By heck lass! Short but very much to the point!!! When the merest of words can readily conjure the clearest of visions- that's the mark of a good poem!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
Printable View
By heck lass! Short but very much to the point!!! When the merest of words can readily conjure the clearest of visions- that's the mark of a good poem!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mountain Goatess
Meeting At Night
by Robert Browning
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Excellent choice XRunner. The "cove" reminded me of a little miscalculation by a tired old Alfer running his first Ennerdale Horseshoe on Saturday :oQuote:
Originally Posted by XRunner
In Search of Iron Crag
Two checkpoints left to find
but safe now from cutoff times,
all that remains is a relaxed run
to the finish following the sun
Haycock behind and
Iron Crag next up.
Reaching the summit cairn
there's no marshall around
though I'm sure I have covered
the correct distance on the ground
This must be Iron Crag
but wait a minute
this map I printed
has a smaller scale
than I have ever used before
this is in fact Silver Cove
I'm only half way there!
And to continue the steamy theme of the day :D
At the Wrong Door
A bank-manager's rapid signature
of hair on the bath enamel, twist
and tail, to confirm that I have missed
you by a minute, mat on the floor,
stamped vigorously with wet; your
absence palpable in the misty,
trickling, inexorcizable ghost
that occupies the whole mirror-
I cannot rub it away - the room
clings to me with such a perfume
of soap and sweat, that I can only
stop to think how somewhere else
you may be standing, naked, lonely,
amid a downfall of dampish towels.
Christopher Reid
aw a lovely poem...can just imagine the disappointment, nice one alfsterQuote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Variation on the Word Sleep
Margaret Atwood
I would like to watch you sleeping.
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 and 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
and that necessary
night all! this fell poet is just toooooo tired!
She can write a mean poem can our Margaret :cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Thanks for posting that freckle.
Ready for Flight
From this I will not swerve nor fall nor falter:
If around your heart the crowds disperse
And I who at their whim now freeze or swelter
Am allowed to come to a more temperate place.
And if a runner starts to run to me
Dispatched by you, crying that all is trampled
Underfoot, terraces smashed, the entry
Into holy places rudely sampled,
Then I would come at once my love with love
Bringing to wasted areas the sight
Of butterfly and swan and turtle dove
Their wings ruffled like sails ready for flight
In such surroundings, after the decease
Of devils, you and I would live in peace
Eavan Boland
Ah yes - dashed hope and disappointment - always a source of poetic inspiration (and cussing!) and it clearly provided fertile ground for you Alf :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Alf
here are so many tictoc
there are so many tictoc
clocks everywhere telling people
what toctic time it is for
tictic instance five toc minutes toc
past six tic
Spring is not regulated and does
not get out of order nor do
its hands a little jerking move
over numbers slowly
we do not
wind it up it has no weights
springs wheels inside of
its slender self no indeed dear
nothing of the kind.
(So,when kiss Spring comes
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
lips because tic clocks toc don't make
a toctic difference
to kisskiss you and to
kiss me)
eecummings
That's such a lovely poem freckle - thanks for postingQuote:
Originally Posted by freckle
how utterly gorgeous!Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Wind
If you sprint fast enough,
the corn runs with you,
whole rows quick on their roots.
Slow down and they jog
calm and breathless.
Stop and they turn
to walls. Hands on knees,
you pant, and all the leaves,
like wings, beat wildly.
Michael Walsh
There's been some really lovely posts here over the last day or so. I particularly like the cummins, Atwood and Alf's lovely choice which I've never read before.
Walsh? not of walshes? nice choice hes very evocative...oh and mossy liked the cummings, cute as ever!Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Ha ha, nice one Freckle! Perhaps it is. :)
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Loved that one Hes :DQuote:
Originally Posted by Hes
A killer of a last line in this sonnet :cool:
The Hill
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"
"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
-- And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
Rupert Brooke
Snooze
Independent that’s me
Until I can no longer be
Then what will you say of waiting
Silence perhaps.
The so called ally sleep
Narrator of other people’s dreams
Mouths via a neural repeat
the REM of Sunday lunch.
Dimly aware a prefrontal cortex
instructs the fingers to fumble
yet it seems important not to grumble
and to stop PRESSING
snooze.
New Every Morning
Every day is a fresh beginning,
Listen my soul to the glad refrain.
And, spite of old sorrows
And older sinning,
Troubles forecasted
And possible pain,
Take heart with the day and begin again.
Susan Coolidge
That's a great poem to start the day!! Thanks Freckle. I really liked your poem 'snooze' too.xx
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Today by Billy Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
That's just lovely.
I've been that canary for the last 2 days. Stuck in a hotel in Middlesborough looking out at Roseberry Topping wishing I was out there running. Free again now though!
Quote:
Originally Posted by Stevie
Good ole boro, the source of much poetic licence :) !!Quote:
Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill
Its that time of year again! (for me to heave myself around the blaydon circuit!)...no doubt i will see a few northern fellrunners there and thanks to phil green for reminding me of this song!
Aw went to Blaydon Races, 'twas on the ninth of Joon,
Eiteen hundred an' sixty-two, on a summer's efternoon;
Aw tyuk the 'bus frae Balmbra's, an' she wis heavy laden,
Away we went alang Collingwood Street, that's on the road to Blaydon.
(chorus)
Ah me lads, ye shud only seen us gannin',
We pass'd the foaks upon the road just as they wor stannin';
Thor wes lots o' lads an' lasses there, all wi' smiling faces,
Gawn alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.
We flew past Airmstrang's factory, and up to the "Robin Adair",
Just gannin' doon te the railway bridge, the 'bus wheel flew off there.
The lasses lost their crinolines off, an' the veils that hide their faces,
An' aw got two black eyes an' a broken nose in gan te Blaydon Races.
(chorus)
When we gat the wheel put on away we went agyen,
But them that had their noses broke they cam back ower hyem;
Sum went to the Dispensary an' uthers to Doctor Gibbs,
An' sum sought out the Infirmary to mend their broken ribs.
(chorus)
Noo when we gat to Paradise thor wes bonny gam begun;
Thor was fower-an-twenty on the 'bus, man, hoo they danced an' sung;
They called on me to sing a sang, aw sung them "Paddy Fagan",
Aw danced a jig an' swung my twig that day aw went to Blaydon.
(chorus)
We flew across the Chain Bridge reet into Blaydon toon,
The bellman he was callin' there, they call him Jackie Broon;
Aw saw him talkin' to sum cheps, an' them he was pursuadin'
To gan an' see Geordy Ridley's concert in the Mechanics' Hall at Blaydon.
(chorus)
The rain it poor'd aw the day an' myed the groons quite muddy,
Coffy Johnny had a white hat on - they war shootin' "Whe stole the cuddy."
There wes spice stalls an' munkey shows an' aud wives selling ciders,
An' a chep wiv a hapenny roond aboot, shootin' "Noo, me lads, for riders."
(chorus)
PS. I am not planning on breaking my nose tonight by the way...!
"Being Human" is now out and some beautiful person bought me a copy....here is one from the third book in the "Staying Alive" trilogy....
The Guest House
Rumi
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
~
Yes, very nice. And today is that kind of day as well... Oh well. Head down.Quote:
Originally Posted by Stevie
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
I enjoyed this poem and Stevie's poem as well.
Now should I buy a copy of 'Being Human' or be a cheapskate and just read the poems on here :o
I loved the "Snooze" poem by the way freckle. Great onomatopoeic word "snooze" :D
Did you enjoy your run down the Scotswood road ?
..and talking of onomatopoea :D
The Weary Blues
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan--
"Ain't got nobody in all this world,
Ain't got nobody but ma self.
I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
And put ma troubles on the shelf."
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more--
"I got the Weary Blues
And I can't be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can't be satisfied--
I ain't happy no mo'
And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.
Langston Hughes
great choice alfster, if only i had slept like a rock last night, had a canny night at blaydon and couldn't switch off after....as for onomatopoeic words...the only ones I could think of were oink and roar! :oQuote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Good choice from Being Human Freckle. I treated myself to the book a few months ago and its fab...Alf, buy a copy, its worth the money! (I don't work for Bloodaxe honest;) )
Have been looking through my poetry books (which I tidied up for Open Studios) and found Wendy Cope....well, not the poet obviously:D, just a book of her poems.
AFTER THE LUNCH
On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes,
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove
And try not to notice I've fallen in love
On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think:
This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?
On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
the head does its best but the heart is the boss-
I admit it before I am halfway across
Wendy Cope
That's one of my favourites. Captures such a rare moment perfectly.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
Rubbish Poem
Don't make people bitter
Take home your litter
Make the countryside fitter
Not glitter with litter
Steve Merry Foster
environmental poet
says no to litter!
Hi everyone !
Some lovely poems posted ....... x Not been on thread for a while , so working my way through slowly ...
This is one of many lovely poems , by the late Glyn Hughes .
The centipede
They don’t mean much — your possessions —
anymore, nor will it be for long,
yet they mock you with their permanence:
more and more certainly they will supersede you.
So they become old-fashioned, your clothes,
your verses too, and age’s heartless
dawn that arrives without observance
has — one day you realise —
been with you for some years.
Physical pain is bad but spiritual is worse.
Though the soul is somewhere:
a hidden warbler sings. Now you understand.
the spiritual baffles you less now, and the world more.
But in one brilliant moment there is your own soul’s breath
flaming in baby flesh,
dipping into curious things,
puddles and leaves.
A small hand gripping your finger,
pulling you into the garden,
where the flower colours, though they burn small,
and the blossom he taps to see the snowy flutter
is that entranced moment that lasts beyond life
and might have come before it: an infinite
moment that waited for its entrance here.
Dig dig here. He shows you a centipede —
the vital lightening
that seems a single flame
of gold he’s never seen before.
And neither, you realise, have you.
What the something is that fills your nothingness
is not his showing you how to dig
but how to love.
As I look out the window
At the drab colourless sky
I wonder from where did this rain come
On a day that started so gloriously fine
And where does it go to
when its fallen from the sky
some ends up in puddles
some soaks the earth
Filling up rivers and streams
to fill up our resevoirs
to quench our unrelenting thirst
Some ends up inside us via various means
be it from taps to glasses or bottles
its a precious comodity we all need
and when flushed through our system
flushed away to the sea
does its journey end there?
what else could be....
maybe it soaks through the sea bed
through the centre of the earth
and filters through to come out upside down
as fresh water flowing from a mountain spring
on the otherside of the world.........
sometimes i am alive because
sometimes i am alive because with
me her alert treelike body sleeps
which i will feel slowly sharpening
becoming distinct with love slowly,
who in my shoulder sinks sweetly teeth
until we shall attain the Springsmelling
intense large togethercoloured instant
the moment pleasantly frightful
when, her mouth suddenly rising, wholly
begins with mine fiercely to fool
(and from my thighs which shrug and pant
a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she
carries in a gesture of her hips)
ee cummings
i really like this rev has a whimsical feel which made me smile...something a bit magical about the rain at times which i think you captured hereQuote:
Originally Posted by TheReverand
one of my fave e e cummings poems mossy...good job its past 9 eh? xQuote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog