A West Cork Garden Diary November 2018 – Futility, Wilfred Owen

Windfall

Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seed
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
— O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?

Only five of his poems were published in Wilfred Owen’s lifetime. FUTILITY was one of them. It appeared, together with HOSPITAL BARGE, in “The Nation” on 15th June 1918, shortly after being written – at Ripon probably – although Scarborough is a possibility.

Owen died on November 4th 2018.  The news of his death did not reach his parents…

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A WEST CORK GARDEN DIARY: December 1 2018 – Invocation

Windfall

A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island – Frank O’Hara

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying “Hey! I’ve been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don’t be so rude, you are
only the second poet I’ve ever chosen
to speak to personally

so why
aren’t you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can’t hang around
here all day.”

“Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal.”

“When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt” the Sun said
petulantly. “Most people are up
already waiting to see if I’m going
to put in an appearance.”

I tried
to apologize “I missed you yesterday.”
“That’s better” he said. “I didn’t
know you’d come out.” “You may be
wondering why I’ve come so close?”
“Yes” I…

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A WEST CORK GARDEN DIARY NOVEMBER 2018 – and the rain it raineth every day ….

Windfall

The Gardener has not been idle though.  I have been working at the day job while the tin shed is pelted with torrential rain and howling wind.  The shed is bearing up well to the elements – very warm and cosy.  I had thought that the sound of the rain might be maddening and I would be driven totally insane by the sound of it hammering on the roof, like a character during the monsoon in a Somerset Maugham short story, but so far so good and I have not yet taken up a machete and gone on the rampage.  Not yet …

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