OK, no-one has stuck their neck out to suggest names for those mystery poetry lines, though several poets follow this blog. There has, though, been a request for clues.
So here goes.
“In theory they were sound on Expectation
Had there been situations to be in.
Unluckily, they were their situation”
CLUE: A Yorkshireman in America?
Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind swivelled snow
Spins to the widow-making unchilding unfathering deeps
CLUE: Socialising with Jesus?
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
And purple-stained mouth
CLUE: Suffering from a kind of Thrush?
The earth of shells and friends is covered in flowers
CLUE: Money is the source of some evil.
Far, far around shall those dark clustered trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep
CLUE: Hyperion to a satyr!
though now it seems
As if some marvellous empty sea-shell flung
Out of the obscure dark of the rich streams
And not a fountain, were the symbol which
Shadows the inherited glory of the rich
CLUE: Bill Gates?
Neither the magical smith nor the carver
Of mythical fish on soft stones will answer a call
CLUE: The first pope?
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of beaten gold and gold enamelling
CLUE: An Irishman in Istanbul
Cold blows the wind on my true love
And a few small drops of rain
I never knew but one true love
And in greenwood he was slain
CLUE: What about Franz Fanon?
It came to me on the NIle my passport lied,
Callign me dark who am grey
I saw Willie Mackintosh burn Auchendoon:
CLUE: Perhaps the most prolific of all poets.
Remember me to God
And tell him that our politicians swear
They won’t give in till Priussia’s rule’s been trod
Under the heel of England – are you there?
Oh, and the war won’t end for at least two years,
But we’ve got bags of men
CLUE: Mad Jack
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass
Stains the white radiance of eternity
Until death shatters it to fragments
CLUE: Related to Frankenstein by marriage.
Oh, and one I meant to include but forgot:
She drove in the dark to leeward
She struck not a reef or a rock
But the coombs of a smother of sand. Night drew her
Dead to the Kentish Knock.
CLUE: A manly poem.
Come on – have a go!