That sounds like a great idea i'll see what's possible nearer the time Harry :-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
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That sounds like a great idea i'll see what's possible nearer the time Harry :-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
This is so sweet and funny ...nice one :-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Roy Scott
The great Sunday night sock hunt has begun here, lets hope the sock monster hasn't eaten too many this week! Anyway just enough time to post this lovely poem which I found in "Here to Eternity" An anthology of poetry by Andrew Motion (a book lent to me by HHH)...so thanks Harry!
I think there is something really enigmatic about it and I love the tone and imagery in the final verse.
The Stepping Stones
W S Graham
I have my yellow boots on to walk
Across the shires where I hide
Away from my true people and all
I can't put easily into my life.
So you will see I am stepping on
The stones between the runnels getting
Nowhere nowhere. It is almost
Embarassing to be alive alone.
Take my hand and pull me over from
From the last stone on to the moss and
The three celandines. Now my dear
Let us go home across the shires.
http://www.freedom-in-education.co.u.../celandine.jpg
That is fabulous. I love that.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Roy Scott
I am taking the rowing seriously mind you, despite planning to race Tebay too. ;-)Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Hello all
cheers for setting up the simon thread frecks, clarified a lot of e mails i received cheers fro clarifying that other thing HHH. Here's one I wrote in retrospect of something that happened about 16-17 years ago.
I have seen the Rings of Saturn
from the window of a train, cue ball
sized limestone chippings, patternless
to the human eye - and brain.
Beige, off white and tonal greys.
I wonder: now, if there had been time
to count them on the idled carriage
in the countryside. Slowly with no intent
of haste the train pulls away; as it should
At first they blurred and then they fuzzed,
then a wobbling image like a child learning
to ride a bike...
Perfect stripes were rushing past,
leaving lingering trails like those
which hang in the night when you write
words with a sparkler.
For me, one less mystery and
the universe is a bit less darker.
You don't have to consider gravity
or account for the affects of space/time
curavature you can see the universe
from the comfort of British Rail furniture.
Heard this on the radio earlier - didn't realise that John Cooper Clarke's classic was a remake...
Bloody Orkney
Anonymous
This bloody town's a bloody cuss
No bloody trains, no bloody bus,
And no one cares for bloody us
In bloody Orkney.
The bloody roads are bloody bad,
The bloody folks are bloody mad,
They'd make the brightest bloody sad,
In bloody Orkney.
All bloody clouds, and bloody rains,
No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains,
The Council's got no bloody brains,
In bloody Orkney.
Everything's so bloody dear,
A bloody bob, for bloody beer,
And is it good? - no bloody fear,
In bloody Orkney.
The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old,
The bloody seats are bloody cold,
You can't get in for bloody gold
In bloody Orkney.
The bloody dances make you smile,
The bloody band is bloody vile,
It only cramps your bloody style,
In bloody Orkney.
No bloody sport, no bloody games,
No bloody fun, the bloody dames
Won't even give their bloody names
In bloody Orkney.
Best bloody place is bloody bed,
With bloody ice on bloody head,
You might as well be bloody dead,
In bloody Orkney
Now...Here's Johnny!
the ****ing cops are ****ing keen
to ****ing keep it ****ing clean
the ****ing chief's a ****ing swine
who ****ing draws a ****ing line
at ****ing fun and ****ing games
the ****ing kids he ****ing blames
are nowehere to be ****ing found
anywhere in chicken town
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the ****ing scene is ****ing sad
the ****ing news is ****ing bad
the ****ing weed is ****ing turf
the ****ing speed is ****ing surf
the ****ing folks are ****ing daft
don't make me ****ing laugh
it ****ing hurts to look around
everywhere in chicken town
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the ****ing train is ****ing late
you ****ing wait you ****ing wait
you're ****ing lost and ****ing found
stuck in ****ing chicken town
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the ****ing view is ****ing vile
for ****ing miles and ****ing miles
the ****ing babies ****ing cry
the ****ing flowers ****ing die
the ****ing food is ****ing muck
the ****ing drains are ****ing ****ed
the colour scheme is ****ing brown
everywhere in chicken town
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the ****ing pubs are ****ing dull
the ****ing clubs are ****ing full
of ****ing girls and ****ing guys
with ****ing murder in their eyes
a ****ing bloke is ****ing stabbed
waiting for a ****ing cab
you ****ing stay at ****ing home
the ****ing neighbors ****ing moan
keep the ****ing racket down
this is ****ing chicken town
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the ****ing train is ****ing late
you ****ing wait you ****ing wait
you're ****ing lost and ****ing found
stuck in ****ing chicken town
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the ****ing pies are ****ing old
the ****ing chips are ****ing cold
the ****ing beer is ****ing flat
the ****ing flats have ****ing rats
the ****ing clocks are ****ing wrong
the ****ing days are ****ing long
it ****ing gets you ****ing down
evidently chicken town
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t8waBTSkPxA
I love them both!
So that pre dates ChickenTown does it? Interesting stuff.
I was once in the north of Scotland listening to the local radio where someone was complaining on air about the pronunciation of the word Orkney in the media. They were comparing the local pronunciation with the recieved BBC version and I for one was struggling to tell the difference between the two. This guy as getting more and more irate, and saying through gritted teeth over and over again: "No! It is pronounced ORKNEY, not ORKNEY.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
Aye - apparently it was a crap place to be billeted in the days of national service!Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
I thought you were old, but not THAT old!Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
Mmmmm.....well at least I shouldn't get lost with two knights in shining armour shouting at me to row faster! :-) or can I just enjoy the view like a little madam?Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
There is something really quite magical about this poem NDubya...funnily enough I felt it transported me to my own childhood when I used to take the train to London to see my mothers family there...your description of the perfect stripes linked with this memory (though i have to confess I wouldn't have been thinking about physics as i am not a technical person!!)...however it reminded me of those meditative moments that you sometimes get on long train journeys and how your attention can become focused on a particular phenomena in such a way.....brilliant and multi layered as ever!Quote:
Originally Posted by N-dubya
Dear me!.....Well all I can say is I wish I had a swear box on this thread tonight! I would have paid for a facial three times over!...or perhaps a pair of walshes (does that sound better?) ;-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
You'll have to practice being a little madam. You've only got a couple of months, but goddammit I think you might just get there.Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Excellent! I'll start honing these skills forewith! :-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Goodnight all...just popping off to combine romance with real ale (Amelie and "Old Bob"....)
here's a bit of soppiness before I go....
What Fields Are As Fragrant As Your Hands?
What fields are as fragrant as your hands?
You feel how external fragrance stands
upon your stronger resistance.
Stars stand in images above.
Give me your mouth to soften, love;
ah, your hair is all in idleness.
See, I want to surround you with yourself
and the faded expectation lift
from the edges of your eyebrows;
I want, as with inner eyelids sheer,
to close for you all places which appear
by my tender caresses now.
Translated by John J.L. Mood
Rainer Maria Rilke
Spirit Of Fell Running.
The fresh air flows past me,
Setting my senses afire,
With the multitude of smells and sounds,
It's such joy to be in the hills running,
Being one with the nature,
That i am a part of,
These are my elysian fields,
Amongst the bogs, hills and tarns,
Of this fair land.
By Herakles.
hill repetitions
on sun drenched Ilkley Moor
what an evening!
Nice one Herakles
It was a great night to be out running tonight.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Herakles
nice......:-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Mmmmmm............
And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
William Blake
Loved that one Herakles :cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by Herakles
I lived with visions for my company
Instead of men and women, years ago,
And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
A sweeter music than they played to me.
But soon their trailing purple was not free
Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow,
And I myself grew faint and blind below
Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come—to be,
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,
Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same,
As river-water hallowed into fonts),
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
My soul with satisfaction of all wants:
Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnet XI
I crave your mouth, your voice,your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the colour of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your finger nails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shades of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Pablo Neruda
Well....I was wondering if Harry's middle 'H' is for Hiawatha. Just got a glimpse into the life of the great man today.
The Song of H Hiawatha Howgill
On a hillside stood a quarry
Mighty quarry full of lorries.
In the valley slept a parish
Tranquil parish, green and sleepy.
In that parish dwelled a maiden
Feisty lady grimly seething
At the thunder of the lorries
And the dust clouds and the scarring
Of the hillside by the quarry
Angry maiden of the farmhouse
With the might of Parish Council
Fought with letter and with placard
Swore to stop the nearby earthworks.
At the quarry stood a fellow
Tall and lean and full of busy.
Leader of the lorry people
Master of the excavation.
Villain of this mountain idyll
Target of the placard people.
Til one day a wand’ring poet
Over hill and vale came strolling.
Resting at the local hamlet
Drew a crowd of his disciples.
Rugged miners of the hillside;
Tender maidens of the Parish
Gathered in the place of Dufton
Joined by love of strangers poems
Forgot the conflict of the granite
And the battle of the limestone.
Thus the story of two people;
Leaders of the warring factions
Drawn together by the poet
Heads towards a brighter future…..
Some great stuff on here lately. I wish I'd had more time to read and post but life is getting in the way of the forum! :)
I liked DT's haiku and Mossy's Neruda struck a few chords. OW's latest Hiawatha inspired poem is very funny! I've just bought a couple volumes of poetry from a second-hand bookstore and will post a few asap.
I've just seen the general studies thread so thought this poem was more than apt
You May Turn Over and Begin
'Which of these films was Dirk Bogarde
not in? One hundredweight of bauxite
makes how much aluminium?
How many tales in The Decameron?
General Studies, the upper sixth, a doddle, a cinch
for anyone with an ounce of common sense
or a calculator
with a memory feature.
Having galloped through but not caring enough
to check or double-check, I was dreaming of
milk white breasts and nakedness, or more specifically
virginity.
That term — everybody felt the heat
but the girls were having none of it:
long and cool like cocktails,
out of reach, their buns and pigtails
only let out for older guys with studded jackets
and motorbikes and spare helmets.
One jot of consolation
was the tall spindly girl riding pillion
on her man's new Honda
who, with the lights on amber,
put down both feet and stood to stretch her limbs,
to lift the visor and push back her fringe
and to smooth her tight jeans.
As he pulled off down the street
she stood there like a wishbone
high and dry, her legs wide open,
and rumour has it he didn't notice
till he came round in an ambulance
having underbalanced on a tight left-hander.
A Taste of Honey. Now I remember.
Simon Armitage
You star!
That is a great little story there. It really made me laugh. I will from this day hence only respond when addressed as "leader of the lorry people".
See you tomorrow
Harry
Quote:
Originally Posted by Old Whippet
What a great story. Takes me back a bit.Quote:
Originally Posted by N-dubya
A Walk
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
Rainer Maria Rilke
I was told this poem by a poet who works within organisations, using poetry to explore leadership & personal development. It is native american in origin & about when a little boy asks his grandparents what he should do when he is lost in the forest. A serious predicament for a young boy back then on America's NW coast with its giant forests. This is the grandparents reply;
LOST
Stand still. The trees ahead and the bushes beside are not lost.
Wherever you are is called here, and you must treat it
like a powerful stranger.
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you,
if you leave it you may come back saying Here.
No two trees are the same to raven, No two branches are the same to wren,
if what a tree or a bush does is lost on you you are truly lost.
Stand still.
The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.
I have replayed this in my head when lost out in the hills running in the dark/mist, and have always found it helpful in terms of stopping, paying real attention to where I am & sorting it out. Hope you like it.
Duncan
Thank you for posting this Duncan I do indeed like it very much, I found it quite moving.Quote:
Originally Posted by duncs
Love a bit of Rilke...nice one Mossy ...very enigmaticQuote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Been doing some research about Dufton and found this...
In his poem New Year Letter, written inNew York during the war Auden expresses his thoughts about the north Pennines, which highlight his fascination and obsession with the landscape around Dufton. I think it is awesome it immediately makes me think of High Cup Nick...can't wait to see it again soon!
Whenever I begin to think..
An English area comes to mind
I see the nature of my kind
As a locality I love
Those limestone moors that stretch from Brough
To HEXHAM and the ROMAN WALL,
This is the symbol of us all.
There where the EDEN leisures through
Its sandstone valley, is my view
Of green and civil life that dwells
Below a cliff of savage fells
From which original address
Man faulted into consciousness.
Along the line of lapse the fire
of life's impersonal desire
Burst through his sedentary rock
And, as at DUFTON and at KNOCK
Thrust up between his mind and heart
Enormous cones of myth and art.
Always my boy of wish returns
To those peat-stained deserted burns
That feed the WEAR and TYNE and TEES
And, turning states to strata see
How basalt long oppressed broke out
In wild revolt at CAULDRON SNOUT.
WH Auden
What a great find. I'll be visiting one of the sources of the Eden today funnily enough.
Have a good day everyone.
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Gosh...bit quiet on here tonight! My theory is that as the days lengthen, so the running becomes better and also I think a few hardcore poets are out for the night seeing Joss. I, on the other hand, am sat with an elastic band round my ankles over a pair of wellies taking a break from my physio exercises in the hope that my 'disappointing left buttock' will be a little firmer for my next appointment.
Just bought a book about imagist poetry:
The Encounter
All the while they were talking the new morality
Her eyes explored me.
And when I rose to go
Her fingers were like the tissue
Of a Japanese paper napkin.
Ezra Pound
the snickering ewe
calling her baby to her
eyes me warily
I now have an image of a sheep chewing on a marathon:DQuote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Ha ha...like it!
I once saw a sheep eating a kitkat on Snowdon.
Quote:
Originally Posted by merrylegs
Just read the post by Duncs...that's a great poem. Very inspirational and so true.