A Hymn to God t…

John Donne, by Isaac Oliver (died 1622). See s...

John Donne, by Isaac Oliver (died 1622). National Portrait Gallery, London  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A Hymn to God the Father

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow’d in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.

by John Donne, the English poet, satirist, lawyer and priest

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AUGUST IS THE M…

English: Little boats on the Thames Having sai...

Little boats on the Thames  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

AUGUST IS THE MONTH

“Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating –
Where will all come home?”

From ‘Where Go The Boats?’ by Robert Louis Stevenson

NOISILY WE LIVE

Moorhen

Moorhen (Photo credit: Sergey Yeliseev)

on the lawns

ice tinkling

Pimms jugs crackling;

in the sky

an airplane drones, then another –

in between, placidity:

on the water

a moorhen’s cry;

this pond, thickly green

like jelly under a crust of glass

a bird’s flight slices through it;

on the courts

the thud of tennis balls

then a triumphant male shout;

from the earth

the summer heat rising –

Life’s noises reprising

day in and out.

©Millicent Danker

16 July 2013

“Soon will the …

Photo of some pink Sweet William flowers (Dian...

Sweet William flowers (Dianthus barbatus). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on,
Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,
And stocks in fragrant blow;”

– From ‘Thyrsis’ by Matthew Arnold, British Poet, 1822-1888

STEALTHILY

Stealthily she comes,
at first a twinge in
the wrist or that
ache in the lower back

when you wake up, bend
or negotiate the
spiral stairs for the tube –
try to put on your shoe.

You tire, sighing
at the mirror, sighting
a crop of white;
People stand up for you

on trains and buses;
In cafes you stand out
for the choices
you make, your bent

qualifies you for a freedom
pass; you feel patronised
yet want to be prized
for your vintage

whose music no longer
appeals to their ears;
They think your birth
date is historical, hysterical

they ask how you are as if they expect
you will terminate any time soon.

You speak a language
that dates,
choose to visit places
auctioneers like on plates.

You forget why you went
down the high street;
remember the church lady
but not her name. Sweet.

Stealthily she comes,
this thing.

count the stairs.:-)

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

They call it ageing.

©Millicent Danker
16 June 2013

WHARF LIGHT

Crepuscular Rays

Crepuscular Rays (Photo credit: t0msk)

Overhead, the rolling ample sky –
ample because of building restrictions
which allow you to
sit by a river and look for miles
without a high-rise in sight –
Clouds turn silver
from ageing at twilight
mirrored by platinum ripples
on the water, a delight
to the London eye.
Small craft lazily ply
colourless geese glide by
bobbing beaks under a bridge
of dull stone;
Grey or brown cottages,
white river homes
decorate the flanks;
Muted now the crepuscular land.

Then, a parade of scarlet buses –
Urgent reminders of city buzzes –
Cranking over the arches.

©Millicent Danker
16 June 2013

DRESSING UP GIRLS

Why do girls dress up as boys –
wear
unwashed jeans
moccasins
rude Tees
fleece
checks
macs
turned-up trousers
warehouse blazers
sneakers
boxers
rucksacks
haversacks
cargoes
loafers
bootlaces
her tuxedos?

No wonder they turn out
studded
belted
zipped
clipped

cropped
striped
leathered
booted
rugged
faded
jaded
bleeded
blackened
waistless
shapeless
faceless
sexless

Do they know their creators –
those evil brandsmiths
purveyors of design
big money and crime –

Peasant glad rags from
Asian backyards common
made-to-conform
rich-born, pretend-torn

No more that frill, that thrill of
dresses that flatter
head-turning couture in
colours that matter

Whither the turn of ankle
the feminine pout
the sweet sassy sway
of skirts that swish about?

Pushing hard to look like them
on every street in the kingdom
– whether at work or at play –
are we not a tie and a beard away?

©Millicent Danker
10 June 2013

fashionb02

fashionb02 (Photo credit: minijack3)

AN ENGLISH SUMMER

Sunny Days!

Sunny Days! (Photo credit: Alex Holyoake)

Could any day be more glorious?
The sun oh the sun
Beating down on an earth
Starved for fun

Could any day be more glorious?
Stripped to white tees
Flip-flop toed females
pretty nails tease

Could any day be more glorious?
More long, more salubrious
Could life be better than this?
Was there ever more reason to kiss?

Could any day be more glorious?
Could any sky be more generous?
Could He make any more universe
For England, for me?

© Millicent Danker
8 June 2013

THE BIG ISLAND

English: Ventnor Beach, Isle of Wight Taken by...

Ventnor Beach, Isle of Wight Taken by me (skez on wikipedia) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Only the crossing was grim due to a choppy sea
The water threw our boat around
– it was a hovercraft you see –
Then a gravelly beach with pebbles abound
Flat-roofed terraces rose, swelled, from the ground.

Walkers – but no stalkers – hasten here
To forage for lifestyles austere
Swimmers come too – throw themselves without fear
Into cold waters come Christmas at Ventnor

Coves, cliffs, B&B folk galore
Come and go like the tides on the shore
You sit with a telescope on the top floor
And imagine a sailor’s life, and more

Whimsical landscape, the Solent roar
Bending roads lead to Victorian pasture
Piece of England so rich and pure
Next season, she beckons again, encore!

©Millicent Danker
24 December 2012 / 24 May 2013