Anne Barbara Ridler
Anne Barbara Ridler OBE (née Bradby) was a British poet, and Faber and Faber editor, selecting the Faber A Little Book of Modern Verse with T. S. Eliot (1941). Her Collected Poems (Carcanet Press) were published in 1994. She turned to libretto work and verse plays; it was later in life that she earned official recognition, receiving an OBE in 2001.
Ridler was the daughter of HC Bradby, a housemaster at Rugby School, where she was born. Her mother, Violet Bradby, born Milford, wrote popular children's stories and was the sister of Humphrey S. Milford, Publisher to the University of Oxford. One of her great-grandfathers was Charles Richard Sumner, Bishop of ... more »
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Anne Barbara Ridler Poems
Since we through war awhile must part Sweetheart, and learn to lose Daily use Of all that satisfied our heart:
We thought they were gulls at first, while they were distant- The two cranes flying out of a natural morning,
Now that you lie In London afar, And may sleep longer Though lonelier,
For A Child Expected
Lovers whose lifted hands are candles in winter, Whose gentle ways like streams in the easy summer, Lying together
A Dream Observed
Out from his bed the breaking seas By waking eyes unseen Now fall, aquatic creatures whirl And he whirls through the ambient green.
Poem For A Christmas Broadcast
Woman s Voice Perhaps you find the angel most improbable? It spoke to men asleep, their minds ajar For once to admit the entrance of a stranger.
Under cool trees the City tombs extend, and nearer lie stones above Blake's and Bunyan's bones to Vivian's working days than I.
The Spring Equinox
Now is the pause between asleep and awake: Two seasons take A colour and quality each from each as yet. The new stage-set
Nothing is Lost
Nothing is lost. We are too sad to know that, or too blind; Only in visited moments do we understand: It is not that the dead return ---
Lying in bed this morning, just a year Since our first days, I was trying to assess -- Against my natural caution -- by desire And how the fact outdid it, my happiness:
Beyond the Chiltern coast, this church: A lighthouse in dry seas of standing corn. Bees hive in the tower; the outer stone Pared and frittered in sunlight, flakes with the years:
Collected Poems (1994)
Lying in bed this morning, just a year Since our first days, I was trying to assess - Against my natural caution - by desire And how the fact outdid it, my happiness:
The raging colour of this cold Friday Eats up our patience like a fire, Consumes our willingness to endure, Here the crumpled maple, a gold fabric,
A long while, a long long while it seems: The bat-winged figure shaking his robe, The cameras purring.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Since we through war awhile must part
Sweetheart, and learn to lose
Of all that satisfied our heart:
Lay up those secrets and those powers
Wherewith you pleased and cherished me these two years:
Now we must draw, as plants would,
On tubers stored in a better season,
Our honey and heaven;
Only our love can store such food.
Is this to make a god of absence?
A new-born monster to steal our sustenance?
We cannot quite cast out lack and pain.
Let him remain-what he may devour
We can well spare:
He never can tap this, the true vein.