An article on poetry and mental illness on the bbc website...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-12368624
Very interesting reading. It looks like there was a prog. on it yesterday on radio 4. Now on iPlayer
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An article on poetry and mental illness on the bbc website...
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-12368624
Very interesting reading. It looks like there was a prog. on it yesterday on radio 4. Now on iPlayer
Do we want to have another Fell Poets team at Gummers How again this year?
I'll come and sip peroni and cheer this time I think!Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
there are an abundance of good fell poets on here, i reckon you might even win this time!
Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
This is a brilliant article Harry thanks for highlighting it...I particularly like Edgar Allan Poe's question about whether madness is in fact a "loftier type of intelligence" ....very thought provoking
there is such a lovely rhythmic quality to this poem, nice one alfster! hope you have a good race xQuote:
Originally Posted by Alf
sorry to hog space but just wanted to say that thiS poem is AWESOME!!!!!!!!!! thank you Hes xQuote:
Originally Posted by Hes
No I am not running it DT. My leg injury is pain free now and I am back running but the Trog is a long hard race so I am not going to risk a reoccurence of the injury. I hope you and Stef have an enjoyable run though and (if she hasn't already seen it?) don't forget to point out the plaque to Ted Hughes just after you cross the bridge at Lumb falls. http://www.hebdenbridge.co.uk/news/news07/102.htmlQuote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Well as a not very good poet I must be sane but the rest of you are as mad as a box of frogs :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Ooooo I found a (LUSH) blast from the past..
As Our Bloods Separate
David Constantine
As our bloods separate the clock resumes,
I hear the wind again as our hearts quieten.
We were a ring: the clock ticked round us.
For that time and the wind was deflected.
The clock pecks everything to the bone.
The wind enters through the broken eyes.
Of houses and through their wide mouths
And scatters the ashes from the hearth.
Sleep. Do not let go my hand.
ps alfster...i reckon deep down you are as mad as the rest of us? .........x
It all depends on the population you are comparing yourself against. Don't forget you run up mountains! That's insane by most people's standards. :-) ribbit ribbitQuote:
Originally Posted by Alf
I posted this after last year's Trog Alf. Small world. Hope you're racing again soon! I'm not sure if Stef has been there, but I'll point it out to her in case she hasn't :cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Freckle and Alf...two lovely choices! I haven't read the Constantine before and its great. I wish I was doing Wadsworth Trog but I am running a 'pant printing' workshop...don't ask...it seemed like a good idea at the time and its amazing how you can get carried away when egged on by pr savvie art centre managers.
HHH, I'll check that article out. I think madness, eccentricity or at least off-centre thinking is often a prerequisite to being a poet or an artist.
Spooky :D:DQuote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVSRm...eature=related
Maybe we are all acquiring a "collective consciousness" :rolleyes:
This is from one of the "beat poets" where even the physical structure of the poem adds meaning to it :cool:
Two Scavengers
At the stoplight waiting for the light
nine am downtown San Francisco
a bright yellow garbage truck
with two garbagemen in red plastic blazers
standing on the back stoop
one on each side hanging on
and looking down into
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it
The man
in a hip three-piece linen suit
with shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses
The young blond woman so casually coifed
with a short skirt and colored stockings
on the way to his architect's office
And the two scavengers up since four am
grungy from their route
on the way home
The older of the two with grey iron hair
and hunched back
looking down like some
gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
also with sunglasses & long hair
about the same age as the Mercedes driver
And both scavengers gazing down
as from a great distance
at the cool couple
as if they were watching some odorless TV ad
in which everything is always possible
And the very red light for an instant
holding all four close together
as if anything at all were possible
between them
across that small gulf
in the high seas
of this democracy
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
The Tree of Life
Oh beautiful branches
So stunning I see
Standing tall your endless reach
Leaves of shimmering hope
Reach down to me
A great willing to teach
Bark of eternal standing
No weakness just strength showing
Oh give to me your wisdom
And shed to me your knowing
MG
Love this MG, especially Bark of eternal standingQuote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
Lovely imagery MG, I like "shed me your knowing" very enigmatic xQuote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
Smashing poem that MG :cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
To act as a sort of counterpoint to MGs lovely poem a bit of "Mr doom and gloom". However there's probably not many poets who would include "cycle-clips" in a verse :)
Church Going
Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.
Philp Larkin
Arracombe Wood
Some said, because he wud'n spaik
Any words to women but Yes and No,
Nor put out his hand for Parson to shake
He mun be bird-witted. But I do go
By the lie of the barley that he did sow,
And I wish no better thing than to hold a rake
Like Dave, in his time, or to see him mow.
Put up in churchyard a month ago,
'A bitter old soul', they said, but it wadn't so.
His heart were in Arracombe Wood where he'd used to go
To sit and talk wi' his shadder till sun went low,
Though what it was all about us'll never know.
And there baint no mem'ry in the place
Of th' old man's footmark, nor his face;
Arracombe Wood do think more of a crow -
'Will be violets there in the Spring; in Summer time the spider's lace;
And come the Fall, the whizzle and race
Of the dry, dead leaves when the wind gives chase;
And on the Eve of Christmas, fallin' snow.
Charlotte Mew
Interesting choice Alfster, I like it...particularly the use of dialect and the lines "His heart were in Arracombe Wood where he'd used to goQuote:
Originally Posted by Alf
To sit and talk wi' his shadder till sun went low"...nice one :-)
Brinkwomanship
Leontia Flynn
When they come for you no bigger than a piece of fruit,
Weighing no more and no less than a water biscuit,
This will be my excuse:
That I hoped you were just testing yourself
As I might subtly and irresistibly
Poke at a sensitive tooth. That is, not morbidly,
But out of curiosity
To locate the exact, minute, sensory transition-between
Merely knowing and the definition
Of pain, and knowing the meaning.
13
Waves crashing
Oil tankers on seas horizon
Wind blowing
Birds soaring in it's gust
Track, trail and muddy puddles
It's all the same ups and downs
But that 13 miler is a Sunday morning must!
MG
Lovely MG, you certainly are getting the miles in lately!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
Yes I am on a mission! How are you getting on? xxxQuote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Ah tek it yer got yer long run in then?? Like your words too.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
NB
Sure did matey :thumbup:Quote:
Originally Posted by Nee Bother
Whitburn beachQuote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
not far away
and always
in reach
Not quite a hill
but straight from
your door
use it well.
Its that bloomin' date again.....grrrrrrrr
A Valentine
Before your gate from dawn to late
The cheery postman whistles;
And every mail augments the tale
Of amorous epistles
That jingle "heart" with "part" and "dart,"
Nor fail to mention Cupid;
That rhyme "above" and "love" and "dove"--
And other things as stupid.
I pray you, spurn those lines that burn,
Despite their foolish pleading.
To flame consign each Valentine--
Except the one you're reading.
And scorn the host that sent per post
Those missives, poor and shoddy.
"They love you, too?"--Of course they do!
For so does everybody!
But just as sure as snows are pure
And shoes are made of leather,
I do adore and love you more
Than all the rest together!
Arthur Guiterman
Its a bit late now to tell me you're not a fan of Valentine's day. Your card is already in the post!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Very atmospheric that MG :cool: I ran my first race (very carefully!) in a month yesterday and by the sound of it we had the wind and the muddy puddles in common. :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
Thats a good one freckle. I thought it was one of yours when I didn't see the name at the bottom. It certainly has the "freckle style" to it :cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Accidentally stumbled on this when I was checking the correct name of a Kate Bush songtitle for the Chain thread :D
The Child in Me
She follows me about my House of Life
(This happy little ghost of my dead Youth!)
She has no part in Time's relentless strife
She keeps her old simplicity and truth --
And laughs at grim Mortality,
This deathless Child that stays with me --
(This happy little ghost of my dead Youth!)
My House of Life is weather-stained with years --
(O Child in Me, I wonder why you stay.)
Its windows are bedimmed with rain of tears,
The walls have lost their rose, its thatch is gray.
One after one its guests depart,
So dull a host is my old heart.
(O Child in Me, I wonder why you stay!)
For jealous Age, whose face I would forget,
Pulls the bright flowers you bring me from my hair
And powders it with snow; and yet -- and yet
I love your dancing feet and jocund air.
I have no taste for caps of lace
To tie about my faded face --
I love to wear your flowers in my hair.
O Child in Me, leave not my House of Clay
Until we pass together through the Door,
When lights are out, and Life has gone away
And we depart to come again no more.
We comrades who have travelled far
Will hail the Twilight and the Star,
And smiling, pass together through the Door!
May Riley Smith
Little auld Ken thought he wus fit,
Went for a recce but ran like sh1t,
Couldn't get gannin up the fust hill
and after alf an hour felt rather ill.
Under pressure with thumb on the map
Dunno why...but me nav'in was crap
Kept plugging away but to no avail
Route should've been an easy handrail
Turned left at High Raise to Kidsty Pike
Made up time could've been on me bike
Two minutes up and felt the best for days
Completely c0cked up, I'd been to Low Raise.
Toys out me pram....... for wot was worth
reality checked and brought back to earth
Teach me not to brag and think ahm clever
Must train more or Joss Naylor will happen...... never
NB
Ooo I like this!Quote:
Originally Posted by Nee Bother
Another good ome NB you are on a roll!Quote:
Originally Posted by Nee Bother
Mossy- such cynicism! .....though i do know what you mean, I can't stand the commercial side of valentines day and I would have thought if you were fond of someone it would be a good idea to demonstrate it all year round and not just on one day so that we can line the pockets of the card/flowers/pointless gifts industry!...that said, there is nothing wrong with using a few choice words to remind someone how you feel...
Variations on the Word Sleep
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Margaret Atwood
why thankyou alf..i am flattered !:-)Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
I like it Mossy! Blooming day...making us singlies feel inadequate. Thank goodness for good friends, that's what I think. :)
Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
I can't keep up with all the great poems that have been posted on here recently and to start naming all the ones that I like will make this post sound like an awards acceptance speech so I'll just say, thank you to you all for posting such good verses and giving the rest of us great stuff to read. I've particularly enjoyed the original material.
I'd like to second that. I'm enjoying just reading everyone's excellent poems and choices, but when things quieten down I'll give something back.Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes