Evening Mossy,
That's lovely. I've not heard of Florence Peacock before. I'll have to look her up.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
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Evening Mossy,
That's lovely. I've not heard of Florence Peacock before. I'll have to look her up.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
No law breaking hey - like copyright :D I think we all might be guilty of that.
Another good choice
Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Hi HHH, glad you enjoyed them. Here's a really interesting NY poem too...
Mr. Flood's Party
BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.
"Only a very little, Mr. Flood—
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang—
"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.
I'm trying, in vain, to find a more 'upbeat' NY poem, they all seem to be morose :(
Map Reference by Simon Armitage
Not that it was the first peak in the range,
Or the furthest.
It didn’t have the swankiest name
And wasn’t the highest even, or the first.
In fact, if those in the know
Ever had their say about sea-level or cross-sections,
Or had their way with angles and vectors,
Or went there with their instruments about them,
It might have been more of a hill than a mountain.
As for its features,
Walls fell into stones along its lower reaches,
Fields ran up against its footslopes, scree had loosened
From around its shoulders. Incidentally, pine trees
Pitched about its south and west approaches.
We could have guessed, I think, had we taken to it,
The view, straightforward, from its summit.
So,
As we rounded on it from the road that day,
How very smart of me to say or not to say
What we both knew:
That it stood where it stood, so absolutely, for you.
I cannae stand New Year
Thousands of people simultaneously utter a false cheer
Yeah were gonna change and give a resolution a try
and apparantly pigs fly
crawling up the pavement kebab in hand
oh youre gonna change the plan must be grand
to enter the new year in a sorry state
im sure this change is gonna be handed to you on a plate
so im off to bed with out celebration or fun
cos tomorrow in the real world ive gotta race to run
This one's superb, but still has the taint of sadness, perhaps that's inevitable as NY often results in as much retrospection as anticipation!
Burning the Old Year
BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
I like that TT. Good luck for tomorrow's raceQuote:
Originally Posted by TurboTom
:D:D:D:D Nice on TT - best of luck with the race.Quote:
Originally Posted by TurboTom
Yeah! Found a happy oneMerry Christmas And Happy New Year! by Ellis Parker Butler
Little cullud Rastus come a-skippin’ down de street,
A-smilin’ and a-grinnin’ at every one he meet;
My, oh! He was happy! Boy, but was he gay!
Wishin’ “Merry Chris’mus” an’ “Happy New-Year’s Day”!
Wishin’ that his wishes might every one come true—
And—bless your dear heart, honey,—I wish the same to you!
ooophs
Merry Christmas And Happy New Year!
by Ellis Parker Butler
Little cullud Rastus come a-skippin’ down de street,
A-smilin’ and a-grinnin’ at every one he meet;
My, oh! He was happy! Boy, but was he gay!
Wishin’ “Merry Chris’mus” an’ “Happy New-Year’s Day”!
Wishin’ that his wishes might every one come true—
And—bless your dear heart, honey,—I wish the same to you!
That's better:D