Today's poet

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Leonidas

Barkley.

Wandering lost through the Tennessee night,
The sound of trees flow my gentle breeze,
Once more atop a briar filled peak waiting for the light,
Sun up over mountain ridge puts my mind at ease.

I find my true self within this Southern proving ground,
The peaks and blackberry thorn sleep deprived demon pouring scorn,
Snow and rain hit me hard knock me down upon this rock strewn mound,
A new me was discovered today thank you Barkley i am reborn.

---

This is good Leonidas. Referring to the Barkley Marathon?

Certainly is my brother and i are gonna spend next nearly 2 years getting ready. Actually me having to lose bags of weight then build up and my brother becoming superhuman from being just very fit. Gonna attempt to enter 2012 but this would be practice for 2013.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stevefoster

The Worker's Song by Dropkick Murphys.


Yeh, this one's for the workers who toil night and day
By hand and by brain to earn your pay
Who for centuries long past for no more than your bread
Have bled for your countries and counted your dead

In the factories and mills, in the shipyards and mines
We've often been told to keep up with the times
For our skills are not needed, they've streamlined the job
And with sliderule and stopwatch our pride they have robbed


We're the first ones to starve, we're the first ones to die
The first ones in line for that pie-in-the-sky
And we're always the last when the cream is shared out
For the worker is working when the fat cat's about

And when the sky darkens and the prospect is war
Who's given a gun and then pushed to the fore
And expected to die for the land of our birth
Though we've never owned one lousy handful of earth?



All of these things the worker has done
From tilling the fields to carrying the gun
We've been yoked to the plough since time first began
And always expected to carry the can

---

Interesting! Having never heard of Dropkick Murphys I naturally thought these lines were written of the old industrial north. Along the lines of Billy Bragg except he's obviously not northern.

I was surprised to find the words are song lyrics and Dropkick Murphys is an American band. That is well dug out, Steve, and well worth posting.

Speaking of Billy Bragg: Power of the Unions

There is power in a factory, power in the land
Power in the hands of a worker
But it all amounts to nothing if together we don’t stand there is power in a union

Now the lessons of the past were all learned with workers’ blood
The mistakes of the bosses we must pay for
From the cities and the farmlands to trenches full of mud
War has always been the bosses’ way, sir

The union forever defending our rights
Down with the blackleg, all workers unite
With our brothers and out sisters from many far off lands
There is power in a union

Now I long for the morning that they realise
Brutality and unjust laws can not defeat us
But who’ll defend the workers who cannot organise
When the bosses send their lackies out to cheat us?

Money speaks for money, the devil for his own
Who comes to speak for the skin and the bone
What a comfort to the widow, a light to the child
There is power in a union

The union forever defending our rights
Down with the blackleg, all workers unite
With our brothers and out sisters from many far off lands
There is power in a union.


I think the world has moved on a bit since Billy wrote this, but the feeling of workers' and peoples' solidarity against oppressive or out of line bosses and governments etc is always strong, and this comes across in Dropkick Murphys' song too.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Leonidas

Certainly is my brother and i are gonna spend next nearly 2 years getting ready. Actually me having to lose bags of weight then build up and my brother becoming superhuman from being just very fit. Gonna attempt to enter 2012 but this would be practice for 2013.

---

Wow! just read the Wiki :w00t: Tough trial that one Leonidas, wish you the best of luck just getting ready for it.

If Daz H looks on this thread he will find the Lake District Lorton Vale Yew Trees as described by Willaim Wordsworth.


There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary Tree! -a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! -and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveteratley convolved, -
Nor uninformed with Fantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane; -a pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially -beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries -ghostly Shapes
May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

Friday night,Saturday Morning.

Raw,Raw Chicken frozen on the fire,
Digitally applied barbecue sauce,
Swapping tales with the Barkley choir,
Chowing down a half cooked second course.

Laz takes his socks and number plates,
Smiling a knowing and mocking smile,
You know he knows all our fates,
Most of us spent by the 20th mile.

The cigarette glows red, Go !.

BB.

I Speak Not

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours - can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, -
We will part, we will fly to - unite it again!
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one! - forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it - whatever thou may'st.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -
Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

Lord Byron

I enjoyed your post Alf, its a long time since I read any Byron.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

Ezra Pound

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

I Speak Not

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours - can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, -
We will part, we will fly to - unite it again!
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one! - forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it - whatever thou may'st.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -
Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

Lord Byron

---

this is beautiful alf...still very much enjoying this thread although these days my computer is monopolised by my children! :-)

WHEN WE TWO PARTED
Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow ---
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me ---
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: ---
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met ---
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? --- With silence and tears.

White and Green

Hey! My daffodil-crowned,
Slim and without sandals!
As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness
So my eyeballs are startled with you,
Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees,
Light runner through tasselled orchards.
You are an almond flower unsheathed
Leaping and flickering between the budded branches.

(Amy Lowell)

The Vision of Piers Plowman - Part 1 (William Langland, written ca. 1360–1387)

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

Poor old William wasn't very good at spelling was he? ha ha ha ;)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by XRunner

The Vision of Piers Plowman - Part 1 (William Langland, written ca. 1360–1387)

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

---

The Radioactive Kid by Tim Turnbull

Why do you write the way you write? he asks,
nods and adds, in case there was any doubt,
I mean, you know, it’s dark. I sigh, relax
and leave him. I’m back at Stainmore, thumb out,

the end of April 1986,
nithered, shivering, hair plastered to face,
boots soaking up the groundwater like wicks,
rain pouring down my shirt neck in cascades

and each raindrop plutonium enriched.
My pelt drank it in through every pore,
irradiating the gruel-thin blood which
carried the poison to my very core

and there the change began – cells were ruptured,
DNA strands unfurled, reformed reversed,
gradually, painfully, restructured
and left me whole but with this three-fold curse –

a sense, half wonderstruck and half appalled,
that something dreadful’s about to happen,
a compulsion to tell and, above all,
the sure knowledge that no one will listen.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Stevie

The Radioactive Kid by Tim Turnbull

Why do you write the way you write? he asks,
nods and adds, in case there was any doubt,
I mean, you know, it’s dark. I sigh, relax
and leave him. I’m back at Stainmore, thumb out,

the end of April 1986,
nithered, shivering, hair plastered to face,
boots soaking up the groundwater like wicks,
rain pouring down my shirt neck in cascades

and each raindrop plutonium enriched.
My pelt drank it in through every pore,
irradiating the gruel-thin blood which
carried the poison to my very core

and there the change began – cells were ruptured,
DNA strands unfurled, reformed reversed,
gradually, painfully, restructured
and left me whole but with this three-fold curse –

a sense, half wonderstruck and half appalled,
that something dreadful’s about to happen,
a compulsion to tell and, above all,
the sure knowledge that no one will listen.

---

That's really an intriguing poem, with a smart twist of humour Stevie - thanks. Not heard of Tim Turnball before, so another one for me to google.

Thoughts @ 4:48 pm

I'm gazing
through the window
a steady summer rain
gentle to the skin
falls quietly earthwards
the clouds are singing
a life song for our meadows
now hastily cleared of hay
such a timeless bounty,
the stave against that which
we really don't like to speak of,
not just yet: winter

far to the south
I see your toes,
treading through warm sand
prickly seaweed and sticks
you notice,
the slosh-wash of wavelets
charging high along the sandline
lose their momentum, and spent,
retreat languidly;
voices call to you
and for a moment, maybe,
you focus on the gentle salty
breeze which smoothes your cheek,
squint at the horizon,
then smile and call back;
a dozen thoughts clatter
for your attention

those tidal forces of our lives
did we choose or, too late,
find ourselves stranded ?
Marooned among our own rocky clefted worlds
which vie with a multiple of others,
possibilities; missed-taken-overlooked
-or-chosen, at some point we're all
irrevocably beached

how strange life is
did we imagine it would be like this?
Little fish, darting flecks of silver,
in our own diminishing rock pools
until, inevitably
the grand press of Tide
overruns and spills us all out.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by XRunner

The Vision of Piers Plowman - Part 1 (William Langland, written ca. 1360–1387)

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

---

Don't leave us on such a cliff hanger! What happens in Part 2?:w00t::w00t:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

WHEN WE TWO PARTED
Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow ---
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me ---
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: ---
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met ---
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? --- With silence and tears.

---

That's so very sad, I can't really bear to read it again. :(

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Thoughts @ 4:48 pm
<snip>
those tidal forces of our lives
did we choose or, too late,
find ourselves stranded ?
Marooned among our own rocky clefted worlds
which vie with a multiple of others,
possibilities; missed-taken-overlooked
-or-chosen, at some point we're all
irrevocably beached

how strange life is
did we imagine it would be like this?
Little fish, darting flecks of silver,
in our own diminishing rock pools
until, inevitably
the grand press of Tide
overruns and spills us all out.

---

Very nice Mossdog. I like your second to last verse especially. You have to reach a certain age and stage to realise there's no going back, and it creeps up on you quicker than expected. It does me anyway!

I found your poem really beautiful, sad and poignant Mossy. Life is never how I imagined it would be, sometimes infinitely better and sometimes harder.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

how strange life is
did we imagine it would be like this?
Little fish, darting flecks of silver,
in our own diminishing rock pools
until, inevitably
the grand press of Tide
overruns and spills us all out.

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Poor old William wasn't very good at spelling was he? ha ha ha ;)

---

That made me laugh. He wouldn't pass his English Lit GCSE with spelling like that!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Don't leave us on such a cliff hanger! What happens in Part 2?:w00t::w00t:

---

The original poem is over 6,000 lines long!:sneaky::closed:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Poor old William wasn't very good at spelling was he? ha ha ha ;)

---

Or spelling has degenerated consideably since the 14th century:w00t:

Good point! It would be interesting to know how spelling will degenerate in the future with regards to the 'text speak' shenanigans!:D

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by XRunner

Or spelling has degenerated consideably since the 14th century:w00t:

---

Flipping heck! I can't find the head space to write two lines of poetry. That quite amazing.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by XRunner

The original poem is over 6,000 lines long!:sneaky::closed:

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Thoughts @ 4:48 pm

I'm gazing
through the window
a steady summer rain
gentle to the skin
falls quietly earthwards
the clouds are singing
a life song for our meadows
now hastily cleared of hay
such a timeless bounty,
the stave against that which
we really don't like to speak of,
not just yet: winter

far to the south
I see your toes,
treading through warm sand
prickly seaweed and sticks
you notice,
the slosh-wash of wavelets
charging high along the sandline
lose their momentum, and spent,
retreat languidly;
voices call to you
and for a moment, maybe,
you focus on the gentle salty
breeze which smoothes your cheek,
squint at the horizon,
then smile and call back;
a dozen thoughts clatter
for your attention

those tidal forces of our lives
did we choose or, too late,
find ourselves stranded ?
Marooned among our own rocky clefted worlds
which vie with a multiple of others,
possibilities; missed-taken-overlooked
-or-chosen, at some point we're all
irrevocably beached

how strange life is
did we imagine it would be like this?
Little fish, darting flecks of silver,
in our own diminishing rock pools
until, inevitably
the grand press of Tide
overruns and spills us all out.

---

the word
on the street is
mossy has written
an awesome poem
and i happen to think
the word
is right!

I love the way you weave themes of mortality, choices, the inevitability of the "grand press of time" and the sense of surreality that one feels when it dawns ....."this is it".....truly awesome mossy, well impressed !

There is a nice piece in the Guardian about Edward Thomas, Robert Frost and the poem The Road Not Taken. I know it is a favourite of some people. It is America's most popular apparently.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011...-thomas-poetry

Ali, thanks for this, what a fascinating and beautiful piece, really enjoyed reading that.

Now that is what I wish I'd said! Nice one Freckle. I totally agree with you. Mossy's poem is brilliant.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

the word
on the street is
mossy has written
an awesome poem
and i happen to think
the word
is right!

I love the way you weave themes of mortality, choices, the inevitability of the "grand press of time" and the sense of surreality that one feels when it dawns ....."this is it".....truly awesome mossy, well impressed !

---

Great, thanks Ali, I'm just off to get my copy so I'll look forward to that.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

There is a nice piece in the Guardian about Edward Thomas, Robert Frost and the poem The Road Not Taken. I know it is a favourite of some people. It is America's most popular apparently.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011...-thomas-poetry

---

I've been thinking a lot about love and also about dust (after hearing a programme on the radio about an artist who's work is about dust)...who'd have thought that there would be a poem about the two!:D

Dust

It seems we've left skin
in each other's lungs. I should have

looked under your bed skirt
for my wallet, but how

could credit cards compare
to the sneeze after we've parted?

Gone and still you make me
reach for a tissue—still my palms

turn circles in the red
breakwater of your heartbeat.

I want to tell you, I have nothing
but respect for your ribcage

now that we both know
it's not big enough to hold us.

Michael Meyerhofer

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

I've been thinking a lot about love and also about dust (after hearing a programme on the radio about an artist who's work is about dust)...who'd have thought that there would be a poem about the two!:D

Dust

It seems we've left skin
in each other's lungs. I should have

looked under your bed skirt
for my wallet, but how

could credit cards compare
to the sneeze after we've parted?

Gone and still you make me
reach for a tissue—still my palms

turn circles in the red
breakwater of your heartbeat.

I want to tell you, I have nothing
but respect for your ribcage

now that we both know
it's not big enough to hold us.

Michael Meyerhofer

---

That's a lovely thought and a lovely poem to go with it. I like the idea of picking two completely random words and finding a poem to join the two.

Any suggestions anyone?

Open University 40th Anniversary Poem

OU, we owe you
everybody wants to know you
even those who used to doubt you
can’t speak well enough about you
they say: your founders were fearless
your students are tireless
your tutors are peerless
your media wireless

you’re the College of the Air
your reception’s everywhere

a twinkle in J C Stobart’s eye
that Michael Young could not let lie
that Jennie Lee tenaciously
made manifest reality
they’d an inkling lower income
doesn’t lead to slower thinking
so now some of us are inching
by degrees towards degrees

OU, we owe you:
the never-quite-made-it or told-they-were stupid
the started-but-faded or sidetracked-by-cupid
the just-need-encouragement, gluttons-for-nourishment
the people whose talent was far too well-hidden
the told-that-we-couldn’t-or-shouldn’t-so-didn’t
the course-interrupted, the quite-frankly-corrupted
deep knowledge questers, bereft empty-nesters,
bright-eyed early-risers, complete self-surprisers

…who now all have fuller foreheads
a more complex frontal cortex

for nourishing our neurons
OU, we owe you

in time that’s borrowed, bought and stolen
schedules staggered, bent and swollen
time that’s snatched & time that’s smuggled
every minute of it juggled
we give up bingo, daytime telly
computer games and social drinking
to read Bronte Proust and Shelley
stay at home and do binge-thinking
every sacrifice worth making
now we’re swapping sleep for waking
waking up to our potential
to explore worlds once forbidden us
– it’s why on the residential
things can get a bit libidinous –

for being so inspiring
that you get our neurons firing
and spontaneously re-wiring
OU, we owe you

the wide-eyed wonder-graduate
the famished hunger-graduate…
jotting reading and absorbing
finding empty hours and tables
sending subtle signs to strangers
‘don’t disturb me I am dangerous
I have got a little learning…’

…and it’s not just about earning
though yes, we’re more employable
but when we go out on the pull
we talk a better class of bull
and if we’re not successful
we are much more philosophical

for nourishing our neurons
buffing up our self-assurance
and for being so inspiring
that you get our neurons firing
and spontaneously re-wiring
OU, we owe you

and OU here’s hoping
you always stay Open
for your enterprise is noble
and expanded frontal lobal
may your outreach programme snowball
from Chernobyl down to Yeovil
from Shanghai to Sampford Peverell
may your future now be global
and may some of your post-graduates
win prizes that are Nobel
if a university could get an honorary degree
you wouldn’t get one
– you’d get several

OU, BSc, BA Hons, Phd
we raise a half-full glass to you
from every social class to you
say ‘may the gods look after you’
and
OU, we owe you

Happy Anniversary*

(*now can I have a bursary?)

Matt Harvey

Matt Harvey wrote my favourite children's book. "Shopping with Dad". I've just found out he writes poetry too. That was from his Wondermentalist website.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

There is a nice piece in the Guardian about Edward Thomas, Robert Frost and the poem The Road Not Taken. I know it is a favourite of some people. It is America's most popular apparently.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011...-thomas-poetry

---

Oh well spotted Harry - I really enjoyed reading the article. Many thanks.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

I've been thinking a lot about love and also about dust (after hearing a programme on the radio about an artist who's work is about dust)...who'd have thought that there would be a poem about the two!:D

Dust

It seems we've left skin
in each other's lungs. I should have

looked under your bed skirt
for my wallet, but how

could credit cards compare
to the sneeze after we've parted?

Gone and still you make me
reach for a tissue—still my palms

turn circles in the red
breakwater of your heartbeat.

I want to tell you, I have nothing
but respect for your ribcage

now that we both know
it's not big enough to hold us.

Michael Meyerhofer

---

Another great find Hes - thanks. Just googled him and found this too..

Death, the First Time


I was seven, running across the ice
when I slipped and cracked my skull,

blood bursting like crimson novas
on the sidewalk while I dangled

from the frantic arms of a nun
sprinting towards the principal’s office.

They asked later if it hurt—the frosty
bite, the whole world flipped on its side,

then the long needle, the doctor’s
masked face and careful stitching,

searching for a face I recognized. I lied
as all boys must and said it didn’t, that

I did not cry fat tears when pain set in.
Nor did I mention that first moment,

weirdly quiet, when I got back up
and rejoined the end-of-recess line

just a little stunned, a strange
giddiness as within me something

began to rise, untangling its ancient
coils and lifting off the deep towards

the fresh bright crack,
the cerulean field and just above:

home, the gates wide open.

Michael Meyerhofer

I never thought of googling him but am really glad that you did Mossy, this is great!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mossdog

Another great find Hes - thanks. Just googled him and found this too..

Death, the First Time


I was seven, running across the ice
when I slipped and cracked my skull,

blood bursting like crimson novas
on the sidewalk while I dangled

from the frantic arms of a nun
sprinting towards the principal’s office.

They asked later if it hurt—the frosty
bite, the whole world flipped on its side,

then the long needle, the doctor’s
masked face and careful stitching,

searching for a face I recognized. I lied
as all boys must and said it didn’t, that

I did not cry fat tears when pain set in.
Nor did I mention that first moment,

weirdly quiet, when I got back up
and rejoined the end-of-recess line

just a little stunned, a strange
giddiness as within me something

began to rise, untangling its ancient
coils and lifting off the deep towards

the fresh bright crack,
the cerulean field and just above:

home, the gates wide open.

Michael Meyerhofer

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