Today's poet

The Body may grow weak
But the Spirit's up to you
You are in control

Too true Steve!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stevefoster

The Body may grow weak
But the Spirit's up to you
You are in control

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stevefoster

The Body may grow weak
But the Spirit's up to you
You are in control

---

loved this steve and Hes's haiku too!

The Self-Unseeing by Thomas Hardy

Here is the ancient floor,
Footworn and hollowed and thin,
Here was the former door
Where the dead feet walked in.

She sat here in her chair,
Smiling into the fire;
He who played stood there,
Bowing it higher and higher.

Childlike, I danced in a dream;
Blessings emblazoned that day;
Everything glowed with a gleam;
Yet we were looking away

Wedding mourning

I sip bitter coffee and smoke a wasted fag while he
no doubt, is pressing a dress shirt, or polishing shoes,
or positioning his buttonhole, (a thistle to prick
his conscience), accompanied by
an early morning whisky (a stone to blunt
serrated nerves) and last minute guests are fretting
over last minute ladders pulled with ragged nails,
and battered hats, that, after the journey on the train,
are barely intact, and sporrans that have gone astray and I flick
my cigarette into the bin for want of a better
ashtray. I should have a shower but pour
another mug instead and sit here in my dressing gown
with last night’s makeup smeared around my eyes
and this morning’s hangover pressing down.
I should get dressed.

I should get dressed.
He will be ready now, his kilt pleated and poised to flow,
his woollen socks held up by tartan garter flecks
and silver hip flask accessible and primed
(in case he has a need for some Scotch courage)
and his satin waistcoat as tight across his chest
as the silky clutch of a python. And his mother is spitting
on her handkerchief to wipe away her orange lipstick kiss
and is telling her son how proud she is. But in his pocket
the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam.
And now, I guess a ribbonned car is wending through
the drizzle and city traffic queue to the chapel
at the university where we first met.
I light another cigarette and inhale as if my life were over.


Helen Taylor

A Lancashire Hare


O brown are the moors in the grey morning lying
Where the west wind comes singing o'er wide sea and plain;
O blithe on the hills when the autumn is dying
The hound and the horn wake the echoes again.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare:
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound,
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

O hark, and O hark, to the sound of the hollo,
Afar on the hills, in the fall o' the year!
O hark, and O hark, to the hounds that we follow,
How their full-throated chorus swells tuneful and clear.
Through the bent and the heather they revel and rally, -
Their voices all chiming out gallant and gay
A quest by the brookside, a view in the valley,
Then over the hilltop and for'ard away!

0 gone are all burdens of sorrow and yearning,
0 fast fly the hours that were made for delight,
Till red in the West like a torch dimly burning,
The last gleam of day gives the hunter good-night.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare,
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

Cicely Fox Smith
(With her name she HAD to write this poem!)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by XRunner

A Lancashire Hare


O brown are the moors in the grey morning lying
Where the west wind comes singing o'er wide sea and plain;
O blithe on the hills when the autumn is dying
The hound and the horn wake the echoes again.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare:
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound,
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

O hark, and O hark, to the sound of the hollo,
Afar on the hills, in the fall o' the year!
O hark, and O hark, to the hounds that we follow,
How their full-throated chorus swells tuneful and clear.
Through the bent and the heather they revel and rally, -
Their voices all chiming out gallant and gay
A quest by the brookside, a view in the valley,
Then over the hilltop and for'ard away!

0 gone are all burdens of sorrow and yearning,
0 fast fly the hours that were made for delight,
Till red in the West like a torch dimly burning,
The last gleam of day gives the hunter good-night.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare,
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

Cicely Fox Smith
(With her name she HAD to write this poem!)

---

Great choice xrunner. One of those poems that you hang on to and enjoy the ride :cool:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Wedding mourning

I sip bitter coffee and smoke a wasted fag while he
no doubt, is pressing a dress shirt, or polishing shoes,
or positioning his buttonhole, (a thistle to prick
his conscience), accompanied by
an early morning whisky (a stone to blunt
serrated nerves) and last minute guests are fretting
over last minute ladders pulled with ragged nails,
and battered hats, that, after the journey on the train,
are barely intact, and sporrans that have gone astray and I flick
my cigarette into the bin for want of a better
ashtray. I should have a shower but pour
another mug instead and sit here in my dressing gown
with last night’s makeup smeared around my eyes
and this morning’s hangover pressing down.
I should get dressed.

I should get dressed.
He will be ready now, his kilt pleated and poised to flow,
his woollen socks held up by tartan garter flecks
and silver hip flask accessible and primed
(in case he has a need for some Scotch courage)
and his satin waistcoat as tight across his chest
as the silky clutch of a python. And his mother is spitting
on her handkerchief to wipe away her orange lipstick kiss
and is telling her son how proud she is. But in his pocket
the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam.
And now, I guess a ribbonned car is wending through
the drizzle and city traffic queue to the chapel
at the university where we first met.
I light another cigarette and inhale as if my life were over.

Helen Taylor

---

Nice selection Mossy. "the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam" :cool:

(She is probably better off without him :rolleyes: )

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

The Self-Unseeing by Thomas Hardy

Here is the ancient floor,
Footworn and hollowed and thin,
Here was the former door
Where the dead feet walked in.

She sat here in her chair,
Smiling into the fire;
He who played stood there,
Bowing it higher and higher.

Childlike, I danced in a dream;
Blessings emblazoned that day;
Everything glowed with a gleam;
Yet we were looking away

---

Lovely choice young freckle :D Very evocative of those visits to your parent(s) house where you suddenly find yourself looking at the seat your father used to sit in and the sudden memories that come flooding back to you.

Three excellent choices of poems tonight so far :cool:

Well said Alf!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Nice selection Mossy. "the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam" :cool:

(She is probably better off without him :rolleyes: )

---

I liked Freckle's and XRunner's choices too. Hmmm...what to post next??

I found this in the anthology 'The River's Voice':

A Flowing River

You are lovely as a river
under tranquil skies-
There are inperfections
but a music overlays them-

telling by how dark a bed
the current moves
to what sea that shines
and ripples in my thought

William Carlos Williams

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

I found this in the anthology 'The River's Voice':

A Flowing River

You are lovely as a river
under tranquil skies-
There are inperfections
but a music overlays them-

telling by how dark a bed
the current moves
to what sea that shines
and ripples in my thought

William Carlos Williams

---

Lovely choice Hes, love the sound of running water, could sit by a river or a stream all day, beats working but doesn't pay the bills.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Nice selection Mossy. "the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam" :cool:

(She is probably better off without him :rolleyes: )

---

i agree alf...such a sad and beautiful poem....sigh

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

I found this in the anthology 'The River's Voice':

A Flowing River

You are lovely as a river
under tranquil skies-
There are inperfections
but a music overlays them-

telling by how dark a bed
the current moves
to what sea that shines
and ripples in my thought

William Carlos Williams

---

hey you introduced me to someone new! thanks hes!

i think there is so much more than meets the eye with this one.....


The Decent
William Carlos Williams

The descent beckons
as the ascent beckoned.
Memory is a kind
of accomplishment,
a sort of renewal
even
an initiation, since the spaces it opens are new places
inhabited by hordes
heretofore unrealized,
of new kinds—
since their movements
are toward new objectives
(even though formerly they were abandoned).

No defeat is made up entirely of defeat—since
the world it opens is always a place
formerly
unsuspected. A
world lost,
a world unsuspected,
beckons to new places
and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory
of whiteness .

With evening, love wakens
though its shadows
which are alive by reason
of the sun shining—
grow sleepy now and drop away
from desire .

Love without shadows stirs now
beginning to awaken
as night
advances.

The descent
made up of despairs
and without accomplishment
realizes a new awakening:
which is a reversal
of despair.
For what we cannot accomplish, what
is denied to love,
what we have lost in the anticipation—
a descent follows,
endless and indestructible .


ps an interesting analysis can be found here...
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps...thedescent.htm

Over the Edge

All my dead people
seeping through the riverbank where they are buried
colouring the stream pale brown
are why I swim in the river,
feeling now rather closer to them
than when the water was clearer,
when I could walk barefoot on the gravel
seeing only the flicker of minnows
possessing nothing but balance.

Fleur Adcock

Somersby Brook

This brook was the pulse of his being;
I know; I have seen it,
An insignificant affair, stroking the grasses
In the drab fields.
But when the land is flat and there is nowhere to go,
No hill steep enough to sharpen the mind,
No wood darkening to an old legend,
One ignores the whole and prizes the parts,
Making a forest of the green cress,
A town of the trees’ roots.

So it was then in his young life
Beginning at Somersby;
His thoughts were attuned to the brook’s rhythm;
Its lithe movements, scaly with sunlight,
Startled his mind with a new joy.
And in the dark, if he leaned from his window,
It was as though the night spoke
In shrewd whispers –
And all because of this mean runnel,
Toying idly with a few stones,
Stones that became words in his verse,
Poised and polished in the mind’s stream.

R. S. Thomas

That's a really powerful poem Alf.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Over the Edge

All my dead people
seeping through the riverbank where they are buried
colouring the stream pale brown
are why I swim in the river,
feeling now rather closer to them
than when the water was clearer,
when I could walk barefoot on the gravel
seeing only the flicker of minnows
possessing nothing but balance.

Fleur Adcock

---

This is an excerpt from Alice Oswald's excellent poem/book Dart:

woodman working on your own
knocking the long shadows down
and all day the river's eyes
peep and pry among the trees

when the lithe water turns
and its tongue flatters the ferns
do you speak this kind of sound:
whirlpool whisking around?

Listen, I can clap and slide
my hollow hands along my side
imagine the bare feel of the water,
woodman, to the wrinkled timber

here is another excerpt from Dart about swimming...

Menyahari - we scream in mid-air,
We jump from tree into a pool, we change ourselves
into the fish dimension. Everybody swims here
under Still Pool Copse, on a saturday,
slapping the water with bare hands, its fine once you're in.

Is it cold? Is it sharp?

I stood looking down through the beech trees.
When I threw a stone I could count to five before the
splash.

Then I jumped in a rush of gold to the head,
through black and cold, red and cold, brown and warm,
giving water the weight and size of myself in order to
imagine it,
water with my bones, water with my mouth and my understanding

when my body was in some way a wave to swim in,
one continuous fin from head to tail
I steered through rapids like a canoe,
digging my hands in, keeping just ahead of the
river....

Alice Oswald's always been a favourite for me Hes - thanks for those excerpts.

Spent the morning atop Wildboar Fell, Swarth fell and Baugh fell giving the new footwear a bash.....simply glorious weather again, sunshine and a gentle cooling breeze, and as usual I was able to feast on the entire 'secret' landscape uninterrupted - heavenly.

Bare Grip's premier
skylarking on Wildboar fell
soul to sole smiling

Your Name

Stirring, I turn, letting your name
tumble from still sleep-bound lips onto my pillow
where it lays, warming today's first thoughts
it's power lightens, fades the stalking loss of night
sears the fears of absence, the years of silence
- this is love, your name, your image
lays close
as real as landscape,
and that smile, those blue eyes of acceptance
I'v woken into my dream,
the unspoken secret of a life time's heartbeats
a 'Lovely Day' made true,
your name.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

hey you introduced me to someone new! thanks hes!

i think there is so much more than meets the eye with this one.....


The Decent
William Carlos Williams

The descent beckons
as the ascent beckoned.
Memory is a kind
of accomplishment,
a sort of renewal
even
an initiation, since the spaces it opens are new places
inhabited by hordes
heretofore unrealized,
of new kinds—
since their movements
are toward new objectives
(even though formerly they were abandoned).

No defeat is made up entirely of defeat—since
the world it opens is always a place
formerly
unsuspected. A
world lost,
a world unsuspected,
beckons to new places
and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory
of whiteness .

With evening, love wakens
though its shadows
which are alive by reason
of the sun shining—
grow sleepy now and drop away
from desire .

Love without shadows stirs now
beginning to awaken
as night
advances.

The descent
made up of despairs
and without accomplishment
realizes a new awakening:
which is a reversal
of despair.
For what we cannot accomplish, what
is denied to love,
what we have lost in the anticipation—
a descent follows,
endless and indestructible .


ps an interesting analysis can be found here...
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps...thedescent.htm

---

Goodness Freckle - what a stunning poem, and the link to the analysis simply added to my appreciation. Profoundly philosophical, yet in it's subject matter central to the very inescapable exigencies of real life that most of us will have to face in one way or the other.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Somersby Brook

This brook was the pulse of his being;
I know; I have seen it,
An insignificant affair, stroking the grasses
In the drab fields.
But when the land is flat and there is nowhere to go,
No hill steep enough to sharpen the mind,
No wood darkening to an old legend,
One ignores the whole and prizes the parts,
Making a forest of the green cress,
A town of the trees’ roots.

So it was then in his young life
Beginning at Somersby;
His thoughts were attuned to the brook’s rhythm;
Its lithe movements, scaly with sunlight,
Startled his mind with a new joy.
And in the dark, if he leaned from his window,
It was as though the night spoke
In shrewd whispers –
And all because of this mean runnel,
Toying idly with a few stones,
Stones that became words in his verse,
Poised and polished in the mind’s stream.

R. S. Thomas

---

There are some wonderful images and ideas contained in this poem Alf, and it's a new one for me again. You 'guys' became quite metaphysical last night it seems!!!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Your Name

Stirring, I turn, letting your name
tumble from still sleep-bound lips onto my pillow
where it lays, warming today's first thoughts
it's power lightens, fades the stalking loss of night
sears the fears of absence, the years of silence
- this is love, your name, your image
lays close
as real as landscape,
and that smile, those blue eyes of acceptance
I'v woken into my dream,
the unspoken secret of a life time's heartbeats
a 'Lovely Day' made true,
your name.

---

Now that's a very good poem Mossy http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...ebit/Cool2.gif Well done!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

This is an excerpt from Alice Oswald's excellent poem/book Dart:

woodman working on your own
knocking the long shadows down
and all day the river's eyes
peep and pry among the trees

when the lithe water turns
and its tongue flatters the ferns
do you speak this kind of sound:
whirlpool whisking around?

Listen, I can clap and slide
my hollow hands along my side
imagine the bare feel of the water,
woodman, to the wrinkled timber

---

That is good Hes I will have to check that book out. I actually googled one of the lines and the seventh hit in the list was "Todays Poet"......fame at last!

A beautiful poem (originally posted by freckle but well worth another posting) Douglas Dunn wrote about his dead wife and is very reminiscent of Thomas Hardy's poems about his dead wife (see freckle's other post http://forum.fellrunner.org.uk/showt...all#post335785 )

Land Love

We stood here in the coupledom of us.
I showed her this – a pool of leaping trout,
Split-second saints drawn in a rippled nimbus.

We heard the night-boys in the fir trees shout.
Dusk was an insect-hovered still water,
The calling of lost children, stars coming out.

With all the feelings of a widower
Who does not live there now, I dream my place.
I go by the soft paths, alone with her.

Dusk is a listening, a whispered grace
Voiced on a bank, a time that is all ears
For the snapped twig, the strange wind on your face.

She waits at the door of the hemisphere
In her harvest dress, in the remote
Local August that is everywhere and here.

What rustles in the leaves, if it is not
What I asked for, an opening of doors
To a half-heard religious anecdote?

Monogamous swans on the darkened mirrors
Picture the private grace of man and wife
In its white poise, its sleepy portraitures.

Night is its Dog Star, its eyelet of grief
A high, lit echo of the starry sheaves.
A puff of hedge-dust loosens in the leaves.
Such love that lingers on the fields of life!

DOUGLAS DUNN

That is just beautiful Mossy, I particularly like the lines that I've emboldened (have no idea if that is a word :) ).

(and I loved your haiku too, glad you had a good run)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Your Name

Stirring, I turn, letting your name
tumble from still sleep-bound lips onto my pillow
where it lays, warming today's first thoughts it's power lightens, fades the stalking loss of night
sears the fears of absence, the years of silence
- this is love, your name, your image
lays close
as real as landscape,
and that smile, those blue eyes of acceptance
I'v woken into my dream,
the unspoken secret of a life time's heartbeats
a 'Lovely Day' made true,
your name.

---

Alf...that is a really moving choice. Thanks for posting it.

Dum...
Deedum...
Dumdeedumdeedum...
It is spring
at last...

;)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Your Name

Stirring, I turn, letting your name
tumble from still sleep-bound lips onto my pillow
where it lays, warming today's first thoughts
it's power lightens, fades the stalking loss of night
sears the fears of absence, the years of silence
- this is love, your name, your image
lays close
as real as landscape,
and that smile, those blue eyes of acceptance
I'v woken into my dream,
the unspoken secret of a life time's heartbeats
a 'Lovely Day' made true,
your name.

---

WOW! Love it!

:thumbup: that made me laugh a lot Hanneke. I've just spent the last twenty minutes trying to write a poem that encapsulates my excitement that spring is here and failed miserably. This says it all!:D

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hanneke

Dum...
Deedum...
Dumdeedumdeedum...
It is spring
at last...

;)

---

Plastic Rose.

Crowds of suitors block your way,
With their multitude of gifts and flowers,
I sit in the corner you can't hear what i say,
You look but don't see me i've been there hours.

They carry on with their floral tributes,
I've been there decades i wonder if she knows,
Old and fat i still can't send the band with flutes,
All i have as always is my plastic rose.


Matt.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Leonidas

Plastic Rose.

Crowds of suitors block your way,
With their multitude of gifts and flowers,
I sit in the corner you can't hear what i say,
You look but don't see me i've been there hours.

They carry on with their floral tributes,
I've been there decades i wonder if she knows,
Old and fat i still can't send the band with flutes,
All i have as always is my plastic rose.


Matt.

---

nice work matt good to see you back!

I am off to the "poetry slam" at the tyneside cinema tonight...apparently this lady is going to be on...

Ravish your lover while you still love her
Tanya Davis

(this poem is) to my lovers who were once the suns in my skies: i am sorry that i never ravished you enough and that there is nothing to be done about the passing of time

remember your lovers
but, especially, don't forget them, while they are in your bedroom
with their hair dishevelled and their clothes strewn
make sure you notice them as they stand before you
as there they lie
tell them that you're touched a thousand times
of every inch take a picture with your unabashed eye
because this will change, as pictures fade, so love does die

smell your lovers, their wide open skin
like bare shoulders, before toast, in the morning
pheremones will be what you don't know you miss
when you're standing beside x's
feeling suddenly nostalgic
could be soap, could be freshly-washed clothes
most likely its the mix of hidden chemicals
the silent scent
that perfumers will never get
but you will remember it
long after love goes

hold your lovers close
as you are drifting off, sharing oxygen and oxytocin both
memorize the napes of their necks, the crooks of their wrists, the way their breathing rises and falls
knees get cuddled only in one kind of spot
and they will miss this once the spoon is gone
like you will miss the puzzle when you don't get to be a part
and, so, while you are
with your limbs entangled in ways that warm your heart
remember to notice it
so that the last night doesn't go by without you noticing
and suddenly it's over and only in the sunshine do you know these things
while you pine for one more chance to lay with your loved one when night is falling
so, hold your lovers close while you're in their company

this is a plea, mostly for me, so i may remember next time i am a puzzle piece
as well, for the lovers i have held and known
who have been my comforts
and also my abrasions
i have daydreamed about the days when we were first mating
and of the love we made then
like we were scorched earth and it was raining

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Your Name

Stirring, I turn, letting your name
tumble from still sleep-bound lips onto my pillow
where it lays, warming today's first thoughts
it's power lightens, fades the stalking loss of night
sears the fears of absence, the years of silence
- this is love, your name, your image
lays close
as real as landscape,
and that smile, those blue eyes of acceptance
I'v woken into my dream,
the unspoken secret of a life time's heartbeats
a 'Lovely Day' made true,
your name.

---

this is absolutely awesome mossy...well impressed!

is also really enjoyed hanneke's little poem so sweet

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Leonidas

Plastic Rose.

Crowds of suitors block your way,
With their multitude of gifts and flowers,
I sit in the corner you can't hear what i say,
You look but don't see me i've been there hours.

They carry on with their floral tributes,
I've been there decades i wonder if she knows,
Old and fat i still can't send the band with flutes,
All i have as always is my plastic rose.


Matt.

---

Excellent poem Matt :D

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

nice work matt good to see you back!

I am off to the "poetry slam" at the tyneside cinema tonight...apparently this lady is going to be on...

Ravish your lover while you still love her
Tanya Davis

(this poem is) to my lovers who were once the suns in my skies: i am sorry that i never ravished you enough and that there is nothing to be done about the passing of time

remember your lovers
but, especially, don't forget them, while they are in your bedroom
with their hair dishevelled and their clothes strewn
make sure you notice them as they stand before you
as there they lie
tell them that you're touched a thousand times
of every inch take a picture with your unabashed eye
because this will change, as pictures fade, so love does die

smell your lovers, their wide open skin
like bare shoulders, before toast, in the morning
pheremones will be what you don't know you miss
when you're standing beside x's
feeling suddenly nostalgic
could be soap, could be freshly-washed clothes
most likely its the mix of hidden chemicals
the silent scent
that perfumers will never get
but you will remember it
long after love goes

hold your lovers close
as you are drifting off, sharing oxygen and oxytocin both
memorize the napes of their necks, the crooks of their wrists, the way their breathing rises and falls
knees get cuddled only in one kind of spot
and they will miss this once the spoon is gone
like you will miss the puzzle when you don't get to be a part
and, so, while you are
with your limbs entangled in ways that warm your heart
remember to notice it
so that the last night doesn't go by without you noticing
and suddenly it's over and only in the sunshine do you know these things
while you pine for one more chance to lay with your loved one when night is falling
so, hold your lovers close while you're in their company

this is a plea, mostly for me, so i may remember next time i am a puzzle piece
as well, for the lovers i have held and known
who have been my comforts
and also my abrasions
i have daydreamed about the days when we were first mating
and of the love we made then
like we were scorched earth and it was raining

---

Enjoy your night out freckle it sounds fun! Nice post as well :cool:

And for those not keen on Spring or think April is the cruelest month :rolleyes:

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Welcome back Matt and this is a great poem!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Leonidas

Plastic Rose.

Crowds of suitors block your way,
With their multitude of gifts and flowers,
I sit in the corner you can't hear what i say,
You look but don't see me i've been there hours.

They carry on with their floral tributes,
I've been there decades i wonder if she knows,
Old and fat i still can't send the band with flutes,
All i have as always is my plastic rose.


Matt.

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