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Nice one DTQuote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
There was a beautiful V of about 30 geese that went over here last weekend. One bird suddenly tried to cross over from the end of one tail to the other, and blimey,did it have to put in a lot of work. It nearly got left behind. It just shows how much more efficient it must be to be in the feathery peloton.
Pink footed tourists and feathery peleton, cool observations;)
Effortless wingbeats
Flap, panic, gasp, flap, honk, phew
Effortless wingbeats
Love it HHH, especially the way you slipped a honk in there:DQuote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Show judge feels through fleeceQuote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Disappointing left buttock
market tomorrow
My master puts on his trainers,
I wag my tail and wuff,
Then we're off, for fun.
By Gem Foster
Bloody marvelous. You win a gold star for your sticker chart!Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Lovely.Quote:
Originally Posted by stevefoster
lol :)Quote:
Originally Posted by alf
'Alan, where are you?'
'In the Swan, getting them in'
'Oh, we said the Fleece'
Today's homework reflecting last night's mix up over where to go for a drink :cool:
Just dipping in quickly so many beautiful choices being posted lately..I really loved this and the jo Shapcott poem posted by Alf...funnily enough myself, OW and Sunbeam Alpine had the pleasure of listening to both Jo Shapcott and Don Paterson read some of their poems last night in Newcastle and they were brilliant. (I think they will also be appearing at the Durham literary festival soon) I'll be popping back on here later to post some of their poems but for now have a great day all!Quote:
Originally Posted by Einar
Mild the mist upon the hill
Mild the mist upon the hill
Telling not of storms tomorrow;
No, the day has wept its fill,
Spent its store of silent sorrow.
O, I'm gone back to the days of youth,
I am a child once more,
And 'neath my father's sheltering roof
And near the old hall door
I watch this cloudy evening fall
After a day of rain;
Blue mists, sweet mists of summer pall
The horizon's mountain chain.
The damp stands on the long green grass
As thick as morning's tears,
And dreamy scents of fragrance pass
That breathe of other years.
Emily Jane Brontë
We're running from Haworth tonight so this seemed appropriate :cool:
Good choice that Einar :cool: I missed it when you first posted it. Heres the man himself reading 'Rain' in an interview:Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
http://download.guardian.co.uk/audio..._patterson.mp3
Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Good choice DT that last verse is especially lush :)
Easter, 1944
A cold one. My father, home
briefly on leave, took me a promised walk.
My sister came too, holding hard to my hand.
There was a wind thrashed bare branches, made wires howl,
the flat, grey sky held no hope of sun. He was
strange to us and we did not talk.
In Lane End spinney he pointed to an old
tin bath half-hidden among weeds. I didn't tell
him a tramp would sleep there, scaring little girls.
Trudging back, he spoke of walks we'd take
"When I am home for good." But
I swerved from him, would not see his face.
There are dreams now in which I am kept to a road
under a lowering sky and I can't tell
which way the children took or when they left.
Father, forgive my dry, incurious eyes.
John Lucas
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/book...eek-john-lucas
Ye Moste Haunted Goldene Fleece
Olde Yorke towne, of high renown, dates back before ye floode
Two thousand years of historie and moste of it prettie goode
As Eboracum, York was home to Rome’s imperial mighte
Then Jorvik, under Norsemen, always spoyling for ye fighte.
Thys city faire hath had its share of mayhem through the yeares,
Whych led to lottes of sudden deathe and loud lamenting teares,
From violente deathe comes unquiet souls that seeme to take delighte
In scaring goode folke shyttless going “bumpe” all in ye nighte.
Throughout Yorke towne each Inne sets downe ye phantomes that it claimes,
And some have headless serving men and some have blacke-clad dames.
And ancient roomes that echo to ye tramp of ghostlie feet,
Their claimes do growe and yet they knowe, in truthe, they can’t compete
While most Innes there do claime their share of souls that know no peace
They’re jealous as hell of ye ghosts that dwell in ye famous Goldene Fleece
For centuries ye Fleece has been thys haunted Towne’s top pycke,
There are more ghoules within its walles than at wych ye may shake a styck
Top of ye bille, and haunting stille, is ye ghostlie Lady Peckett
She wanders abroad but, thank the Lord; she never maketh a racket (sorrie)
For a moderne spook ye need onlie looke at ye airman sunke in gloome,
A Yankee flyer that did expire when he tried to flie from hys roome.
Ye ghostlie starre of ye Bottom Bar is a man in humour sour,
A grumpie old bloke in longe blacke cloake who grumbleth by the hour,
And tells with groanes and ghostlie moanes of how the world’s gonne madde,
For all the worlde he acteth like he’s Victor Meldrew’s dadde.
Many have spied a Victorian childe in ye Top Bar, clear as a wynk,
A winsome lad who, it is said, departed thys life through drink;
How can it be that one so young should end his life thys way?
It seemeth he was trampled to deathe by the hooves of a Brewer’s Dray.
Down in ye cellar lie’s the ghoste of a feller who was hanged for rape and pillage,
And a soldier from Rome that maye never go home, who marcheth through ye stillage,
In ye kitchen a childe, by tyme beguiled, doth come and goe withal
And ye spectral shade of a tender maid doth vanishe through ye walle.
There’s an olde dead chappe in Tri-corn hatte by ye name of “One-Eyed Jack”,
Who roameth abroad with pistol and sword to ye Bottom Bar and backe,
Wyth a coat of red and a wigge on hys head he paces ye bar in tears,
Tis no surprise, he’s not been served in over 300 years.
Nowe it has to be saide that ye sighte of a heade neathe its owner’s arm can shocke
And ye cowled head floating over ye bedde can make ye knees to knocke
Beste stay awaye iffe ye hearte is fraile or ye longe for an evening of peace
Butte iffe you’re uppe for a frighte come and spend ye nighte in ye ghostlie Goldene Fleece.
thanks for this alf listening to this as i type...he has a lovely soft lilt...there have been so many good choices on here lately i can hardly keep up! i found easter 1944 very poignant, i am very interested in the accounts of ww2 evacuees and was not aware of this so thank you :O) x runner good to see you back with an intriguing choice....Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Inspired writing...Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
The Deaths
Jo Shapcott
I thought I knew my death,
I thought he would announce
himself with all the little creaks
and groans you hear of,
that we would get friendly and walk
our walk of two drunkards
with him chattering inside me
about lumps and arteries
and his gift of pain which would be
too big to wrap properly,
that some way into our courtship
he'd give me the look and
I'd implode like a ripe mango.
I thought I knew my death
so when, after a bee buzz
of an afternoon, the rain started
and the fine hairs rose on my neck
and the long hairs rugged my scalp
and my mouth stank of seaweed
and a tingle ran around my wrists,
I didn't recognise her. She lit
a green flame over my head
and even then I didn't get it. She threw
me yards back, traced her filigree
red cartoons on my palms until
I was gone and still I didn't know.
dom you are an enigma to me!!!!! :o)Quote:
Originally Posted by dominion
:thumbup:Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
good idea, man of many H's. Have I missed the deadline??Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Pasty cashier wants
fifty quid to press buttons.
did someone say 'fleece'?
Fine choices Freckle and Alf. (Thanks for the link, by the way.) I must read more (a lot more) poetry. DT, excellent rhyme is always welcome to me, as is a good laugh XRunner. Another great page! Here's Tom Pow.
Spanish Shaving
As light dims, I take my shaver outside
to trim my holiday beard. The grey drifts
down to tinder-dry grasses; the small blades
chirr like insects as my blind hand sifts
through the stubble. That's when my wife appears
and sees at once something else we can share.
In tending each wanton bristle, she blanks
out all but the job at hand. A car roars
through the vineyards; a dog barks. The leaves
rattle in the almost breeze, while I lean
forward like an old man in surrender.
There was stubble behind his blue jaw-line
my father always missed. His late kisses
exposed it when, trusting in her answer,
he tipped his face towards my mother. His mask
briefly hovers in the warm evening air.
Between my face and it, my wife's sweet breath
travels the blind trajectory of love.
I love this Einar. Thanks for posting :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Einar
Yep, me too. Really lovely Einar!
Alf...this is genius! Very funny and especially apt as I got told off at Masham Sheep Fair for sinking my fingers into a sheep's fleece to see how deep it was. I left a finger shaped hole in its perfectly coiffeured wool and his owner (complete with white coat and hat) said 'madam, could you wait until after the judging to do that please'! Oops. :)
Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Hi IDP, really like your daughter's haiku...bit of syncronity there!
Quote:
Originally Posted by IanDarkpeak
On a soft warm fleece
In front of an open fire
Your skin glows like gold
this is lovely I also liked IDP's daughters haiku as well as contributions from Alf and OW :-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Einar
Autumns upon us
Winds are high
Better grab yer fleece
I cannot write haiku just detest rules and therefore the 7 syllables thingiemejiggy! but i do appreciate others
Thursday tarmac trot
tired throbbing tempo'd thighs
thoughts turn towards tea
That's lovely Einar...an open fire oooh I wish! Makes me feel all cosy reading that!Quote:
Originally Posted by Einar
You can't beat a real fire MG!
Loving the avatar DT, that guy was a legend... 6 times married! wot stamina! and not a bad actor to boot! a sad loss!Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
i am envous as i read your haiku, which is excellent! ...i still have a horrible knee injury and so am a mostly swimming as opposed to running sun spot at present! ...
anyhoo I heard JB read this poem on the poetry archive recently...
"Youth and Age on Beaulieu River, Hants"
Early sun on Beaulieu water
Lights the undersides of oaks,
Clumps of leaves it floods and blanches,
All transparent glow the branches
Which the double sunlight soaks;
To her craft on Beaulieu water
Clemency the General's daughter
Pulls across with even strokes.
Schoolboy-sure she is this morning;
Soon her sharpie's rigg'd and free.
Cool beneath a garden awning
Mrs. Fairclough, sipping tea
And raising large long-distance glasses
As the little sharpie passes,
Sighs our sailor girl to see:
Tulip figure, so appealing,
Oval face, so serious-eyed,
Tree-roots pass'd and muddy beaches.
On to huge and lake-like reaches,
Soft and sun-warm, see her glide -
Slacks the slim young limbs revealing,
Sun-brown arm the tiller feeling -
With the wind and with the tide.
Evening light will bring the water,
Day-long sun will burst the bud,
Clemency, the General's daughter,
Will return upon the flood.
But the older woman only
Knows the ebb-tide leaves her lonely
With the shining fields of mud.
I really recommend listening to JB tell the stoy behind the poem and read it here...amazing voice...
http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetrya...do?poemId=1538
ps i would so love to be a tulip...alas I am an apple!
Thanks for this Freckle, I love John Betjeman and this is a lovely one. It has thoroughly cheered my evening. I love hearing him read too. I have a great cd wih his poems set to music called 'Banana Blush'.x
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Glad you enjoyed it sweetheart and hoping you are well xxxQuote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Sorry to hear about your poorly knee freckle. Hope you're on the mend soon
October
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if the were all,
Whose elaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all
Robert Frost
WOMAN'S POEM
Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man, who's not a creep,
One who's handsome, smart and strong.
One who loves to listen long,
One who thinks before he speaks,
One who'll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he's gainfully employed,
When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed.
Pulls out my chair and opens my door,
Massages my back and begs to do more.
Oh! Send me a man, who'll make love to my mind,
Knows what to answer to "how big is my behind?"
I pray that this man will love me to no end,
And always be my very best friend.
MAN'S POEM
I pray for a deaf-mute nymphomaniac with huge boobs Who owns a liquor store and a golf course. This doesn't rhyme and I don't give a crap.
Shamefully stolen by me from the internet. By the way, as a man I have to say that I no interest in liquor stores or frigging golf...
Ha ha...
I pray for a man…
No hold on, I’m an atheist…
I wish for a man who’s not mad,
I wish for a man who’s not bad
I’d like to meet a guy
Without a roving eye
And one who won’t leave me so sad
I wish for a man who will talk
Who’d enjoy a long rambling walk
It would be much funner
If he was a keen runner
And women he would never stalk
A bloke that likes a good laugh
Who’s glass is near full at the half
Who treats me with care
Looks good when he’s bare
And wants me to share his hot bath.
Then again…you can never underestimate the company of a nice dog!
Quote:
Originally Posted by Stolly
Eden Rock
They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:
My father, twenty-five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Still two years old and trembling at his feet.
My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress
Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat,
Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.
Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw
Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out
The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My mother shades her eyes and looks my way
Over the drifted stream. My father spins
A stone along the water. Leisurely,
They beckon to me from the other bank.
I hear them call, "See where the stream-path is!
Crossing is not as hard as you might think."
I had not thought that it would be like this.
Charles Causley
this is very enigmatic and lovely Alf...thank you for posting...i really like your new signature too :-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf