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That's wonderful Alf. At the end of last weekend's run in Mosedale (back o'skiddaw) I sat on the bridge over the beck, messing around with a few soft pastels, trying to capture the marvellous array of stunning, fiery, autumnal colours set agains the grey purples of Carrick Fell. Didn't manage it of course (:D ), but it was fun nevertheless, and really breathtaking (but not as much as my slog up Blencathra!).Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
To an Athlete Dying Young
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
Alfred Edward Housman
This one is for injured and recovering runners everywhere.
The Panther
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly--. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Fall
Short days. The leaves are falling
to the deadline of the ground, gold
as the pages of myth. I feel the cold earth
fall away from the sun, the light's heart harden.
I fall too, as if from the glinting plane overhead,
backwards, through fierce blue, though I only lie
in your arms, on our coats, the last hour of autumn,
grasping a fistful of yellowing grass as you move in me,
fall and fall and fall towards you, your passionate gravity.
Carol Ann Duffy
Alf that Housman verse was very very moving, thanks for sharing that.
Been reflecting on the most glorious times to be on the fells. For me it's the arrival of first light after a night moving through the mountains. Now more than ever, it's important to be deeply conscious of those moments that make life's high points so vivid, including those wonderful moments on the fells that are hard to describe without turning to verse, of sorts...
Here's my attempt to try and sum up that magic time to be out. I hope it rings a few bells and a few wry smiles
Arrival
Appearing from the mists
As if they, not I, have just arrived there
The encircling heights of the summits to come
and the ones that are done
The new morning light
A promise the cold night could never break
All the colours of this Earth emerge from the ebon
One by glorious one
I enjoyed that OOP and it does ring a bell.:thumbup:Quote:
Originally Posted by OneOffPoet
A good Autumnal poem that Mossy and one to warm you up a bit as well :rolleyes: :D
Here's one from the man from Mytholmroyd which is also the home of Calder Valley Fell runners of course :cool:
There came a day
There came a day that caught the summer
Wrung its neck
Plucked it
And ate it.
Now what shall I do with the trees?
The day said, the day said.
Strip them bare, strip them bare.
Let’s see what is really there.
And what shall I do with the sun?
The day said, the day said.
Roll him away till he’s cold and small.
He’ll come back rested if he comes back at all.
And what shall I do with the birds?
The day said, the day said.
The birds I’ve frightened, let them flit,
I’ll hang out pork for the brave tomtit.
And what shall I do with the seed?
The day said, the day said.
Bury it deep, see what it’s worth.
See if it can stand the earth.
What shall I do with the people?
The day said, the day said.
Stuff them with apple and blackberry pie –
They’ll love me then till the day they die.
There came this day and he was autumn.
His mouth was wide
And red as a sunset.
His tail was an icicle.
Ted Hughes
Blimey! That's a Ted Hughes I've not read before. Cheers Alf - really liked it.Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Hey OneOffPoet, that's very resonant of the breaking dawn, although for me it's watching the event while half-waking on a tussocky hill side, tucked up in a bivvy bag. I'm ashamed to say I've not managed to run through the night yet as I'm too much of a lazy hound! :)
Coney Island
Coming down from downpatrick
Stopping off at st. johns point
Out all day birdwatching
And the craic was good
Stopped off at strangford lough
Early in the morning
Drove through shrigley taking pictures
And on to killyleagh
Stopped off for sunday papers at the
Lecale district, just before coney island
On and on, over the hill to ardglass
In the jamjar, autumn sunshine, magnificent
And all shining through
Stop off at ardglass for a couple of jars of
Mussels and some potted herrings in case
We get famished before dinner
On and on, over the hill and the craic is good
Heading towards coney island
I look at the side of your face as the sunlight comes
Streaming through the window in the autumn sunshine
And all the time going to coney island Im thinking,
Wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time.
Van Morrison
Doubt shall not make an end of you
Doubt shall not make an end of you
nor closing eyes lose your shape
when the retina's light fades;
what dawns inside me will light you.
In our public lives we may confine ourselves to darkness,
our nowhere mouths explain away our dreams,
but alone we are incorruptible creatures,
our light sunk too deep to be of any social use
we wander free and perfect without moving
or love on hard carpets
where couples revolving round the room
end found at its centre.
Our love like a whale from its deepest ocean rises -
I offer this and a multitude of images
from party rooms to oceans,
the single star and all its reflections;
being completed we include all
and nothing wishes to escape us.
Beneath my hand your hardening breast agrees
to sing of its own nature,
then from a place without names our origin comes shivering.
Feel nothing separate then,
we have translated each other into light
and into love go streaming.
Brian Patten
Gone, Gone Again
Gone, gone again,
May, June, July,
And August gone,
Again gone by,
Not memorable
Save that I saw them go,
As past the empty quays
The rivers flow.
And now again,
In the harvest rain,
The Blenheim oranges
Fall grubby from the trees
As when I was young
And when the lost one was here
And when the war began
To turn young men to dung.
Look at the old house,
Outmoded, dignified,
Dark and untenanted,
With grass growing instead
Of the footsteps of life,
The friendliness, the strife;
In its beds have lain
Youth. love, age, and pain:
I am something like that;
Only I am not dead,
Still breathing and interested
In the house that is not dark:--
I am something like that:
Not one pane to reflect the sun,
For the schoolboys to throw at--
They have broken every one.
Edward Thomas
http://i592.photobucket.com/albums/t...cemetery11.jpg
At the British War Cemetery, Bayeux
I walked where in their talking graves
And shirts of earth five thousand lay,
When history with ten feasts of fire
Had eaten the red air away.
‘I am Christ’s boy,’ I cried, ‘I bear
In iron hands the bread, the fishes,
I hang with honey and with rose
This tidy wreck of all your wishes.
‘On your geometry of sleep
The chestnut and the fir-tree fly,
And lavender and marguerite
Forge with their flowers an English sky.
‘Turn now towards the belling town
Your jigsaws of impossible bone,
And rising read your rank of snow
Accurate as death upon the stone.’
About your easy heads my prayers
I said with syllables of clay.
‘What gift,’ I asked, ‘shall I bring now
Before I weep and walk away?’
Take, they replied, the oak and laurel,
Take our fortune of tears and live
Like a spendthrift lover. All we ask
Is the one gift you cannot give.
Charles Causely
Did you hear the Afternoon Drama on radio 4 today (Wednesday) Alf? It featured some good ww1 poetry.
I really love getting things through the post but in these days of texts and emails, it doesn't happen that often so I feel really lucky to have got two great parcels in the last week. First was a book that an artist friend in Sweden found in a charity shop and is on elk and today's was from an old friend I rarely see but who sends me postcards and packages from the arctic and antarctic. This time the parcel came from Scotland and was Kathleen Jamie's latest poetry collection. I've just read a few and love this:
Fragment 1
Roe deer,
breaking from a thicket
bounding over briars
between darkening trees
you don't even glance
at the cause of your doubt
so how can you tell
what form I take?
What form I take
I scarcely know myself
adrift in a wood
in wintertime at dusk
always a deer
breaking from a thicket
for a while now
this is how its been.
Kathleen Jamie
I missed it Hes but thanks for the heads up, I will look on Iplayer.Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
I am reading 'Regeneration' by Pat Barker at the moment which is a novel (the first of 3 about WW1) but is based on real life experiences and set in a real Scottish hospital during the 1st World War. Wilfrid Owen meets a fellow soldier and poet Siegfried Sassoon there in real life and they are included in the novel though as fictional characters. It was a hospital for officers using up to date psychiatric methods to help the officers deal with their war related injuries both mental and physical.
God knows what the poor old enlisted men got for treatment though?
Disabled
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
— In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
Wilfrid Owen
Alone
I’ve listened: and all the sounds I heard
Were music,—wind, and stream, and bird.
With youth who sang from hill to hill
I’ve listened: my heart is hungry still.
I’ve looked: the morning world was green;
Bright roofs and towers of town I’ve seen;
And stars, wheeling through wingless night.
I’ve looked: and my soul yet longs for light.
I’ve thought: but in my sense survives
Only the impulse of those lives
That were my making. Hear me say
‘I’ve thought!’—and darkness hides my day.
Siegfried Sassoon
Oh yes! More please.Quote:
Originally Posted by Hes
That reminds me...Last winter, while running off Loadpot Hill above Ullswater, along the long grassy ridge, on the way back to Askham, I had the eastern Lake fells to myself, or so it seemed. Until, from over the ridge to my left, a herd of a dozen red deer or so (part of the Dalemain Herd I found out later), came charging up and over, presumedly spooked by something or other down by the lakeside, into a state of hysteria. For that briefest of moments, I found myself enveloped and running amongst these magnificent animals, before they disappeared off to my right, Carhullan way. Such rare moments in life as simply priceless and one of the many precious treasures of 'wild' fell running.
Dear all....i am really enjoying all of the posts. I have a laptop on loan but strangely it won't let me reply to this thread !?.....so i am typing this on my phone !!!! alfd i absolutely love pat barkers regeneration and associated poetry. Hes i enjoyed your choice and mossy yours too. Looking gutted to obtaining a new lap top
Looking forward !!!! Predictive text !!!!
That's the trouble with that Predictive Text freckle its too unpredictable :DQuote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Excellent choice that Mossy :cool:Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Falling Leaves and Early Snow
In the years to come they will say,
“They fell like the leaves
In the autumn of nineteen thirty-nine.”
November has come to the forest,
To the meadows where we picked the cyclamen.
The year fades with the white frost
On the brown sedge in the hazy meadows,
Where the deer tracks were black in the morning.
Ice forms in the shadows;
Disheveled maples hang over the water;
Deep gold sunlight glistens on the shrunken stream.
Somnolent trout move through pillars of brown and gold.
The yellow maple leaves eddy above them,
The glittering leaves of the cottonwood,
The olive, velvety alder leaves,
The scarlet dogwood leaves,
Most poignant of all.
In the afternoon thin blades of cloud
Move over the mountains;
The storm clouds follow them;
Fine rain falls without wind.
The forest is filled with wet resonant silence.
When the rain pauses the clouds
Cling to the cliffs and the waterfalls.
In the evening the wind changes;
Snow falls in the sunset.
We stand in the snowy twilight
And watch the moon rise in a breach of cloud.
Between the black pines lie narrow bands of moonlight,
Glimmering with floating snow.
An owl cries in the sifting darkness.
The moon has a sheen like a glacier.
KENNETH REXROTH
At last I am in front of a functioning computer which allows me to comment on this thread!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Mossy I adore this poem. Having got back from a lovely frosty run it describes many of the things i saw today including the "glittering leaves of cottonwood" which i think is a gem of a line. I am really enjoying the colourscape of autumn this year and there is something quite ethereal about frosty november mornings which is captured in this verse. I don't know what the reference to 1939 is about...the advent of WW2? ...will ponder
Simon Armitage is at the SAGE Gateshead tonight where a new drama he has written will be performed live as part of radio 3's Free Thinking Festival and its free...
http://thesagegateshead.org/news-and...land-and-un-h/
Unfortunately I can't make it. Here is a poem of his which I like....
Homecoming
Think, two things on their own and both at once.
The first, that exercise in trust, where those in front
stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall
backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight.
The second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket
on a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook,
becoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home
the very model of a model of a mother, yours,puts
two and two together, makes a proper fist of it
and points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions
in the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed.
Then midnight when you slip the latch and sneak
no further than the phone box at the corner of the street;
I'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring
because it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet.
Retrace that walk towards the garden gate;in silhouette
a father figure waits there, wants to set things straight.
These ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves.
These fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold
into a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip
or buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it
and try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket,there
like this, for size again. It still fits.
------------
When I first red this I thought elements of it was quite sinister and dark...then I thought that actually what it might be talking about is a family row which is resolved in reconciliation and a hug and that what is saying is that families can withstand conflict?
Great to see you're back Freckle. Hope all is well. Enjoyed the SA post.
Nox Borealis
If Socrates drank his portion of hemlock willingly,
if the Appalachians have endured unending ages of erosion,
if the wind can learn to read our minds
and moonlight moonlight as a master pickpocket,
surely we can contend with contentment as our commission.
Deer in a stubble field, small birds dreaming
unimaginable dreams in hollow trees,
even the icicles, darling, even the icicles shame us
with their stoicism, their radiant resolve.
Listen to me now: think of something you love
but not too dearly, so the night will steal from us
only what we can afford to lose.
Campbell McGrath
Wow, that sounds amazing Mossy. It must have felt incredible, so primal and such a rare privilege to be among them. You are right, it is moments like that that stay with you forever.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
freckle has entered the building :thumbup:Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
November Night
Listen. .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
Adelaide Crapsey
One of the reasons I run on the fells I suppose.
Glad of these times
Driving along the motorway
swerving the packed lanes
I am glad of these times.
Because I did not die in childbirth
because my children will survive me
I am glad of these times.
I am not hungry, I do not curtsey,
I lock my door with my own key
and I am glad of these times,
glad of central heating and cable TV
glad of email and keyhole surgery
glad of power showers and washing machines,
glad of polio inoculations
glad of three weeks' paid holiday
glad of smart cards and cash-back,
glad of twenty types of yoghurt
glad of cheap flights to Prague
glad that I work.
I do not breathe pure air or walk green lanes,
see darkness, hear silence,
make music, tell stories,
tend the dead in their dying
tend the new-born in their birthing,
tend the fire in its breathing,
but I am glad of my times,
these times, the age
we feel in our bones, our rage
of tyre music, speed
annulling the peasant graves
of all my ancestors,
glad of my hands on the wheel
and the cloud of grit as it rises
where JCBs move motherly
widening the packed motorway.
Helen Dunmore
Like it. Straight to the point, haiku-like, and captures the season exactly.Quote:
Originally Posted by Alf
Here's one I read the other night and enjoyed.
[Sleeping sister of a farther sky]
Sleeping sister of a farther sky,
dropped from zenith like a tender tone,
the lucid apex of a scale unknown
whose whitest whisper is an opaque cry
of measureless frequency, the spectral sigh
you breath, bright hydrogen and brighter zone
of fissured carbon, consummated moan
and ceaseless rapture of a brilliant why.
Will nothing wake you from your livid rest?
Essence of ether and astral stone
the stunned polarities your substance weaves
in one bright making, like a dream of leaves
in the tree’s mind, summered. Or as a brooding bone
roots constellations in the body’s nest.
KAREN VOLKMAN
Anthem For Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen
lovely choice Mossy ...the title in itself is so slick!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
I Love You More Than All the Windows in New York City
BY JESSICA GREENBAUM
The day turned into the city
and the city turned into the mind
and the moving trucks trumbled along
like loud worries speaking over
the bicycle’s idea
which wove between
the more armored vehicles of expression
and over planks left by the construction workers
on a holiday morning when no work was being done
because no matter the day, we tend towards
remaking parts of it—what we said
or did, or how we looked—
and the buildings were like faces
lining the banks of a parade
obstructing and highlighting each other
defining height and width for each other
offsetting grace and function
like Audrey Hepburn from
Jesse Owens, and the hearty pigeons collaborate
with wrought iron fences
and become recurring choruses of memory
reassembling around benches
we sat in once, while seagulls wheel
like immigrating thoughts, and never-leaving
chickadees hop bared hedges and low trees
like commas and semicolons, landing
where needed, separating
subjects from adjectives, stringing along
the long ideas, showing how the cage
has no door, and the lights changed
so the tide of sound ebbed and returned
like our own breath
and when I knew everything
was going to look the same as the mind
I stopped at a lively corner
where the signs themselves were like
perpendicular dialects in conversation and
I put both my feet on the ground
took the bag from the basket
so pleased it had not been crushed
by the mightiness of all else
that goes on and gave you the sentence inside.
very fitting and poignant alfQuote:
Originally Posted by Alf
The Last Wolf
The last wolf hurried toward me
through the ruined city
and I heard his baying echoes
down the steep smashed warrens
of Montgomery Street and past
the ruby-crowned highrises
left standing
their lighted elevators useless
Passing the flicking red and green
of traffic signals
baying his way eastward
in the mystery of his wild loping gait
closer the sounds in the deadly night
through clutter and rubble of quiet blocks
I hear his voice ascending the hill
and at last his low whine as he came
floor by empty floor to the room
where I sat
in my narrow bed looking west, waiting
I heard him snuffle at the door and
I watched
He trotted across the floor
he laid his long gray muzzle
on the spare white spread
and his eyes burned yellow
his small dotted eyebrows quivered
Yes, I said.
I know what they have done.
Mary TallMountain
Posted before but definitely worth another appearance.
Neutral Tones
We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,
—They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.
Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles solved years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro—
On which lost the more by our love.
The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….
Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.
Thomas Hardy
Autumn
I love the fitfull gusts that shakes
The casement all the day
And from the mossy elm tree takes
The faded leaf away
Twirling it by the window-pane
With thousand others down the lane
I love to see the shaking twig
Dance till the shut of eve
The sparrow on the cottage rig
Whose chirp would make believe
That spring was just now flirting by
In summers lap with flowers to lie
I love to see the cottage smoke
Curl upwards through the naked trees
The pigeons nestled round the coat
On dull November days like these
The cock upon the dung-hill crowing
The mill sails on the heath agoing
The feather from the ravens breast
Falls on the stubble lea
The acorns near the old crows nest
Fall pattering down the tree
The grunting pigs that wait for all
Scramble and hurry where they fall
John Clare
the suicide kid
I went to the worst of bars
hoping to get
killed.
but all I could do was to
get drunk
again.
worse, the bar patrons even
ended up
liking me.
there I was trying to get
pushed over the dark
edge
and I ended up with
free drinks
while somewhere else
some poor
son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital
bed,
tubes sticking out all over
him
as he fought like hell
to live.
nobody would help me
die as
the drinks kept
coming,
as the next day
waited for me
with its steel clamps,
its stinking
anonymity,
its incogitant
attitude.
death doesn't always
come running
when you call
it,
not even if you
call it
from a shining
castle
or from an ocean liner
or from the best bar
on earth (or the
worst).
such impertinence
only makes the gods
hesitate and
delay.
ask me: I'm
72.
Charles Bukowski
Some good 'uns there Alf. And that's lovely Freckle. Think I came across it the other week or so and thought about posting it too.
This one matches my mood recently. It's a kind of 'what the heck' poem.
Talking Back to the Mad World
I will not tend. Or water,
pull, or yank,
I will not till, uproot,
fill up or spray.
The rain comes.
Or not. Plants: sun-fed,
moon-hopped, dirt-stuck.
Watch as flocks
of wild phlox
appear, disappear. My lazy,
garbagey magic
makes this nothing
happen.
I love
the tattered
camisole of
nothing. The world
runs its underbrush
course fed by
the nothing I give it.
Wars are fought.
Blood turns.
Dirt is a wide unruly room.
Sarah C Harwell
ok try this...
My mother in law has taken a creative writing class.
she's quite new to this and this is her latest offering...it's not brilliant but it is funny.
The Time Machine
Time is a precious commodity, something I don’t like to waste.
After all life’s getting shorter, Anno Domini racing with haste.
I like my days to be orderly, planned to a certain degree.
Activities are best in the morning, gradually slowing down towards tea.
Working my way through a todo list, each occupation on time.
Minutes and hours flowing steadily, passing in rhythm and rhyme.
UNTILL!
Out comes the lap top, the frightful machine,
Words, lights and images come alive on the screen.
Search engine called Google
Should really be gobble
It eats away time causing my plans to wobble.
Greed is a terrible sin.
It munches away seconds like dolly mixture sweet.
Slices of hours, like rashers of meat.
Quick look at a web site, then at another.
E-mail and face book, must answer.
OH BOTHER!
Three hours of my day have just disappeared.
Where in the world did they they pass.
I only wanted to check on the weather, I only wanted to cut the long grass.
The afternoon gone, digested, eaten up by the World Wide Web.
Best close down this time consumer, or my house will never be fed.