Ten Poems about Cricket

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As was his habit, he sent this gem to his circle of friends and some time later (so the story goes) rang one of them, his fellow-dramatist David Hare, to see if he had received it. Hare confirmed that he had. Plenty have sighed about the biscuit-tin jingoism of this work, which urged the soldiers of the Empire to “Play up, play up and play the game!” but it didn’t do the author any harm: he went on to become Controller of Propaganda in World War I. A good hooker. Not as interesting as you might think, it means that a batsman is good at hitting the ball away to his leg side.

Those who are blessed to write poetry are introduced to a spiritual dimension that many won’t confess. It is the Voice of God that we sometimes can’t identify. However, we know it is not us, not our wisdom and not our knowledge. Poetry takes you beyond your knowledge and into a spirit realm that will and can give you insight. Many of the poems made me really think about how poetry is a part of burden release, emotional outlet and victorious accomplishments. I agree with what I have written above in my earlier review but I did concentrate on one thing that I notice I did not mention previously and perhaps it was just as well for I might just have downgraded my assessment to a two-star rating. Among the fiercest of spiritual poems are those of despair, separation, and longing for what is known to be absent. Such poems stand as proof that the dark night of the soul is universal. Especially stripped of consolation are Gerard Manley Hopkins’s “dark sonnets,” of which this is one:Vultures in their shabby Sunday suitsfidget with broken umbrellas,while the ape beats his breastand yodels out repentance. It's a philosophy of life, of course,drinks fluorescent, whips of syntax in the airabove the heads -- how small they seem from here,the bobbing universal heads, stuffing the void with eloquence,and also tiny merciless dartsof truth. They danced until morning and the sun came upnaked and angry and so they returnedby the same strange route. Try I will; no harm in trying: Wonder 'tis how little mirth Keeps the bones of man from lying On the bed of earth. In Kyoto” by Basho, translated by Jane Hirshfield. Reprinted with the permission of Jane Hirshfield.

The only useful answer is that I have found a new audience, and I have somehow, unconsciously, and yet, calculatedly, managed to shape my work around this audience. There is something impure, something unessential, something seemingly crass about this confession. I am left wondering what else I have abandoned for America; I wonder what else I have discarded so I can be a poet in America. And how bad is this? How serious a failure is this of my art? The possible choices of poems that are also prayers are familiar and abundant. (Czeslaw Milosz’s “ Veni Creator” is one in which a contemporary sensibility is notably present.) Poems holding a dialogue between the self and a personified spirituality are similarly found in almost every tradition. They are especially visible in the work of contemporary American poets. Perhaps this is because a poem of two voices offers, by its inherent structure, not only the record of a transformation, but some haven for skepticism and doubt, even as it apparently resolves them. The Guardian Angel Of The Little Utopia Shall I move the flowers again?Shall I put them further to the leftinto the light?Win that fix it, will that arrange thething?Yellow sky. It didn’t take much for this sort of thing to grow into the patriotic drum-roll that made Henry Newbolt’s 1897 poem Vitai Lampada such an immediate and enduring hit. Lines Composed on the Occasion of Manchester United's Champions League Defeat by Bayern Munich in April 2010The author of this nugget was John Major. He might not have known it, but he was echoing the bilge produced (also at The Oval) by the so-called “Surrey Poet”, Albert Craig. Craig’s poems were of the so-bad-they’re-funny variety, and sold like fairly warm cakes. But posterity has not been kind to them: Store guns and ammunition first, Build forts and warlike factories, Sink bores and tanks where drought is worst, Give over time to industries. No ball. There is a ball but it was not bowled correctly and the batsman gets a free shot and an extra run. She told him not to drink a drop of wineand gave him a cloak that would makehim invisible when the right time came. A war with reason you would wage To be amused for your short span, Until your children's heritage Is claimed for China by Japan.

The most famous part of the "Gavaskar Calypso" is the one that describes how he batted "like a wall": Life buzzing beneath methough my feeling says the hive is gone, queen gone,the continuum continuing beneath, busy, earnest, in con-versation. Pythagorean bees are shut inside the hive,which hymns and hums like Sunday chapel--drowsy thoughts in a wrinkled brain. And when she mentions nine gates, one is reminded that the human and animal bodies also have nine gates, or openings. The eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and the organs of procreation and elimination. Now, it may not have been her intent to indicate this line of reasoning, but such is poetry. Subject to a diverse array of meanings, peculiar to the individual reader. And new-risen Lancashire the foe! A Shire so young that has scarce impressed its traces, Ah, how shall it stand before all-resistless Graces? O, little red rose, their bats are as macesThis poem reminds that if a house is walled so tightly that it lets in no wind or rain, if a life is walled so tightly that it lets in no pain, grief, anger, or longing, it will also be closed to the entrance of what is most wanted." When I read that, that sparked something within me. I know that my deep interpretation of poem are not so uncommon after all. This article about Spiritual and Enlightenment poetry really caught my attention because I like the concept of something such as poetry being able to cleanse your soul or help you find inner peace. The article mentions multiple gates that categorizes certain genres of Spiritual Poems by poets and some are of different languages and had to be translated. Though the red roses crest the caps, I know. For the field is full of shades as I near a shadowy coast, And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host In my mind, the nine gates are the entrances to/exits from, the house of which Izumi Shikibu speaks. The house where the alchemist turns the proverbial lead into gold.

He feigned sleep howeverand the princesses sprang out of their bedsand fussed around like a Miss America Contest. The passengersfrom Boston to Pariswatching the movie with dawncoming up like statues of honey,having partaken of champagne and steakwhile the world turned like a toy globe,those murderers of the nightgownwould understand. The outpost of the white man's race, Where next his flag shall be unfurled, Make clean the place! Make strong the place! Call white men in from all the world!

No use; the toolboxrefuses to reveal its verbs;the rasp, the plane, the awl,revert to sullen metal. List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity You'll rejoice at how many kinds of **** there are:gosling **** (which J.