I'm fairly certain I've never had one. I prefer crisps :oQuote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
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I'm fairly certain I've never had one. I prefer crisps :oQuote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Ha ha...that's funny. Nice haiku DT. I hated figs for ages because I'd only ever had dried ones and then a lady in a market in Mexico gave me a fresh one to try and it was gorgeous. They are strange things though, they definitely feel kind of fleshy.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Derby Tup
I get figs and dates mixed up. I think it's dried figs that my mate Jamie (NotOnUrHelly) like to eat on ultrasQuote:
Originally Posted by Hes
I enjoyed the fig poems tonight and I am fond of fig rolls :D
Johnny Weissmuller Dead in Acapulco
Apart possibly from waving hello to the cliff-divers
Would the real Tarzan have ever touched Acapulco ?
Not with a one-hundred-foot vine.
Jungle Jim maybe, but the Ape Man never.
They played a tape at his funeral
In the Valley of Light cemetry of how he had sounded
Almost fifty years back giving the pristine ape-call,
Which could only remind all present that in decline
He would wander distractedly in the garden
With his hands to his mouth and the unforgettable cry
Coming out like a croak -
This when he wasn't sitting in his swim-trunks
Beside the pool he couldn't enter without nurses.
Things had not been so bad before Mexico
But they were not great.
He was a greeter in Caesar's Palace like Joe Louis.
Sal, I want you should meet Johnny Weissmuller.
Johnny, Mr Sal Volatile is a friend of ours from Chicago.
With eighteen Tarzan movies behind him
Along with the five Olympic gold medals,
He had nothing in front except that irrepressible paunch
Which brought him down out of the tree house
To earth as Jungle Jim
So a safari suit could cover it up.
As Jungle Jim he wasn't just on salary,
He had a piece of the action,
But coming so late in the day it was not enough
And in Vegas only the smile was still intact.
As once it had all been intact, the Greek classic body
Unleashing the new-stile front-up crawl like a baby
Lifting itself for the first time,
Going over the water almost as much as through it,
Curing itself of childhood polio
By making an aquaplane of its deep chest,
Each arm relaxing out of the water and stiffening into it,
The long legs kicking a trench that did not fill up
Until he came back on the next lap,
Invincible, easily breathing
The air in the spit-smooth, headlong, creek-around-a-rock trough
Carved by his features.
He had six wives like Henry VIII but don't laugh,
Because Henry VIII couldn't swim a stroke
And if you ever want to see a true king you should watch Weissmuller
In Tarzan Escapes cavorting underwater with Boy
In the clear river with networks of lights on the shelving sand
Over which they fly weightless to hide from each other behind the log
While Jane wonders where they are.
You will wonder where you are too and be shy of the answer
Because it is Paradise.
When the crocodile made its inevitable entry into the clear river
Tarzan could always settle its hash with his bare hands
Or a knife at most,
But Jungle Jim usually had to shoot it
And later on he just never got to meet it face to face -
It was working for the Internal Revenue Service.
There was a chimpanzee at his funeral,
Which must have been someone's idea of a smart promotion.
And you might say dignity had fled,
But when Tarzan dropped from the tall tree and swam out of the splash
Like an otter with an outboard to save Boy from the waterfall
It looked like poetry to me,
And at home in the bath I would surface giving the ape-call.
Clive James
That's not only an interesting but a little bit sad poem Alf, but educational too:). Thanks!
In my usual spirit of procrastination, I was reading poetry instead of cellophaning and sending off prints and I liked this.
A Thunderstorm in Town
She wore a 'terra-cotta' dress,
And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom's dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
We sat on, snug and warm.
Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.
Thomas Hardy
Just seen your time Rev, brilliant!! Well done.
Quote:
Originally Posted by TheReverand
Cheers Hes', Im amazed how well ive recovered, legs feel only a little sore which im pleased wit :)
Wild nights - Wild nights!
Wild nights - Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile - the winds -
To a Heart in port -
Done with the Compass -
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden -
Ah - the Sea!
Might I but moor - tonight -
In thee!
Emily Dickinson
Morning
Deborah Ager
We are what we repeatedly do.
—Aristotle
You know how it is waking
from a dream certain you can fly
and that someone, long gone, returned
and you are filled with longing,
for a brief moment, to drive off
the road and feel nothing
or to see the loved one and feel
everything. Perhaps one morning,
taking brush to hair you'll wonder
how much of your life you've spent
at this task or signing your name
or rising in fog in near darkness
to ready for work. Day begins
with other people's needs first
and your thoughts disperse like breath.
In the in-between hour, the solitary hour,
before day begins all the world
gradually reappears car by car.
Just for Stef F
Ants
(By Joanie Mackowski)
Two wandering across the porcelain
Siberia, one alone on the window sill,
four across the ceiling's senseless field
of pale yellow, one negotiating folds
in a towel: tiny, bronze-colored, antennae
'strongly elbowed,' crawling over Antony
and Cleopatra, face down, unsurprised,
one dead in the mountainous bar of soap.
Sub-family Formicinae (a single
segment behind the thorax), the sickle
moons of their abdomens, one trapped in bubbles
(I soak in the tub); with no clear purpose
they come in by the baseboard, do not bite,
crush bloodless beneath a finger. Peterson's
calls them 'social creatures,' yet what grim
society: identical pilgrims,
seed-like, brittle, pausing on the path
only three seconds to touch another's
face, some hoisting the papery carcasses
of their dead in their jaws, which open and close
like the clasp of a necklace. 'Mating occurs
in flight'— what better way? Weightless, reckless
rapture: the winged queen and her mate, quantum
passion spiraling near the kumquat,
and then the queen sheds her wings, plants
the pearl-like larvae in their cribs of sand:
more anvil-headed, creeping attentions
to follow cracks in the tile, the lip of the tub,
and one starting across the mirror now, doubled.
Aww thank you. What an unusual and lovely piece :)
Quote:
Originally Posted by XRunner
Great time Rev. A bloke at work joggled it round, juggling and running at the same time in about 4 and a half hours, not a bad time for that, raised a load of brass for a kid's hospice. I can't juggle stood still!Quote:
Originally Posted by TheReverand
I can really relate to this today Mossy what a great choice..."your thoughts disperse like breath" what a line....and "you are what you do" just makes me want to run more, think I might adapt that as a mantra! xQuote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
been feeling nostalgic today......sigh
if you like poems let them
walk in the evening, a little behind you
then people will say
"Along this road I saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover (it was
toward nightfall) with tall and ignorant servants."
e e cummings
Sitting with guitar in hand
Playing in my own one man band
A rambling melody
A strum two three
A virtuoso performance
Ladies and Gentlemen please stand
An Ode to A legend
Dylan 70 today
and......
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
now that is impressive :)Quote:
Originally Posted by stevefoster
yes i heard that today on the radio...what a fitting and nicely written tribute!Quote:
Originally Posted by TheReverand
Just been admiring my overgrown herb garden, it always reminds me of when I've found the herbs in the wild on mountainsides or mint by the river.
Wild Mint
Did you know that in my hand-sized guide you are shelved
among the Blue odd-shaped flowers? You, the purple coyote
in the field-your feet licking the moist soil, releasing
the slow and the sweet. And did you know in the volcanic slide
of the red and solemn hills there is a gully grinning between broken
teeth and in the palate of light where you and I live, foraging
among the brittlebush and saxifrage, I have peeled the dark earth
for a mad glimpse of your pure white flesh? Have you not also
felt the blue mustangs wrapping the rivers of their hooves
through our canyons, the cottonwoods closing in around us—
indeed, the entire mountain dropping its shoulders to green shadow?
There is nothing to reference the long roll of the melancholy night.
nothing except perhaps for the passage on page five-hundred
ninety-seven: The dark teas made from the leaves of this intricately
fragrant herb treat ailments and pause the pain of childbirth.
Even now we hear the coyote's howls, low from beneath the hidden
ledge, followed by the sudden yips of blind and naked pups.
Simmons B Buntin
Wish
Talk soft to me,
talk gently as the night
shuffles its papers
in high offices and hilltops.
Talk low like cattle,
breathe hay-scented words
and I will show you the book
kept inside my coat,
already learnt by heart
by the nightjars that churr
to each other before daylight
setting the darkness home.
Helen Ivory
The Old Women Of The Ocean
To the solemn sea the old women come
With their shawls knotted around their necks
With their fragile feet cracking
They sit down alone on the shore
Without moving their eyes or their hands
Without changing the clouds or the silence
The obscene sea breaks and claws
Rushes downhill trumpeting
Shakes its bull's beard
The gentle old ladies seated
As if in a transparent boat
They look at the terrorist waves
Where will they go and where have they been?
They come from every corner
They come from our own lives
Now they have the ocean
The cold and burning emptiness
The solitude full of flames
They come from all the pasts
From houses which were fragrant
From burnt-up evenings
They look, or don't look, at the sea
With their walking sticks they draw signs in the sand
And the sea erases their calligraphy
The old women get up and go away
With their fragile bird feet
While the waves flood in
Traveling naked in the wind
Pablo Neruda
Absence
I visited the place where we last met.
Nothing was changed, the gardens were well-tended,
The fountains sprayed their usual steady jet;
There was no sign that anything had ended
And nothing to instruct me to forget.
The thoughtless birds that shook out of the trees,
Singing an ecstasy I could not share,
Played cunning in my thoughts. Surely in these
Pleasures there could not be a pain to bear
Or any discord shake the level breeze.
It was because the place was just the same
That made your absence seem a savage force,
For under all the gentleness there came
An earthquake tremor: Fountain, birds and grass
Were shaken by my thinking of your name.
Elizabeth Jennings
Really enjoyed that poem Mossy, thanks for posting it !Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
That's sad and beautiful Alf.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Following Alf's theme, I heard this years ago and then forgot who wrote it but via this thread and with the help of Freckle, here it is posted again. I think it is a perfect evocation of loss.
Time does not bring relief you have all lied
Time does not bring relief;
you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
Edna St.Vincent Millay
To carry on with today's thread...I give you a John Keats poem...
Ode on Melancholy
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Nice choice Xrunner. Takes me back to A'levels and studying Keats. Not sure about the direction the thread has gone in though, I was feeling quite chirpy earlier! :)
Another poem to encourage Stef F (and change Hes's mood!)
Thoughts About A Bob Graham Round (Peter Travis)
I had considered such thoughts of running
fell and dale to have been severed
from my mind that once burned with hope.
But I was wrong , failure to attain
the two score and two mileage
beyond a comprehensible sanity
did not assuage the fire
that with each reading was fanned
into a burning flame which will not be quenched.
And so with eyes which scan the heart-tearing miles
that sweep the fells, I climb and run the screes,
I curse the rising steepness
I grimace at wearing pain inflicted
on my body that fights and struggles
against a force that drives it on.
All these are known to me,
for I have run these Lakeland fells
with hope that did not burgeon into reality.
My mind will not be freed
from this plaguing itch of challenge.
And so, I shall exclude all else
to make this my fulfilment
I shall free my spirit among the fells,
and I shall strive, and I shall conquer.
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Doesn't that just 'blow you away' wow - brillaint verse. Thanks Frecks.
so poignant, lovely Alf......Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
preparing some teaching today on loss and how we make sense of it, got me thinking about the different representations of loss in poetry....thought of this classic....
W H Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Along the same lines, this by Elizabeth Barratt Browning:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Hello again! It's good to rediscover Today's Poet. There has been some stunning stuff on here recently. Hoping to be able to participate occasionally...
Hello again! It's good to rediscover Today's Poet. There has been some stunning stuff on here recently. Hoping to be able to participate occasionally...
Welcome back stevie! a lovely choice there
A few pics and a video of Joggling runner, impressed me as well:cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by TheReverand
http://www.marathon-photos.com/scrip...=1&match=12197
That's pretty impressive! I can't juggle even when I'm stood still. :)
Quote:
Originally Posted by stevefoster
Its after the 9pm watershed and having read Freckle's cummins poem and really liked it, I found this in my love poetry anthology...a bit saucy but rather good I thought. :)
i like my body when it is with your body
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
e e cummins
I'm back too....been chocka last few months but enjoyed reading stuff on here!!Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Quote:
Originally Posted by stevefoster
Snap!Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Making an Effort
Our so-called limitations,believe,
apply to faculties we don't apply.
We don't discover what we can't achieve
until we make an effort not to try.
Piet Hein
Very true MG.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
As always some great stuff on here.
Speaking of Fuzz, Hes, you must watch Hot Fuzz;)