  Poetry
This week: Laurence Binyon Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
On August 10, 1869 in Lancaster, England, Frederick Binyon and his wife Mary Dockray welcomed son Laurence Robert Binyon into their family. Frederick Binyon was a clergyman and his grandfather was the head engineer for the London railway. The Binyon family were all Quakers. Binyon was educated at St Paul’s school, then went on to Trinity College. While at the college he won the Newdigate Prize for Poetry.
After completing college Binyon worked as a curator at the British Museum’s Oriental department. He started out working with printed books, then moved into printed and drawings before becoming Keeper and an authority on Oriental Art. His book “Painting in the Far East” published in 1908 happened to be the first book written in any European language about art in the region. Binyon was also an expert on Japanese and Chinese Art. In 1894 he married his wife, Cicely Margaret Powell. Cicely was a historian. The couple had three daughters together, Helen, Margaret and Nicolete. All three of his girls became artists.
Binyon is best known for his poem “For The Fallen” published in 1914 written after hearing of the mass casualties being reported at the start of World War I. Binyon was too old to enlist, instead he went to the Western Front in 1916 to work for the Red Cross as an orderly. He wrote about his experiences in "For Dauntless France," published in 1918. His poems, "Fetching the Wounded" and "The Distant Guns," were also inspired by his hospital service.
Binyon returned to the museum and continued his writing. In 1931, his two volume "Collected Poems" was published. He retired from the museum in 1933 and was appointed Norton professor of poetry at Harvard. From there he delivered a series of lectures on The Spirit of Man in Asian Art, which were published in 1935. Binyon continued his academic work giving prestigious Romanes Lecture in Oxford on Art and Freedom in May 1939. From there he was appointed the Byron Professor of English Literature at University of Athens in 1940. He worked there until forced to leave, by the German invasion of Greece in April 1941.
Binyon died in Dunedin Nursing Home, on March 10, 1943 after an operation. His funeral service was held at Trinity College Chapel, Oxford.
The Rain Was Ending, And Light
by Laurence Binyon
The rain was ending, and light
Lifting the leaden skies.
It shone upon ceiling and floor
And dazzled a child's eyes.
Pale after fever, a captive
Apart from his schoolfellows,
He stood at the high room's window
With face to the pane pressed close,
And beheld an immense glory
Flooding with fire the drops
Spilled on miraculous leaves
Of the fresh green lime-tree tops.
Washed gravel glittered red
To a wall, and beyond it nine
Tall limes in the old inn yard
Rose over the tall inn sign.
And voices arose from beneath
Of boys from school set free,
Racing and chasing each other
With laughter and games and glee.
To the boy at the high room-window,
Gazing alone and apart,
There came a wish without reason,
A thought that shone through his heart.
I'll choose this moment and keep it,
He said to himself, for a vow,
To remember for ever and ever
As if it were always now.
The Burning of the Leaves
by Laurence Binyon
Now is the time for the burning of the leaves,
They go to the fire; the nostrils prick with smoke
Wandering slowly into the weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!
A flame seizes the smouldering ruin, and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.
The last hollyhock’s fallen tower is dust:
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost.
Spark whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.
Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before,
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there:
Let them go to the fire with never a look behind.
That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.
They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winners of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] are:
Beautiful Fool
A clumsy fool
upon the brink.
Stubborn,
will not
allow mercy.
Ripples
upon his mirror.
His cruelty recedes;
a portal
to the soul.
A beautiful fool
upon the brink.
A clumsy silence
curtains the portal of my salvation
hiding
from my tear filled eyes
the mercy of forgiveness.
The memory of love recedes,
backing into the stubborn darkness
of cruelty
and self-doubt,
where the iron chains of terror
cripple my spirit's wings.
I am alone
in this prison
of my own creation
until ripples of light
penetrate my cell,
reflect from the mirror
divine love
and melt the chains
of my fear.
Please stop by the winners and leave them your review of their poems.
Thank you to everyone that entered.
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These are the rules:
1) You must use the words I give in a poem or prose with no limits on length.
2) The words can be in any order and anywhere throughout the poem and can be any form of the word.
3) All entries must be posted in your portfolio and you must post the link in this forum, "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] by January 3, 2015.
4) The winner will get 3000 gift points and the poem will be displayed in this section of the newsletter the next time it is my turn to post (January 7, 2015)
The words are:
past, present, future, linger, damp, beam, hours, chances
 Good luck to all
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Poetry: December 10, 2014 Issue [#6700]
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