Today's poet

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

I've just had a box full of Simon Armitage books delivered, so anyone coming to his do at Dufton can buy "Selected Poems" or "Shooting Stars".

I opened the box just to check I wasn't going to arrive with 17 copies of Delia Smith for him to sign.

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That should cover his older stuff and his newer stuff then Harry (just had a look on Amazon :D )

This is a clip of him on The Book Show talking about "Shooting Stars"

http://thebookshow.skyarts.co.uk/hom..._armitage.html

Merrylegs, Merrylegs
Where for art thou Merrylegs

You say you've laid that pony to rest
Is this a joke, a prank, a jest

Surely those legs have life in them yet
A few folk around here would on you bet

Did someone throw you out of the stable
Or did you lay down your vest on the table

Whatever the reason one thing is so true
There was never a pony as willing as you

Kind and fun, a friend from the start
Merrylegs will live on in our heart

;)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Alf

That should cover his older stuff and his newer stuff then Harry (just had a look on Amazon :D )

This is a clip of him on The Book Show talking about "Shooting Stars"

http://thebookshow.skyarts.co.uk/hom..._armitage.html

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That was the plan!

Thanks for the link.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

Merrylegs, Merrylegs
Where for art thou Merrylegs

You say you've laid that pony to rest
Is this a joke, a prank, a jest

Surely those legs have life in them yet
A few folk around here would on you bet

Did someone throw you out of the stable
Or did you lay down your vest on the table

Whatever the reason one thing is so true
There was never a pony as willing as you

Kind and fun, a friend from the start
Merrylegs will live on in our heart

;)

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Dear old merry, a Grandmaster, a published poet and now the subject of a poem too! :cool:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

Merrylegs, Merrylegs
Where for art thou Merrylegs

You say you've laid that pony to rest
Is this a joke, a prank, a jest

Surely those legs have life in them yet
A few folk around here would on you bet

Did someone throw you out of the stable
Or did you lay down your vest on the table

Whatever the reason one thing is so true
There was never a pony as willing as you

Kind and fun, a friend from the start
Merrylegs will live on in our heart

;)

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Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

Dear old merry, a Grandmaster, a published poet and now the subject of a poem too! :cool:

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Less of the old:rolleyes:
Missed this, thanks for bringing to my attention DT.
Thanks for the poem MG, i'm touched, but i'm still here:)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Alf

That should cover his older stuff and his newer stuff then Harry (just had a look on Amazon :D )

This is a clip of him on The Book Show talking about "Shooting Stars"

http://thebookshow.skyarts.co.uk/hom..._armitage.html

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Thanks for posting this Alf I enjoyed it...and Ali I will have one of those books! :o) x

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess

Merrylegs, Merrylegs
Where for art thou Merrylegs

You say you've laid that pony to rest
Is this a joke, a prank, a jest

Surely those legs have life in them yet
A few folk around here would on you bet

Did someone throw you out of the stable
Or did you lay down your vest on the table

Whatever the reason one thing is so true
There was never a pony as willing as you

Kind and fun, a friend from the start
Merrylegs will live on in our heart

;)

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Here here! nice one MG!

Fancy

EVER let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind’s cage-door,
She’ll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer’s joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn’s red-lipp’d fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter’s night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overaw’d,
Fancy, high-commission’d:—send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn’s wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And, in the same moment—hark!
’Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plum’d lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird’s wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Every thing is spoilt by use:
Where’s the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gaz’d at? Where’s the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where’s the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where’s the face
One would meet in every place?
Where’s the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe’s, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid.—Break the mesh
Of the Fancy’s silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string
And such joys as these she’ll bring.—
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.

John Keats

Is this poem wild or what? What was he on - gimme some please!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Thanks for posting this Alf I enjoyed it...and Ali I will have one of those books! :o) x

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There's already one with your name on.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

There's already one with your name on.

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Thanks Harry! :-)

Mossy that poem was an epic but I liked it...I like a sweet goblet every now and then!

Well forumites...I would go out tonight but I haven't got a stitch to wear!

A Charming man
The Smiths

A punctured bicycle
On a hillside desolate
Will nature make a man of me yet ?

When in this charming car
This charming man


Why pamper life's complexity
When the leather runs smooth
On the passenger seat ?


I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care"


A jumped up pantry boy
Who never knew his place
He said "return the ring"
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things


I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care"
Na, na-na, na-na, na-na, this charming man ...
Na, na-na, na-na, na-na, this charming man ...


A jumped up pantry boy
Who never knew his place
He said "return the ring"
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things


New York version adds :

I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear


I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
Oh, la-la, la-la, la-la, this charming man ...
Oh, la-la, la-la, la-la, this charming man ...


A jumped up pantry boy
Who never knew his place
He said "return the ring"
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things
He knows so much about these things


Here is Simon Armitage's analysis of the song....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3Hn6wWjTZc

freckle, have a look on youtube for the Smiths on Old Grey Whistle Test in Derby live in 1983. I think Reel around fhe fountain is on. I was there; t' was a bit good :cool:

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair

Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day
Don't go far off, not even for a day,
Because I don't know how to say it - a day is long
And I will be waiting for you, as in
An empty station when the trains are
Parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then
The little drops of anguish will all run together,
The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
Into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve
On the beach, may your eyelids never flutter
Into the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me for
A second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll
Have gone so far I'll wander mazily
Over all the earth, asking, will you
Come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

freckle, have a look on youtube for the Smiths on Old Grey Whistle Test in Derby live in 1983. I think Reel around fhe fountain is on. I was there; t' was a bit good :cool:

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you mean this?..................ooooo it does look good!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfvGb...ext=1&index=37

particularly like the lyric...."People said you were vertually dead and they were so wrong"......lush, lush, lush!....very poetic!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair

Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day
Don't go far off, not even for a day,
Because I don't know how to say it - a day is long
And I will be waiting for you, as in
An empty station when the trains are
Parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because then
The little drops of anguish will all run together,
The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
Into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve
On the beach, may your eyelids never flutter
Into the empty distance. Don't LEAVE me for
A second, my dearest, because in that moment you'll
Have gone so far I'll wander mazily
Over all the earth, asking, will you
Come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

---

Beautiful Mossy.........one of my fave's :o) x

I understand that this is a traditional chinese poem sometimes read out at weddings...........................................

Plucking the Rushes -
Anonymous

A boy and a girl are sent to gather rushes for thatching
Green rushes with red shoots,
Long leaves bending to the wind –
You and I in the same boat
Plucking rushes at the Five Lakes.
We started at dawn from the orchid-island:
We rested under elms till noon.
You and I plucking rushes
Had not plucked a handful when night came!

Well after reading through the Keats poem that Mossy posted I found myself googling what a "kirtle" was that fell to her feet ? And now I know http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...gebit/grin.gif

Here is a sonnet from the eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Long time a child

LONG time a child, and still a child, when years
Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I, —
For yet I lived like one not born to die;
A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,
No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.
But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,
I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking
The vanguard of my age, with all arrears
Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,
Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray,
For I have lost the race I never ran:
A rathe December blights my lagging May;
And still I am a child, though I be old,
Time is by debtor for by years untold.

Hartley Coleridge

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Alf

Well after reading through the Keats poem that Mossy posted I found myself googling what a "kirtle" was that fell to her feet ? And now I know http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...gebit/grin.gif

Here is a sonnet from the eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Long time a child

LONG time a child, and still a child, when years
Had painted manhood on my cheek, was I, —
For yet I lived like one not born to die;
A thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,
No hope I needed, and I knew no fears.
But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,
I waked to sleep no more, at once o'ertaking
The vanguard of my age, with all arrears
Of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,
Nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is gray,
For I have lost the race I never ran:
A rathe December blights my lagging May;
And still I am a child, though I be old,
Time is by debtor for by years untold.

Hartley Coleridge

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This is astonishingly beautifyul alf thank you....it made me ponder the question "do we ever really grow up?" and if so "when?"........Mmmm food for thought :-)

The Sunlight on the Garden

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

Louis Macneice

I loved that "Long time a child", it made me shift perspectives in terms of my asssumptions about other 'grown ups' and the way we can all view the world, lovely, thanks Alf.

So here is a poem my daughter Ana, age 7, wrote yesterday & delivered to my wife & I, somewhat earlier on a Sunday morning than we would have prefered!

In the Winter

In the winter I hear the screaming of the children
I hear the snow creaking
I hear rustling of the trees
I smell the turkey
I hear the music playing
I hear the laughing of parents
I smell the flowers
I hear the birds tweeting...

I checked out the "screaming of the children" bit & she said they were playing snowballs, ah the innocence!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by duncs

I loved that "Long time a child", it made me shift perspectives in terms of my asssumptions about other 'grown ups' and the way we can all view the world, lovely, thanks Alf.

So here is a poem my daughter Ana, age 7, wrote yesterday & delivered to my wife & I, somewhat earlier on a Sunday morning than we would have prefered!

In the Winter

In the winter I hear the screaming of the children
I hear the snow creaking
I hear rustling of the trees
I smell the turkey
I hear the music playing
I hear the laughing of parents
I smell the flowers
I hear the birds tweeting...

I checked out the "screaming of the children" bit & she said they were playing snowballs, ah the innocence!

---

She is a very talented young lady Duncs :cool: I loved the "snow creaking" :D

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

The Sunlight on the Garden

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

Louis Macneice

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There is something familar about this poem freckle as though I have read it recently myself ?
Is it about ageing or loss of freedom ? More food for thought :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

The Sunlight on the Garden

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

Louis Macneice

---

Hey Freckle, that's lovely - thanks

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by duncs

I loved that "Long time a child", it made me shift perspectives in terms of my asssumptions about other 'grown ups' and the way we can all view the world, lovely, thanks Alf.

So here is a poem my daughter Ana, age 7, wrote yesterday & delivered to my wife & I, somewhat earlier on a Sunday morning than we would have prefered!

In the Winter

In the winter I hear the screaming of the children
I hear the snow creaking
I hear rustling of the trees
I smell the turkey
I hear the music playing
I hear the laughing of parents
I smell the flowers
I hear the birds tweeting...

I checked out the "screaming of the children" bit & she said they were playing snowballs, ah the innocence!

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I really like this it has an enigmatic, innocent and simplistic quality which works well! well done to your daughter! :-)

BEATTIE IS THREE

At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand. O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless.

Adrian Mitchell

Job loss, jobless, depression,
Jobs you don't like, but pay the bills,
And finally, a job you want, happens.

A crap year, hopefully, behind me, onwards and upwards.
Persevere and may you all achieve your dreams and aspirations:)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stevefoster

Job loss, jobless, depression,
Jobs you don't like, but pay the bills,
And finally, a job you want, happens.

A crap year, hopefully, behind me, onwards and upwards.
Persevere and may you all achieve your dreams and aspirations:)

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Perserverance in these difficult times is a value worth holding onto .....pleased that yours paid off (and hoping mine does too) :-) x

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

BEATTIE IS THREE

At the top of the stairs
I ask for her hand. O.K.
She gives it to me.
How her fist fits my palm,
A bunch of consolation.
We take our time
Down the steep carpetway
As I wish silently
That the stairs were endless.

Adrian Mitchell

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this is so beautiful and moving, it brought a tear to my eye.............................thank you

another one from macneice...i like the way he plays with the notion of time as it relates to the self, here i think he is observing how in a moment we can be transported back to different more innocent times..........?

Soap Suds

This brand of soap has the same smell as once in the big
House he visited when he was eight: the walls of the bathroom open
To reveal a lawn where a great yellow ball rolls back through a hoop
To rest at the head of a mallet held in the hands of a child.

And these were the joys of that house: a tower with a telescope;
Two great faded globes, one of the earth, one of the stars;
A stuffed black dog in the hall; a walled garden with bees;
A rabbit warren; a rockery; a vine under glass; the sea.

To which he has now returned. The day of course is fine
And a grown-up voice cries Play! The mallet slowly swings,
Then crack, a great gong booms from the dog-dark hall and the ball
Skims forward through the hoop and then through the next and then

Through hoops where no hoops were and each dissolves in turn
And the grass has grown head-high and an angry voice cries Play!
But the ball is lost and the mallet slipped long since from the hands
Under the running tap that are not the hands of a child.

Louis Macneice

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Perserverance in these difficult times is a value worth holding onto .....pleased that yours paid off (and hoping mine does too) :-) x

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I hope so to marra ;-)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stevefoster

Job loss, jobless, depression,
Jobs you don't like, but pay the bills,
And finally, a job you want, happens.

A crap year, hopefully, behind me, onwards and upwards.
Persevere and may you all achieve your dreams and aspirations:)

---

I'm glad you are sorted Steve http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...gebit/grin.gif

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

another one from macneice...i like the way he plays with the notion of time as it relates to the self, here i think he is observing how in a moment we can be transported back to different more innocent times..........?

Soap Suds

This brand of soap has the same smell as once in the big
House he visited when he was eight: the walls of the bathroom open
To reveal a lawn where a great yellow ball rolls back through a hoop
To rest at the head of a mallet held in the hands of a child.

And these were the joys of that house: a tower with a telescope;
Two great faded globes, one of the earth, one of the stars;
A stuffed black dog in the hall; a walled garden with bees;
A rabbit warren; a rockery; a vine under glass; the sea.

To which he has now returned. The day of course is fine
And a grown-up voice cries Play! The mallet slowly swings,
Then crack, a great gong booms from the dog-dark hall and the ball
Skims forward through the hoop and then through the next and then

Through hoops where no hoops were and each dissolves in turn
And the grass has grown head-high and an angry voice cries Play!
But the ball is lost and the mallet slipped long since from the hands
Under the running tap that are not the hands of a child.

Louis Macneice

---

I enjoyed that one freckle http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...ebit/Cool2.gif It reminds me of the Hardy poem when he has his hands in water and thinks back to the picnic at the waterfall.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Alf

I'm glad you are sorted Steve http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...gebit/grin.gif

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Cheers Alf, i can now add 'worked in Lancashire for 4 weeks' to my CV:thumbup:

Alientation is a horrible place to be, for the alienated and those around them...given current events in the media I found myself looking for poetry on the subject and stumbled across this one by Anne Sexton, it is about female alienation but the themes are relevant I think...I am wondering who causes alienation, the person, society or a bit of both?...in anycase I hope for the sake of the people of Rothbury (and other less idyllic places in the north east) that there is a speedy and non violent resolution to the current manhunt.

Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves;
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Alientation is a horrible place to be, for the alienated and those around them...given current events in the media I found myself looking for poetry on the subject and stumbled across this one by Anne Sexton, it is about female alienation but the themes are relevant I think...I am wondering who causes alienation, the person, society or a bit of both?...in anycase I hope for the sake of the people of Rothbury (and other less idyllic places in the north east) that there is a speedy and non violent resolution to the current manhunt.

Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves;
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

---

Thanks for posting that freckle :cool:

Alienation can lead to loneliness and I suppose vice versa as people assume someone who is always on their own prefers to be that way and leaves them to it.

To Nature

It may indeed be fantasy, when I
Essay to draw from all created things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ;
And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest piety.
So let it be ; and if the wide world rings
In mock of this belief, it brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
So will I build my altar in the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God ! and thou shalt not despise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

To Nature

It may indeed be fantasy, when I
Essay to draw from all created things
Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ;
And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
Lessons of love and earnest piety.
So let it be ; and if the wide world rings
In mock of this belief, it brings
Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
So will I build my altar in the fields,
And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,
And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
Thee only God ! and thou shalt not despise
Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

---

Beautiful and I can't help think somewhat eery....nice one Alfie boy! :cool:

Good evening all...it has been quiet on here of late, hope everyone is well.....

I came across this poem today in a very old book I have the penguin book of english romantic verse...something about it made me think about the fugitive purported to be roaming around the lovely fells and moorland in Northumberland...


Stanzas written in dejection near Naples

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might,
The breath of the moist earth is light,
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The City's voice itself, is soft like Solitude's.


I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,—
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.


Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned—
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround—
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.


Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.


Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament—for I am one
Whom men love not,—and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

Summer Sun
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,

apparently this chap is meeting with a bunch of fell poets this thursday in dufton.....?

I am very bothered

I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.

O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.

Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.

Simon Armitage