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Having the tales of a Time Lord in my head means that I keep finding bits of poems about Time rising up out of the stores of poems that are also in my head, so this week I bring you three poems about Time by three different poets in different ages.

The Fleeting Years

Alas, Postumus, the fleeting years
fall away, nor will piety cause
delay to wrinkles or advancing
old age or indomitable death.
Even if you sacrificed a bull
each day you couldn't placate tearless
Pluto, who with his waves imprisons
thrice-strong Geryon and Tityos -
and those waves, my friend, must needs be crossed
by all who feed on the earth's bounty
whether we're kings or wretched peasants.
In vain we'll try to avoid cruel Mars
and the inconstant disturbances
that course the roaring Adriatic -
in vain through the autumn will we fear
the south wind, harmful to our bodies.
We must see the wandering, sluggish
Cocytos - the infamous offspring
of Danaus - the son of Aeolus:
Sisyphus damned to his ceaseless toil;
we must leave behind the earth and home
and pleasing spouse, and none of those trees
you tend will follow you, its short-lived
master, except the hated cypress.
A worthier heir will drink the wine
you guard now with a hundred keys: he'll
drench the pavement with your best - more fine
than that on which the highest priests do feast.

- Horace


On Time

Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,
Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

- John Milton


I Could Give All To Time

To Time it never seems that he is brave
To set himself against the peaks of snow
To lay them level with the running wave,
Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low,
But only grave, contemplative and grave.
What now is inland shall be ocean isle,
Then eddies playing round a sunken reef
Like the curl at the corner of a smile;
And I could share Time's lack of joy or grief
At such a planetary change of style.
I could give all to Time except - except
What I myself have held. But why declare
The things forbidden that while the Customs slept
I have crossed to Safety with? For I am There,
And what I would not part with I have kept.

- Robert Frost

* * * * * *

(I finished the third of my Doctor Who novellas on Wednesday night and I'm about to spend most of the long Easter weekend in starting to write the fourth one, the idea for which unfolded in my head nearly two weeks ago. The idea's been buzzing around my head ever since, whilst I finished the third one, so it's going to be a relief to get it out of my head and onto paper !)

I don't know about anyone else, but I pick up Poetry Friday "cues" all over the place. Last weekend I was reading an article about the launch of "Doctor Who" Season 3 which referenced T S Eliot's Burnt Norton and Milton's Lycidas, so I pulled up both poems online to re-read them and thought I would share portions of them both with you this week.

Burnt Norton

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
                  But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
                  Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

The full poem is available here.


Lycidas

Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf suck the honied showres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.
The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.

The full poem is online here.

I can just imagine the faces of some literary types I know - the association of Eliot and Milton with "Doctor Who" would make them look very sour indeed, but such combinations don't make me bat an eyelid - I have no problem linking "high culture" with "popular culture". In fact, I think it's an excellent way of introducing adherents of one to the joys of the other (note I'm not saying that either one is better, more valuable or more worthwhile than the other). This is an intelligent and well-written article about a popular culture show, that also references some beautiful poetry - of course, if you don't know either poem, both references will go straight over your head, but if you've read either one, then the references leap off the page to your attention. I think both the references are nicely done - and I've had the line "Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth" in my head all week... Read the rest of this post