Today's poet

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

NO TWA for me
Pneumonia put paid to that:(
Anni Waltz instead:)

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Gosh hope your OK now Merry, poor you x

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Originally Posted by freckle

Gosh hope your OK now Merry, poor you x

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Recovering slowly marra, not run a step for nearly 3 weeks, best get training for the waltz;)

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Originally Posted by Hes

The Gift

You brought me mangoes
and set them on my table.
Unprepossessing, thick-skinned,
those hard green fruit.
Only the hint of a blush
suggesting that within.
With quick, deft hands
you pared their bodies
and slitting the wet, orange flesh
you unleashed the sun
...the moon, the stars...
and how we devoured them,
lips sticky from their juice,
tasting the sweetness
that we once thought
we would never taste
again.

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Wowee. Just fabulous.

Evening all! Bit late in the day I know. Thanks so much for the great feedback on my poem. That is what happens when you finally have time to think and are stuck on a bus for 1 1/2 hours! It was a bit fruity but I did enjoy writing it. ;)

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

Recovering slowly marra, not run a step for nearly 3 weeks, best get training for the waltz;)

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Awww Merry! I do hope you get back to full fettle again soon. It will be so good to see you at the Waltz.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

Recovering slowly marra, not run a step for nearly 3 weeks, best get training for the waltz;)

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yes you better had as i need you to line up the snecklifters at the bar when i finish some 3 hours after everyone else!!!!!!.......BRING IT ON!!!!!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Dissociative mundane


Standing,
placing creases in a skirt,
one by one,
with a hot iron.


A long day draws to a close
are they your hands
slipping around my waist?
wet imprints of a necklace .
Feint scent of your travail
is upon me
and the promise
in my minds eye
of legs upon legs.
Ensconced on the sofa
exchanging tales
inbetween velveteen berries.
"Glad I got those miles in" you say
I knead your toes and notice
imprints of fatigue in your eyes.


“Can you get me some juice ma?”
You’ve vanished
I move the iron out of danger.

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This is great Freckle. How fleeting and transient those moments are. Real life interrupting reveries...

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Originally Posted by Herakles

Am i the only one who thinks mangoes taste like soap ?. Good poem Hes.

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You make me larff! No seriously, I actually think they taste a bit like pine trees but I like that. I loved your latest fell running poems Herakles.

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Originally Posted by Hes

Some great poetry today Alf, Herakles and Derby Tup!

The Gift

You brought me mangoes
and set them on my table.
Unprepossessing, thick-skinned,
those hard green fruit.
Only the hint of a blush
suggesting that within.
With quick, deft hands
you pared their bodies
and slitting the wet, orange flesh
you unleashed the sun
...the moon, the stars...
and how we devoured them,
lips sticky from their juice,
tasting the sweetness
that we once thought
we would never taste
again.

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Nice poem I can see the metaphor I think, did you intend it. A great thing about poetry different people see different things and take different meanings. I interpret it as one of those small incidents in life that become maybe not precious but significant enough to spend longer writing about it than the occurence itself, good stuff:)

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Originally Posted by Alf

Snow, snow here again.
I would rather have the wind and rain.
Those two elements are soon gone.
But snow tends to linger on.
Snow's slippy when you run and wet and cold.
The young may love it but not the old.
Go snow so I can run without fear
If you must return then make it next year!


Alf
(Heavily influenced by William McGonagall :D)

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nice one

Cheviot glows white
like a badly risen cake
iced with heavy hands

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Originally Posted by N-dubya

Nice poem I can see the metaphor I think, did you intend it. A great thing about poetry different people see different things and take different meanings. I interpret it as one of those small incidents in life that become maybe not precious but significant enough to spend longer writing about it than the occurence itself, good stuff:)

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Thanks NDubya. Every word was intentional and chosen carefully and I am a big fan of metaphor. My prints too, often look straight forward but will have layered meanings if the viewer knows how to read them. Yes, small incidents can become symbolic. Sometimes you are given a gift that becomes bigger than the object itself.

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

Cheviot glows white
like a badly risen cake
iced with heavy hands

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Wonderful OW! You create such evocative imagery.

Grandmother's footsteps
nesting jackdaws steal the wool
from bedraggled sheep

there was a bit of a debate on the Best of British thread about the Beatles

At home I have a copy of a book called scanningt the century, which is basically a huge anthology to C20 poetry, The beatles a day in the life is included as a poem, I think this identifies their significance as great lyricists.

From the aforementioned anthology a poem taken from the civil rights section

Lewis Allen

"strange fruit"

Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black body swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh

Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop


I think this poem is brilliant as the poet puts no sentiment to the situation he just says it how it is in poetic form allowing the reader to develop their own set of emotions about the situation the poem describes.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by N-dubya

From the aforementioned anthology a poem taken from the civil rights section

Lewis Allen

"strange fruit"

Southern trees bear strange fruit
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root
Black body swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

Pastoral scene of the gallant South
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh

Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck
For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop
Here is a strange and bitter crop


I think this poem is brilliant as the poet puts no sentiment to the situation he just says it how it is in poetic form allowing the reader to develop their own set of emotions about the situation the poem describes.

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I think it's brilliant too - and until you posted it and I looked it up on wikipedia credited it to Billy Holliday. I have now learned...."Strange Fruit" began as a poem written by Abel Meeropol, a Jewish high-school teacher from the Bronx. He published under the pen name Lewis Allan. Apparently he was keen for it to be sung.
And I agree too about A Day in a Life - lyrically brilliant.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

Grandmother's footsteps
nesting jackdaws steal the wool
from bedraggled sheep

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Cracking image Hes! - I didn't know what you alluded to til I googled 'Grandmother's footsteps'. I vaguely remember a similar game when I was a young 'un but can't remember what we called it. Anyway...I can picture those tentative tip-toeing jackdaws.

I liked Hes' jackdaw inspired haiku too :)

Spring seems to have an extra resonance this year because of the cold and snowy winter

Derby Tup keenly
scans Dales' skies for returning
Swifts, Swallows, Martins

Your not there,
your not there!
just an empty chair,
pushed against the wall,
between the fireplace
and kitchen door.
This absence; not unexpected,
till now my mind contested reality,
what did I expect to see, the
permed white hair, feet resting
on the Queen Anne stool.
When others grieved I had no
empathy to share, which was cruel,
but only because I believed
that you would be there
sitting in your chair.

Very poignant N-dub

Quote:

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Originally Posted by N-dubya

Your not there,
your not there!
just an empty chair,
pushed against the wall,
between the fireplace
and kitchen door.
This absence; not unexpected,
till now my mind contested reality,
what did I expect to see, the
permed white hair, feet resting
on the Queen Anne stool.
When others grieved I had no
empathy to share, which was cruel,
but only because I believed
that you would be there
sitting in your chair.

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Quote:

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Originally Posted by N-dubya

Your not there,
your not there!
just an empty chair,
pushed against the wall,
between the fireplace
and kitchen door.
This absence; not unexpected,
till now my mind contested reality,
what did I expect to see, the
permed white hair, feet resting
on the Queen Anne stool.
When others grieved I had no
empathy to share, which was cruel,
but only because I believed
that you would be there
sitting in your chair.

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Gosh, that is really moving.

I think it is about time we seriously considered a joint book of the best non-fell poems written on the thread. The last few months have seen, in my opinion, quite astounding work covering so many themes, love, loss, aging, parenthood, passion. One day I will have time to co-ordinate something!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

Derby Tup keenly
scans Dales' skies for returning
Swifts, Swallows, Martins

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Me too!!! Can't wait. 11 - 13th April I'm expecting the swallows here.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by N-dubya

there was a bit of a debate on the Best of British thread about the Beatles

At home I have a copy of a book called scanningt the century, which is basically a huge anthology to C20 poetry, The beatles a day in the life is included as a poem, I think this identifies their significance as great lyricists.

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Just read your latest excellent poem N-dubya :)

I would like to add 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'She's leaving home' as good "poetic" songs as well.

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

Cracking image Hes! - I didn't know what you alluded to til I googled 'Grandmother's footsteps'. I vaguely remember a similar game when I was a young 'un but can't remember what we called it. Anyway...I can picture those tentative tip-toeing jackdaws.

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I think we used to call it 'Statues' ? or was that another game :rolleyes:

Thanks DT Hes and Alf, I have just realised I think I have only ever contributed 1 or 2 poems that have anything to do with fellrunning :o, what can you do, I agree Alf Eleanor Rigby has poetic qualities throughout:)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

Sometimes you are given a gift that becomes bigger than the object itself.

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What a beautiful line and quite true. Some of my most treasured posessions have a great significance far beyond what they appear.

I've got a stone collected once with a freind that looks just like, well a stone, but there is such a tale connected with it that it makes me smile every time I see it.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

Derby Tup keenly
scans Dales' skies for returning
Swifts, Swallows, Martins

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Still nothing here yet either. You'll be the first to know when they appear.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

Me too!!! Can't wait. 11 - 13th April I'm expecting the swallows here.

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With all the wildlife we have at work I've kept a note for the past few years as certain migratory birds have reappeared. This year they have been about 10 days or so later than the usual, which has been due to the harsh winter. My Daffs still haven't dared appear yet.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

Gosh, that is really moving.

I think it is about time we seriously considered a joint book of the best non-fell poems written on the thread. The last few months have seen, in my opinion, quite astounding work covering so many themes, love, loss, aging, parenthood, passion. One day I will have time to co-ordinate something!

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There is certainly enough excellent poems for that.

At one point I was still collating them as they arose, but once I missed a week then I got left behind and now we are several thousand posts on.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by N-dubya

Your not there,
your not there!
just an empty chair,
pushed against the wall,
between the fireplace
and kitchen door.
This absence; not unexpected,
till now my mind contested reality,
what did I expect to see, the
permed white hair, feet resting
on the Queen Anne stool.
When others grieved I had no
empathy to share, which was cruel,
but only because I believed
that you would be there
sitting in your chair.

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this is beautiful...simple and well written, for me it highlights how much we can forget the finiteness of life especiallly with people who always seem to have been there and have been a benign presence. their death acts as as reminder, cutting through our own denial regarding our mortality...i remember having similar feelings when an elderly relative of mine passed away when I was a teenager....it made me take stock a bit......thank you for posting

I have said for a while that there are many excellent non fell running poems on this thread which merit collating and putting together in some way in a pamphlet. it is quite a big job trawling through them all, an easier way of approaching this would be for people to send me two choices of their favourite poems that have been posted (could be one of their own and one from someone else). Myself and Hes could then try and put it together in some way? I had thought that we could try and put something together for the Dufton gig and try and sell it there with proceeds going to mountan rescue. What do people think? If people are interested then send me their choices and I will paste them into a document.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

Cheviot glows white
like a badly risen cake
iced with heavy hands

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I missed this yesterday its really nice OW

The National Poetry Competition is taking entries...anyone up for it?

http://poetrysociety.org.uk/shop/product/18/

Coooooooeeeeeeeee
Is anybody out there?
Like.........

Trapped.

Walking the streets at night,
Mac wrapped around me,
As a shell to keep out the filth,
Shifty eyes follow me i hear them say my name,
Filthy beasts ready carve me up,
The sound of death follows me,
On the cobbled street,
They turn me around look me in the eye,
Slash my face warm lifeblood flows,
A kick to the gut,
Punch to head,
Lying there heaving,laughing,
I'm free no more the rent boy,
No filthy,sweaty old business men,
Violating me,
I stagger home and sleep in peace,
For the first time in years.


By Herakles.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Herakles

Trapped.

Walking the streets at night,
Mac wrapped around me,
As a shell to keep out the filth,
Shifty eyes follow me i hear them say my name,
Filthy beasts ready carve me up,
The sound of death follows me,
On the cobbled street,
They turn me around look me in the eye,
Slash my face warm lifeblood flows,
A kick to the gut,
Punch to head,
Lying there heaving,laughing,
I'm free no more the rent boy,
No filthy,sweaty old business men,
Violating me,
I stagger home and sleep in peace,
For the first time in years.


By Herakles.

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Gosh this is stunning herakles, thank you for posting....i love your new signature too

Just noticed freckle had posted Captain Beefheart on the music thread :cool: and I am a HUGE Beefheart fan so a few words from the great man.

There ain’t no Santa Claus on the evenin’ stage
There ain’t no way t’ pull the curtain
‘N hide from hunger’s rage
There ain’t no town t’ stop in
There ain’t no time t’ stop in
There ain’t no straw for my horse
There ain’t no straw for my bed
There ain’t no comfort in cold boards
There ain’t no rumours or food for my stomach
‘N someday I’m gonna be saved
‘Cause I gotta eat ‘n drink ‘n breathe ‘n sleep
‘N I’m ah slave
Down in hominy’s grotto there’s ah soul die’n ‘n leavin’
Every second on the evenin’ stage
There’s ah soul die’n ‘n rottin’ ‘n pickin’
Some new kinda cotton
With his fingers broken ‘n his heart ‘n back forgotten
There ain’t no Santa Claus on the evenin’ stage


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vkc6ZK_NYUg

Questions.

Every second i approach death,
Decay the natural state of things,
I have questions sit back,
Drink the cyanide laced G & T,
Fall into a poisoned darkness,
Waiting to ask what i need to know,
The Killing Joke no one here but me,
Oh well i wish someone would've told me first.

By Herakles.

Walikng.

I was wondering on the fells,
When i saw an aged oak,
Approaching quietly i noticed,
Hanging from the branches,
A myriad of books,
They would all seem to be,
The sonnets of shakespeare,
I'd stumbled across a poet-tree.

By Herakles.