Today's poet

Quote:

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Originally Posted by tri-mind

Steady on old girl you'll be getting too hot under collar and will need to sit down for a while to recover.

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I know...sorry!!!!!!! just off to make a cuppa and think about ironing to try and calm down!!!! :D

Freckles' Daydream.

Old Freckle is washing with soap,
Whilst dreaming of getting a grope,
She got so excited her pinny ignited,
So freckle sat down to another dream she hopes.

By Matt.


I hope you are not offended Freckle.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by tri-mind

Freckles' Daydream.

Old Freckle is washing with soap,
Whilst dreaming of getting a grope,
She got so excited her pinny ignited,
So freckle sat down to another dream she hopes.

By Matt.


I hope you are not offended Freckle.

---

not at all...i love being both a muse and object of ridicule simultaneously!!!!!! nice one tri-mind :D:):D

ps good use of the word "grope"!!!!!

More and More

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.

Margaret Atwood

Hot water flows
As piles of leaves grow
Hotel, restaurant or bar
But never in a car
A thimble in time
Never fails to revive
Green, tawny or black
From box, tin or sack
Visitiors all sup
From wee china cups
Appointments re-arranged
Business cards exchanged
There's little time to think
In the cycle of brew, strain and drink
At all times of day
But, just what did they say?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Derby Tup

Hot water flows
As piles of leaves grow
Hotel, restaurant or bar
But never in a car
A thimble in time
Never fails to revive
Green, tawny or black
From box, tin or sack
Visitiors all sup
From wee china cups
Appointments re-arranged
Business cards exchanged
There's little time to think
In the cycle of brew, strain and drink
At all times of day
But, just what did they say?

---

Gosh that is so wonderful....very evocative, like the line "there's little time to think" but generally like the way it hangs together to tell a story through a series of images...great stuff!

Clambering Up Cold Mountain Path
Hanshan (Tang)

Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on.
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek
the mist-blurred grass.
The moss is slipprey
though there's been no rain,
The pine sings
but there's no wind.
Who can leap the world's ties,
And sit with me among the white clouds?


and.....

Deep in the mountains
Ryokan 1758-1831

Deep in the mountains
all snow covered
In the evening
my heart vanishes
Or so it seems


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

from a nice little website with lots of chinese mountain inspired literature/songs
http://www.mountainsongs.net/poem.php

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Clambering Up Cold Mountain Path
Hanshan (Tang)

Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on.
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek
the mist-blurred grass.
The moss is slipprey
though there's been no rain,
The pine sings
but there's no wind.
Who can leap the world's ties,
And sit with me among the white clouds?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

from a nice little website with lots of chinese mountain inspired literature/songs
http://www.mountainsongs.net/poem.php

---

I like that, reckon DT will too.

Night Garden

Your mouth, a hand
against my mouth.
Pressed to earth, we dream
of ocean: heat-soaked, washed
with exhaustion, our mariner's sleep
haunted by smells of garden--fresh rosemary
thirty miles off Spain. Long grasses
sway the bottom of our boat.
We follow a sequence
of scents complex as music,
navigate earth places, sea places, follow
acoustics of mountains,
warbler instinct in the dark--
Siberia, Africa, and back--
phosphor runways guiding us to shore,
moonlight half eaten by the waves.

Across the lawn, a lit window floats.
Welts of lupine. You remember
an open window, Arabian music
through wet beeches. We know we're moving
at tremendous speed, that if it could be seen
the stars would be a smear
of velocity. But all is still,
pinioned. In the night garden,
light is a swallowed cry.
Naked in the middle of the city
the stars grow firm in our mouths.

Anne Michaels (my favourite)

Somebody (and forgive me for not trawling back through the posts, just off for dinner) posted a poem about running that was really about running away and I would like to post one that was given to me by my mum who understood that one and half years travelling was not running away but running to....

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.


~ Mary Oliver ~

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Somebody (and forgive me for not trawling back through the posts, just off for dinner) posted a poem about running that was really about running away and I would like to post one that was given to me by my mum who understood that one and half years travelling was not running away but running to....

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.


~ Mary Oliver ~

---

Oh I feel so moved Hes....thank you for sharing that with us...lovely x

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Night Garden

Your mouth, a hand
against my mouth.
Pressed to earth, we dream
of ocean: heat-soaked, washed
with exhaustion, our mariner's sleep
haunted by smells of garden--fresh rosemary
thirty miles off Spain. Long grasses
sway the bottom of our boat.
We follow a sequence
of scents complex as music,
navigate earth places, sea places, follow
acoustics of mountains,
warbler instinct in the dark--
Siberia, Africa, and back--
phosphor runways guiding us to shore,
moonlight half eaten by the waves.

Across the lawn, a lit window floats.
Welts of lupine. You remember
an open window, Arabian music
through wet beeches. We know we're moving
at tremendous speed, that if it could be seen
the stars would be a smear
of velocity. But all is still,
pinioned. In the night garden,
light is a swallowed cry.
Naked in the middle of the city
the stars grow firm in our mouths.

Anne Michaels (my favourite)

---

Wow!!!!! how utterly gorgeous is that...i will have to look her up....thanks again Hes, brilliant choices tonight x

The Boy at war with himself.

Euphoria,climb reach high up into the velvet sky,
Dread and fear even i am not welcome here,
Endless joy i melt into the universe on a perfect high,
Death and decay my course of action is now clear.

Every nerve tingles with unfathomable bliss,
Suicide thoughts eat away my inside,
If only you could feel this angels kiss,
My end is near there is nowhere to hide.

High, low sometimes even i don't know.

By Matt Harmston.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by tri-mind

The Boy at war with himself.

Euphoria,climb reach high up into the velvet sky,
Dread and fear even i am not welcome here,
Endless joy i melt into the universe on a perfect high,
Death and decay my course of action is now clear.

Every nerve tingles with unfathomable bliss,
Suicide thoughts eat away my inside,
If only you could feel this angels kiss,
My end is near there is nowhere to hide.

High, low sometimes even i don't know.

By Matt Harmston.

---

exquisite tri mind, i love your description of emotional turmoil and the seductiveness of suicide, i think this poem articulates how powerful such impulses can be....well done

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

More and More

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.

Margaret Atwood

---

Such a marvelous, loving poem Freckle, thank you. I didn't realise she wrote poems too. Anyway I found this one under her name - very thought provoking!

A Sad Child

You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside you head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.


Wow. Powerful stuff.

Mossdog that is indeed powerful thank you for posting...it was OW i think who introduced Atwood altho i could have that wrong! i have just bought one of her books "The Door" and its lovely...there are so many moving poems on here tonight after the frivolty of the afternoon (ahem....)...that's one of the things i love about this thread, that we can emote via poetry on so many different aspects of human nature and the human condition! great stuff! anyway just before i finish my rant i wanted to mention to you all that there is a "forward book of poetry for 2010" out (all new poets)...i wondered if it would be good for us to get and discuss in the new year or is that too book clubby? If so i'll just buy and post anyway...also did you know that you can join the poetry society for £14 a year...right, i'm going to be quiet now....

H
U
SsssssssssssH
freckle

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

Hot water flows
As piles of leaves grow
Hotel, restaurant or bar
But never in a car
A thimble in time
Never fails to revive
Green, tawny or black
From box, tin or sack
Visitiors all sup
From wee china cups
Appointments re-arranged
Business cards exchanged
There's little time to think
In the cycle of brew, strain and drink
At all times of day
But, just what did they say?

---

Nice one DT - thanks.:)

Regret

To 'have and to hold'
a promise we never shared.
Our love disavowed,
tortured by time,
butchered by circumstance, by duty,
haunts our solitary dreams.
Two lives, two parallel flights through this Hall of Light.
You: a life embracing domesticity, satisfied yet not fulfilled, perhaps.
Me: a life of quiet desperation,
dowsed in sorrow,
waiting for that spark
to light the way to the soothing Lethe,
and the anesthetising blanket of oblivion.

Anon.

Blimey, I've only been away half a day and I come back to some glorious choices. I might be doing more reading than posting tonight.

In Oxfam today I found a first edition Francis Thompson from 1897. It smells like its not been opened since then. Here's one that struck me. The last line is one of the finest I've ever read

The lily kept its gleaming,
In her tears (divine conservers!)
Washed with sad art;
And the flowers of dreaming
Paled not their fervours,
For her blood flowed through their nervures;
And the roses were most red, for she dipt them in her heart.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

Blimey, I've only been away half a day and I come back to some glorious choices. I might be doing more reading than posting tonight.

In Oxfam today I found a first edition Francis Thompson from 1897. It smells like its not been opened since then. Here's one that struck me. The last line is one of the finest I've ever read

The lily kept its gleaming,
In her tears (divine conservers!)
Washed with sad art;
And the flowers of dreaming
Paled not their fervours,
For her blood flowed through their nervures;
And the roses were most red, for she dipt them in her heart.

---

Goodness. Looks like we're in for an Emo night.:eek:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Night Garden

Your mouth, a hand
against my mouth.
Pressed to earth, we dream
of ocean: heat-soaked, washed
with exhaustion, our mariner's sleep
haunted by smells of garden--fresh rosemary
thirty miles off Spain. Long grasses
sway the bottom of our boat.
We follow a sequence
of scents complex as music,
navigate earth places, sea places, follow
acoustics of mountains,
warbler instinct in the dark--
Siberia, Africa, and back--
phosphor runways guiding us to shore,
moonlight half eaten by the waves.

Across the lawn, a lit window floats.
Welts of lupine. You remember
an open window, Arabian music
through wet beeches. We know we're moving
at tremendous speed, that if it could be seen
the stars would be a smear
of velocity. But all is still,
pinioned. In the night garden,
light is a swallowed cry.
Naked in the middle of the city
the stars grow firm in our mouths.

Anne Michaels (my favourite)

---

That is one of the most lovely poems that I think I've ever read. A great choice Hes and another author to add to the list to take more time to discover.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

Goodness. Looks like we're in for an Emo night.:eek:

---

We're a fickle bunch, we'll have a beautifully varied natter as always.

I got another book too, by G. Basil Sleigh (anyone with initials in their name can't be bad!) Looks like he's a local to me. This ones from 1923.

Windermere

Many a man has travelled the Earth
In search of Glory's Wine!
Many a man has sought for Mirth
In the eyes of a Maid divine!
Many the Charms that bind the Heart
With spell of a Mystic Shrine!
Good Earth teems
With Magic Dreams -
Windermere, you're mine.

Out of a boat, as a three-year-old,
I fell in your fond embrace!
Many a fire, as a Pirate Bold!
I lit, with a Picnic face!
Many a fish I filched from you
With a stick and a pin and twine!
Memory teems
With Boyhood Dreams -
Windermere, you're mine.

Purple in sunset of Autumn Glow
Your stately Fairfield sleeps.
Melody taught your Becks to flow,
And Harmony wedded your Deeps.
Poetry lurks in every Bay,
And haunts each scented Pine!
Beauty teems,
With Lover's Dreams -
Windermere, you're mine.

feeling lazy, but Freckle, Tri-mind, Hes, Mossdog, Harry, Derby T, x-runner.... thanks for your contributions today. Some quality reading and creation.
Hope Feckle that you've had a cold shower!

Hi OW

I know what you mean. I think some of us are a little burnt out at the moment. A weekend of sleep, running, drink and friends should see us come good again.

cheers

HHH

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

feeling lazy, but Freckle, Tri-mind, Hes, Mossdog, Harry, Derby T, x-runner.... thanks for your contributions today. Some quality reading and creation.
Hope Feckle that you've had a cold shower!

---

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

John Henry Dryden

icy lobby draught
chills breakfasting Englishman
hot coffee pleases

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

icy lobby draught
chills breakfasting Englishman
hot coffee pleases

---

Hey DT - it's midnight on Friday, and I'm a bit pissed, but I do enjoy these treats from the orient. Your poetry is turning to a cracking travelogue.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

Hey DT - it's midnight on Friday, and I'm a bit pissed, but I do enjoy these treats from the orient. Your poetry is turning to a cracking travelogue.

---

Thanks Whippet. It's eight o'clock in the morning here and last night's bottles of Tsingtao seem a long time ago :)

Working today but got tomorrow (err, Sunday) off for sightseeing so hoping for some inspiration :cool:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

Hey DT - it's midnight on Friday, and I'm a bit pissed, but I do enjoy these treats from the orient. Your poetry is turning to a cracking travelogue.

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You and me both...shouldn't have had that last talisker! I had high hopes for writing this evening but I am going to go to bed...work tomorrow and an early start. Goodnight all.x

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

John Henry Dryden

---

well said!!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

You and me both...shouldn't have had that last talisker! I had high hopes for writing this evening but I am going to go to bed...work tomorrow and an early start. Goodnight all.x

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Hey !!!!!!! don't go!!! I just got back from that really long cold shower and i ain't drunk like the rest of you all!...found a great atwood poem regarding poets which i will take the time to write up (not avialable on web)...soon....where is HHH?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

You and me both...shouldn't have had that last talisker! I had high hopes for writing this evening but I am going to go to bed...work tomorrow and an early start. Goodnight all.x

---

Loved the line about warbler instinct in your offering earlier :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

John Henry Dryden

---

love this HHH what a great sentiment ! :)

Not a poem but one of my very favourite songs:

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies, my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt your heart beat close to mine
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love
That was there at my command.

And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time my love
It would last till the end of time my love

The Poets Hang On
Margaret Atwood

The poet's hang on.
It's hard to get rid of them,
though lord knows its been tried.
We pass them on the road
standing there with their begging bowls,
an ancient custom.
Nothing in those now
but dried flies and bad pennies.
They stare straight ahead.
Are they dead, or what?
Yet, they have an irritating look
of those who know more than we do.

More of what?
What is it they claim to know?
Spit it out, we hiss at them.
Say it plain!
If you try for a simple answer,
that's when they pretend to be crazy,
or else drunk, or else poor.
They put those costumes on
some time ago,
those black sweaters, those tatters;
now they can't get them off.
And they're having trouble with their teeth
That's one of the their burdens.
They could use some dental work.

They're having trouble with their wings, as well.
We're not getting much from them
in the flight department these days.
No more soaring, no radiance,
no skylarking.
What the hell are they paid for?
(Suppose they are paid)
They can't get off the ground,
them and their muddy feathers.
If they fly, its downwards,
and into the damp grey earth.

Go away, we say-
and take your boring sadness.
Your not wanted here.
Your forgotten how to tell us
how sublime we are.
How love is the answer:
we always liked that one.
You have forgotten how to kiss up.
Your not wise any more.
You've lost your splendour.

But the poets hang on.
They're nothing if not tenacious.

looks like i am on my todd then!...unless i can bank on you X runner?...oh well...here is another lovely bit of poetry by charlotte ansell a contemporary poet (ie not available on web)...

For Annie

I haven't yet found
the poem in me,
that is you.
I haven't yet learnt how to
say thank you
did you awaken me again?

I was coming up for air,
finding I can breathe
knowing you have saved me
loved me back to belief.
You call me beautiful,
you say you will love me,
regardless of whether I love you.
The strange thing is.
I know you will.
The strange thing is,
no one ever loved me like that before.

I don't know how
to let myself
be cared for.
More,
so much more frightening
than pain.
But you will
and you do
and I am speechless
with acknowledgement
and with gratitude
I haven't yet found
the poem in me,
that is you.
But I think,
I am beginning to.

Saturday sunlight
illuminates hotel room
shaving easier :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

Saturday sunlight
illuminates hotel room
shaving easier :)

---

lovely DT...i am so glad of the time difference...nice to have some company but eventhis little insomniac may have to retire soon..... :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Hey !!!!!!! don't go!!! I just got back from that really long cold shower and i ain't drunk like the rest of you all!...found a great atwood poem regarding poets which i will take the time to write up (not avialable on web)...soon....where is HHH?

---

Sorry about that Freckle! I enjoyed yours and DT's postings with my very strong coffee. Have just had a pleasant half hour persuing Carol Ann Duffy's poetry. I love her anthology called The World's Wife. My favourite is Mrs. Darwin but I've already posted that so here is Demeter

Demeter

Where I lived - Winter and hard earth.
I sat in my cold stone room
choosing tough words, granite, flint
to break ice. My broken heart -
I tried that, but it skimmed,
flat, over the frozen lake.
She came from a long way,
but I saw her at last, walking,
my daughter, my girl, across the fields,
in my bare feet, bringing all spring's flowers
to her mother's house. I swear
the air softened and warmed as she moved,
the blue sky smiling, none too soon,
with the small shy mouth of a new moon.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Sorry about that Freckle! I enjoyed yours and DT's postings with my very strong coffee. Have just had a pleasant half hour persuing Carol Ann Duffy's poetry. I love her anthology called The World's Wife. My favourite is Mrs. Darwin but I've already posted that so here is Demeter

Demeter

Where I lived - Winter and hard earth.
I sat in my cold stone room
choosing tough words, granite, flint
to break ice. My broken heart -
I tried that, but it skimmed,
flat, over the frozen lake.
She came from a long way,
but I saw her at last, walking,
my daughter, my girl, across the fields,
in my bare feet, bringing all spring's flowers
to her mother's house. I swear
the air softened and warmed as she moved,
the blue sky smiling, none too soon,
with the small shy mouth of a new moon.

---

Gosh what a gorgeous poem, the imagery is just lovely....i could do with a strong coffee too, hope the head is OK...have a nice day Hes :)