To fill the long winter nights, how about posting your favourite poems about gardens and gardening? Write them yourself or quote others' poems.
To kick off here's one I guarantee won't be anyone's choice, as it's in Welsh and composed by my neighbour who's a noted local bard.
I have tried for a fairly close translation (of the sense at least). Though my wife reckons it's "trite" it gives a good feel of the sadness of the Welsh.
Just two notes:
taid is North Welsh for grandfather
and if you've not come across hiraeth before it means something like longing to be back to your childhood roots when you are far away.
Gardd
Lle tyfai natur lwyni drain
Y lluniodd taid ei ardd;
A thaflai'r llecyn bersawr pur
A gwrid o'i blodau hardd.
Mae hanner canrif erbyn hyn
Er imi adael bro.
A gadael a wnaeth taid o'i ardd
Yn fud am ardd y gro.
Mewn hiraeth oedais hwyr o haf
Ar fin ei llwybr main;
A natur wedi hawlio'r ardd
Yn ôl i'r llwyni drain.
Garden
Where nature only brambles grew
My taid his garden planned;
And fragrance ever filled the air
Around the flower-filled land.
More than fifty years have passed since
I left the land I love,
And taid himself left earthly shores
To tend God's plot above.
This summer hiraeth drew me there
Along the stony track;
And nature had reclaimed her own
And brought the brambles back.
Favourite garden poems
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alan refail
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Clive.
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Hello Alan,
On a stone tablet set into the wall at the end of our Yellow Border at work is part of Kiplings "The Glory of the Garden".
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:-" Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade
http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_garden.htm
Rudyard Kipling was a friend of the former owner of the property...Field Marshall Sir A. A. Montgomery Massingberd. In fact he was a bearer at Kiplings funeral.
I am not sure if the poetry on the stone tablet was added during the Field Marshalls time at the Hall or if it has been an additon more recently as a link..
Clive.
On a stone tablet set into the wall at the end of our Yellow Border at work is part of Kiplings "The Glory of the Garden".
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:-" Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade
http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_garden.htm
Rudyard Kipling was a friend of the former owner of the property...Field Marshall Sir A. A. Montgomery Massingberd. In fact he was a bearer at Kiplings funeral.
I am not sure if the poetry on the stone tablet was added during the Field Marshalls time at the Hall or if it has been an additon more recently as a link..
Clive.
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oldherbaceous
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Dear Alan, heres one of my favourites.
In my greenhouse theres a toad,
I call him Percy Thrower,
He never wanders near the road,
Or near my motor mower.
He sleeps beneath a seed tray,
And every evening goes,
Hopping round the greenhouse,
Between my tomatoes.
When it's getting dusky,
I light the stove in there,
Then out comes Percy Thrower,
To sit by it's warm flare.
Wrote by a dashing young lad many years ago.
In my greenhouse theres a toad,
I call him Percy Thrower,
He never wanders near the road,
Or near my motor mower.
He sleeps beneath a seed tray,
And every evening goes,
Hopping round the greenhouse,
Between my tomatoes.
When it's getting dusky,
I light the stove in there,
Then out comes Percy Thrower,
To sit by it's warm flare.
Wrote by a dashing young lad many years ago.
Kind Regards, Old Herbaceous.
There's no fool like an old fool.
There's no fool like an old fool.
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The Grock in the Frock
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Hi Alan ,what a fab idea there is one poem i really like by an irish poet s. heaney i dont know it off by heart so will have to look it up and then post it.
Love you lots like Jelly Tots
How about this one?
Gardener's Prayer
by Karel Capek
O Lord, grant that in some way it may rain every day,
Say from about midnight until three o'clock in the morning,
But, You see, it must be gentle and warm so that it can soak in;
Grant that at the same time it would not rain on campion, alyssum, helianthus, lavendar, and others which
You in Your infinite wisdom know are drought-loving plants-
I will write their names on a bit of paper if you like-
And grant that the sun may shine the whole day long,
But not everywhere (not, for instance, on the
gentian, plantain lily, and rhododendron) and not too much;
That there may be plenty of dew and little wind, enough worms, no lice and snails, or mildew,
and that once a week thin liquid manure and guano
may fall from heaven.
Amen.
Gardener's Prayer
by Karel Capek
O Lord, grant that in some way it may rain every day,
Say from about midnight until three o'clock in the morning,
But, You see, it must be gentle and warm so that it can soak in;
Grant that at the same time it would not rain on campion, alyssum, helianthus, lavendar, and others which
You in Your infinite wisdom know are drought-loving plants-
I will write their names on a bit of paper if you like-
And grant that the sun may shine the whole day long,
But not everywhere (not, for instance, on the
gentian, plantain lily, and rhododendron) and not too much;
That there may be plenty of dew and little wind, enough worms, no lice and snails, or mildew,
and that once a week thin liquid manure and guano
may fall from heaven.
Amen.
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oldherbaceous
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The Vista.
A Vista is a thing which shows,
How far your garden really goes,
A slightly arrogant affair,
To make the simple stand and stare.
It doesn't twist or turn about,
It leaves you in no sort of boubt,
Solemn and stiff, without a bend,
It goes to it's appointed end.
People with vistas, you will find,
Have often got the vista mind,
The sort of folk who love to show,
How far their gardens really go.
A Vista is a thing which shows,
How far your garden really goes,
A slightly arrogant affair,
To make the simple stand and stare.
It doesn't twist or turn about,
It leaves you in no sort of boubt,
Solemn and stiff, without a bend,
It goes to it's appointed end.
People with vistas, you will find,
Have often got the vista mind,
The sort of folk who love to show,
How far their gardens really go.
Kind Regards, Old Herbaceous.
There's no fool like an old fool.
There's no fool like an old fool.
Closer to Gods Hearth
When friends call around at my houseand find that I'm not there,
They don't leave in frustration,anger or despair,
No,they walk straight up the garden, knowing where I'll be
Pottering about in my greenhouse in peace and tranquillity.
It's there I let my thoughts drift as I plant each tiny seed,
Will they grow to be like the packet shows or cultivated weeds?,
For you see I'm just an amateur compared to some I know,
But get such pleasure tending them and willing them to grow,
And when they're strong and healty plants there's nothing to compare,
With the pride and satisfaction felt from tender loving care.
As I now gaze round the garden at colours of every hue,
I forget about the hard work, garden pests and backaches too,
I thank our Lord for rain and sun which helps give plants their birth,
Yes you're closer to God's hearth in a garden than anywhere else on earth.
Bren
When friends call around at my houseand find that I'm not there,
They don't leave in frustration,anger or despair,
No,they walk straight up the garden, knowing where I'll be
Pottering about in my greenhouse in peace and tranquillity.
It's there I let my thoughts drift as I plant each tiny seed,
Will they grow to be like the packet shows or cultivated weeds?,
For you see I'm just an amateur compared to some I know,
But get such pleasure tending them and willing them to grow,
And when they're strong and healty plants there's nothing to compare,
With the pride and satisfaction felt from tender loving care.
As I now gaze round the garden at colours of every hue,
I forget about the hard work, garden pests and backaches too,
I thank our Lord for rain and sun which helps give plants their birth,
Yes you're closer to God's hearth in a garden than anywhere else on earth.
Bren
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oldherbaceous
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Dear Bren, what a touching poem.
Kind Regards, Old Herbaceous.
There's no fool like an old fool.
There's no fool like an old fool.
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alan refail
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Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney
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Stephen
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Whilst I don't have one relating to gardens in particular I would read Keats for the season or this item from Thomas Hood
No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -
November!
No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -
November!
Nothing is foolproof to a sufficiently talented fool.
I bought a poster in Salisbury Cathedral afew years ago and its being hanging in the shed on the allotment since.
All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God made them all.
But what we never mention though gardeners know it's true,
Is when He made the goodies He made the baddies too.
The green fly on the roses,the maggots in the peas,
Manure that fills our noses, He also gave us these.
The fungus on the goose-gogs,the club root on the greens,
The slugs that eat the lettuce and chew the aubergines.
The drought that kills the fuchsias, the frost that nips the buds,
The rain that drowns the seedlings, the blight that hits the spuds.
The midges and mosquitoes the neetles and the weeds.
The pigeons in the green stuff, the sparrows on the seeds.
The fly that gets the carrots, the wasp that eats the plums,
How black the gardeners outlook, though green maybe his thumbs
But still we gardeners labour midst vegetables and flowers
And pray what hits our neighbour's will somehow bypass ours.
Bren
All things bright and beautiful
All creatures great and small
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God made them all.
But what we never mention though gardeners know it's true,
Is when He made the goodies He made the baddies too.
The green fly on the roses,the maggots in the peas,
Manure that fills our noses, He also gave us these.
The fungus on the goose-gogs,the club root on the greens,
The slugs that eat the lettuce and chew the aubergines.
The drought that kills the fuchsias, the frost that nips the buds,
The rain that drowns the seedlings, the blight that hits the spuds.
The midges and mosquitoes the neetles and the weeds.
The pigeons in the green stuff, the sparrows on the seeds.
The fly that gets the carrots, the wasp that eats the plums,
How black the gardeners outlook, though green maybe his thumbs
But still we gardeners labour midst vegetables and flowers
And pray what hits our neighbour's will somehow bypass ours.
Bren
