Today's poet

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

I've just noticed that nobody contributed to this thread AT ALL yesterday :w00t: (shock - horror!) and I can only conclude that it's because we've all become far to chipper, jovial, love-struck, etc. In short, enjoying way too much joie de vivre! So, to redress the balance, here's a dose of miserable reality to draw you all back...

---

That made me laugh Mossy! thank god someone like your good self is here to bring us all down on a sunday night!!!! :w00t:

my gosh crowhill you have been working hard in more ways than one! thanks for posting all 3 poems (within a poem), great stuff!

i like this poem even though it doesn't really fit my mood at present which is indeed quite chipper, never mind tomorrow is monday so i am sure i will be miserable as sin again then!


After Love


Afterwards, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.
These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.
Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.
The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar
and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.
Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when
the wolf, the mongering wolf
who stands outside the self
lay lightly down, and slept.


Maxine Kumin

Meditation on a pedal.

If only time could be frozen
Great icicles of love would dangle
From the ruby beaters
and passers by would exclaim
“How odd to be frozen,and smiling with it
mid july, on two hybrids”.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by crowhill

Following the kind comments received for my first attempt at a fell poem, here's my second go at one. Like the subject matter, it's probably overly long and not to everyone's liking :)

Three Peaks

Pen-y-ghent

The tannoy crackles with the names, contenders for the day
Can Jebb notch up another win? Or this time Holmes or Gray?

I check the number on my vest, this year it's eighty-one
I join the throng and wait too long to hear the starting gun

We set off running from the field, all buoyed by glories past
There's cheers and roars and loud applause which make me run too fast!

"Three thirty" is the goal again, if just to cut it fine
A five year itch, a focal point, an arbitrary line

I know that pacing is the key to running a good race
I've started quick, but feeling wick, I vow to hold my place

But soon we reach the open track, the climb beyond the wall
I feel my will begin to wilt, my pace is now a crawl

Don't be weak, I urge myself and show some Yorkshire grit
For in this race that quality is most appropriate

I clench my teeth and tell myself to dig a little deep
As soon as I get past that bend the way is not as steep

I turn off left and leave the path the summit now in sight
While Jebb and Holmes come crashing down, a flash of blue and white

My dibber bleeps to signify the climb of Pen-y-ghent
A quick "thanks" to the marshal then I'm off on my descent

The ground is soft and true, affords a quick check of the time
Then on the track and heading back, past runners who still climb

I reach the gate where club mates wait, with Lucozade I'm plied
Then off I tread, with hope and dread, to battle with Whernside

Whernside

I'm Yorkshire's highest mountain but a point I'd like to state...
There's a different hill called Whernside with the moniker of "Great"

Deepdale's to my north and to the east there is Blea Moor
My summit is just half way round a classic mountain tour

The Three Peaks is that challenge of which I'm the second fell
It's hiked and biked and once a year a running race as well

I look towards the south-east to my neighbour Pen-y-ghent
The way he rises in that hump is rather impudent

Old Ingleborough is to my south, a steep and flat roofed hill
Frequented by the caving crowd who head to Gaping Gill

I'm quite the gentle giant with my long and sloping ridge
There's runners fast approaching me from underneath the bridge

They take the shortest line and then they climb my steepest side
And once again it's Jebb out front with elongated stride

A strange thing seems to happen as they clamber to my top
Half of them start hobbling and half of them just stop

But as they recompose themselves, the clouds drift slowly by
And Yorkshire looks its finest from my vista in the sky

Here comes number eighty-one, he's struggled on the climb
He's reached the top, now checks his watch and curses at the time

He mentions to a marshall that two hours is the key
To finish in his target time of "under three thirty"

He sighs and pointing to his watch he says "two hours four"
The man who hands out jellybeans says "here mate, take some more"

He's scrawled the split times on his hand, his preparation thorough
Then off he sets with straight legged steps to head for Ingleborough

Ingleborough

I'm standing by the duckboards and I'm feeling rather fraught
I've run this race in recent years, but this time to support

Some novices can start too quick, by now they show the strain
There's seven miles left to run, their faces etched in pain

Of course the lead, a different breed, are moving free and fast
And Morgan Donelly still smiles as he goes running past

I'm waiting for my husband who is in a Calder vest
I think I see him from afar with "eight-one" on his chest

He's set himself a target of a sub three-thirty mark
And if he fails to break that then his mood will be quite dark

He lifts his feet across the boards, there's not much in the tank
He's moving like the guilty man condemned to walk the plank

I offer drink and sustenance that seem to hit the spot
He takes a bite, and says it's tight, while glancing at his watch

He starts the steep ascent and hauls his body up the rocks
His calves are stiff and cramping up despite the knee length socks

It's nip and tuck, I wish him luck: "you're still on track" I say
And wait for other Calder vests, to cheer them on their way

If he's going to make it back in time he'd better summit quick
And keep it ticking over on the run through Sulber Nick

He rings me from the finish field and says he's crossed the line
He's going to have to try next year, his time three thirty one.

---

That is totally magnificent - thank you - really fun to read.

Excellent narrative poem again crowhill :cool:.

Is it a joint effort from Mr & Mrs crowhill by any chance ? :D

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

i like this poem even though it doesn't really fit my mood at present which is indeed quite chipper, never mind tomorrow is monday so i am sure i will be miserable as sin again then!


After Love


Afterwards, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.
These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.
Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.
The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar
and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.
Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when
the wolf, the mongering wolf
who stands outside the self
lay lightly down, and slept.


Maxine Kumin

---

I liked that one freckle and Mossy's Plath poem suited my post race mood nicely :rolleyes:

Temptation

Call yourself alive? Look, I promise you
that for the first time you’ll feel your pores opening
like fish mouths, and you’ll actually be able to hear
your blood surging though all those lanes,
and you’ll feel light gliding across the cornea
like the train of a dress. For the first time
you’ll be aware of gravity
like a thorn in your heel,
and your shoulder blades will ache for want of wings.
Call yourself alive? I promise you
you’ll be deafened by dust falling on the furniture,
you’ll feel your eyebrows turning into two gashes,
and every memory you have – will begin
a Genesis.

Nina Cassian

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Excellent narrative poem again crowhill :cool:.

Is it a joint effort from Mr & Mrs crowhill by any chance ? :D

---

No - she has far more constructive things to do with her time than drifting around with her head in the clouds! :D I'm putting my injury enforced lay-off to good use.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

That is totally magnificent - thank you - really fun to read.

---

Thanks for the kind comments. I wish my O' Level English teacher had been as appreciative!

Procedure
Jo Shapcott

This tea, this cup of tea, made of leaves,

made of the leaves of herbs and absolute

almond blossom, this tea, is the interpreter

of almond, liquid touchstone which lets us

scent its true taste at last and with a bump

in my case, takes me back to the yellow time

of trouble with bloodtests, and cellular

madness, and my presence required

on the slab for surgery, and all that mess

I don't want to comb through here because

it seems, honestly, a trifle now that steam

and scent and strength and steep and infusion

say thank you thank you thank you for the then, and now