that is soooooooooooooooooooooooo funny! bagsy I am the one in the middle!
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I fancied a black turtle-necked number with a matching beret :cool::cool:
It's a shame our resident poet / artiste Hes is away as I'm sure she would have enjoyed some input into the great FPS vest debate :)
I would rather fancy like a tee-shirt with "The Sudden Start" printed on it.
http://www1.clikpic.com/hesterc/imag...uddenStart.jpg
PS. Is the middle name of Harry H Howgill "hare"?
One of my Hes favourites is 'Moonlight Shadows' Always reminds me of happy nights out running with friends :)
I love the red idea the play on words is great. An individual haiku is great too.
And the hes' hare would be good.
....or maybe a bit of subtlety. The colours of choice with
.....
.......
.....
in a complmetary colour.
Only the finger counting Haiku runners would know.
........
.......
.....
.....
........
Would of course be the pattern for the limerick specialists
Even more subtlety? (Or is that obscurity?)...
..-. . .-.. .-.. / .--. --- . - ... / ... --- -.-. .. . - -.--
Di-di-dah-dit Dit Di-dah-di-dit Di-dah-di-dit, Di-dah-dah-dit Dah-dah-dah Dit Dah Di-di-dit, Di-di-dit Dah-dah-dah Dah-di-dah-dit Di-dit Dit Dah Dah-di-dah-dah
http://www.qbit.it/lab/morse.php
Refusal
by Maya Angelou
Beloved,
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips
Your Hands
Your Laughter brave
Irreverent.
Those sweet excesses that
I do adore.
What surety is there
That we will meet again,
On other worlds some
Future time undated.
I defy my body's haste.
Without the promise
Of one more sweet encounter
I will not deign to die.
:(:(
Night night poetry fans
Aye, and there's worse lad, gulp!
A song of despair
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!
I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.
There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!
How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!
From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.
You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.
The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.
Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
Pablo Neruda
Just reaching for the Prozac (again):(
I've had a look at Ron Hill bespoke kit looks like vest would be in the region of 12 to 15 pounds depending on colours and amount ordered and they can cope with designs and lettering.So if we fancy doing this when Hes gets back and if she wants to be the designer it looks to be a goer.
THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the forum* done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou
lovest best.
Night, sleep, and the stars.
(Walt Whitman)
* this word was not by Whitman
What a lovely poem to end the evening x runner ! looks like you guys had a wonderful time last night!....i love the idea of hes's hares being on the tops in some way, tri mind good research re bespoke ron hill's....what was all the morse code about, please someone elaborate!
Anyway, top of the morning everyone...
A flower has opened in my heart…
What flower is this, what flower of spring,
what simple, secret thing?
It is the peace of daybreak skies that bring
Clear song and wild swift wing.
Heart’s miracle of inward light,
What powers unknown have sown your seed
And your perfection freed?…
O flower within me wondrous white,
I know you only as my need
And my unsealed sight.
S Sassoon
Good Morning poets Been a couple of days since I made a post. Started a new post grad project (it's almost a job) BEGAD SIR! A job surely not.
Tri mind your really exploring the darkness at the moment.
Ive got loads of stuff I want to say, but thanks to all for inspiring me to use words again. So he's one
Working life
We are growing older every day
Squandering nearly every one
Some of us our wishing the years away
Until it is almost gone
Working ourselves into a grave
Saving the money but never the time
Retiring after our pensionable age
our working life is always a climb
RUBBING SHOULDERS WITH CELEBRITY POETS
Did anyone watch the excellent documentary about the poem, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It was on BBC 2 earlier in the year. I can't remember the bloke who presented it, but he has a very distinctive voice. Anyway I was on holiday in St Ives and I heard a distinctive voice I thought I recognised I turned round and there he was a celebrity poet whose name escapes me.
Since posting about the famous poet I thought i'd google "Sir Gawain and The Green Knight BBC2" The famous poet was Simon Armitage:)
And do you think that love itself
And do you think that love itself,
Living in such an ugly house,
Can prosper long?
We meet and part;
Our talk is all of heres and nows,
Our conduct likewise; in no act
Is any future, any past;
Under our sly, unspoken pact,
I KNOW with whom I saw you last,
But I say nothing; and you know
At six-fifteen to whom I go—
Can even love be treated so?
I KNOW, but I do not insist,
Having stealth and tact, thought not enough,
What hour your eye is on your wrist.
No wild appeal, no mild rebuff
Deflates the hour, leaves the wine flat—
Yet if YOU drop the picked-up book
To intercept my clockward look—
Tell me, can love go on like that?
Even the bored, insulted heart,
That signed so long and tight a lease,
Can BREAK it CONTRACT, slump in peace.
Edna St. Vincent Millay </B>