That wrecks great flakes against windscreens.
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But for Hughes, all is not what it seems:. The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer, A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage, A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air. But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust In shimmering exhaust Searching to slake Its fever in ocean Will play and be idle or else it will bust. The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon, She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples, Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach Disgorges its organs A scamper of colours Which roll like tomatoes Nude as tomatoes With sand in their creases To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech. The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer, She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it, She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners. But the holiday people Are laid out like wounded Flat as in ovens Roasting and basting With faces of torment as space burns them blue Their heads are transistors Their teeth grit on sand grains Their lost kids are squalling While man-eating flies Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces And start up the serpent And headache it homeward A car full of squabbles And sobbing and stickiness With sand in their crannies Inhaling petroleum That pours from the foxgloves While the evening swallow The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson, Touches the honey-slow river and turning Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves — A boomerang of rejoicing shadow. B y early September, most swallows are preparing to migrate. They flutter about restlessly, and often gather on telegraph wires.
Most leave the UK during September, with early broods of youngsters being the first to go. But a few stragglers may hang around into October. The return journey to southern Africa takes about six weeks. They travel down through western France and eastern Spain into Morocco, before crossing the Sahara Desert and the Congo rainforest — finally reaching South Africa and Namibia. They migrate during daylight, flying quite low and covering about miles each day. At night they roost in huge flocks in reed-beds at traditional stopover spots. Nonetheless, many die of starvation.
If they survive, they can live for up to sixteen years. In The Blue Swallows , Howard Nemerov cautions against the tendency to see ourselves reflected in nature, or truths revealed to us through nature:. O swallows, swallows, poems are not The point.
Swallow or Spit ( freaky friday freestyle)
Poor mind, what would you have them write? Some cabalistic history Whose authorship you might ascribe To God? That villainous William of Occam Cut out the feet from under that dream Some seven centuries ago. Perhaps when you will have Fully awakened, I shall show you A new thing: even the water Flowing away beneath those birds Will fail to reflect their flying forms, And the eyes that see become as stones Whence never tears shall fall again. On the way home this evening we stopped to join dozens of other people by the side of the road overlooking Falmouth Bay, who were watching the Red Arrows display team undertake spins and rolls and unbelievably deft feats of flying wing tip to wing tip.
The planes reminded me of swallows as they swooped and twisted in the air, with an overwhelming sense of exuberance — maybe a strange adjective for an fighter plane! We have swallows nesting in our barn and, like so many other people, I watch for them in April and their arrival always makes me smile, and I welcome them home.
At the moment there are groups of the first broods sitting on the telegraph wires outside the house, all chattering to one one another, sounding like exotic budgies. They have flying lessons each evening and swoop down low across the field at the back of the house catching midges, showing the same exuberance as the Red Arrows! You are commenting using your WordPress.
“Swallow”: When Poems are Misinterpreted – Katie Ailes
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