Quote:
Originally Posted by brett
Anyway you having broken me away from my Keats: where is the poetry on this thread?
Apart from the vision of loveliness that is me descending Ingleborough that is.
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Quote:
Originally Posted by brett
Anyway you having broken me away from my Keats: where is the poetry on this thread?
Apart from the vision of loveliness that is me descending Ingleborough that is.
So far behind I was tucking into my first pint of crap lager (what a crap pub) as you were visiting the trig point.
Quote:
Originally Posted by GrahamB
voila!......Quote:
Originally Posted by GrahamB
Ode to Autumn
Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Mmmmh. Very nice.
No point chatting to GrahamB, cos he is still on Inglebugger :D
Where is this inglebugger place that you speak of? i must visit it sometime!Quote:
Originally Posted by brett
crap pubQuote:
Originally Posted by brett
crap barman
crap wine
no beer!
Absolutely unbelievable.
You should have all come back to Ilkley for Petrus by the barrel.
We had a fabulous race up there last night. Graham is still there I think!
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Quote:
Originally Posted by GrahamB
You should have come back with us to the Front Room - Landlord - on fine form
Petrus is OK - but doesn't beat the real thing
Hello!
Is anyone there?
It's very dark and cold up here.
Hello!
Oh. It's all right. Brett is struggling up to the trig so he is safe after all.
Now where is my corkscrew?
Ilkley is a very cold and damp place.
Just check out the inhabitants....
Phreaking weird
Graham, what ever you do don't sink into the abyss
(abyss? sp?)
Quote:
Originally Posted by GrahamB
Mmmmmm......Quote:
Originally Posted by brett
Lone runner on Inglebuggger
only the moon to guide
sleep is inviting
:)
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Well you are not Keats 'cos I think he is dead.
only if you are chatting to Graham
I've dozed off several times.
The FRA Committee will be doing so from now on!!!!!
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
In fact I think I might turn in (my grave).
Spin, more like
Night - sleep tight
Quote:
Originally Posted by GrahamB
before you do please attempt a haiku! .......tee hee! :)Quote:
Originally Posted by GrahamB
http://raysweb.net/haiku/pages/haiku-definition.html
I think that was :D
Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Mr elect Chairman
I might not turn up on time but my spell checker works
Meeting you on the way down.... steady Old Lad
debate - only over a glass of Petrus - can't wait :D
Quote:
Originally Posted by GrahamB
Mmmmmmm....twas a little strange on ere last night.....
here's a nice little poem to try and restore the old ambience....
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Yeats
Wake: the silver dusk returning
Up the beach of darkness brims,
And the ship of sunrise burning
Strands upon the eastern rims.
Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
Trampled to the floor it spanned,
And the tent of night in tatters
Straws the sky-pavilioned land.
Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
Hear the drums of morning play;
Hark, the empty highways crying
`Who'll beyond the hills away?'
Towns and countries woo together,
Forelands beacon, belfries call;
Never lad that trod on leather
Lived to feast his heart with all.
Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
Sunlit pallets never thrive;
Morns abed and daylight slumber
Were not meant for man alive.
Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
Breath's a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.
Reveille by A.E.Houseman
PS: Good morning all!
Stevie...this is amazing!......thank you...what a wonderful way to start the day...especially liked this bit....
Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
and ...
Morns abed and daylight slumber
Were not meant for man alive.
have a good un :)
You're welcome Freckle! There are a lot of really strong poems in A Shropshire lad, but they can also be a bit dark. I like Housman's variety of metre and rhyme schemes, but he has a light touch as well.
Interesting night you had on this thread! So here's one to refresh.
Some of the references are a bit dated, but the sentiment is, sadly, still relevant.
Timothy Winters
Timothy Winters comes to school
With eyes as wide as a football pool,
Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters:
A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters.
His belly is white, his neck is dark,
And his hair is an exclamation mark.
His clothes are enough to scare a crow
And through his britches the blue winds blow.
When teacher talks he won't hear a word
And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird,
He licks the patterns off his plate
And he's not even heard of the Welfare State.
Timothy Winters has bloody feet
And he lives in a house on Suez Street,
He sleeps in a sack on the kitchen floor
And they say there aren't boys like him any more.
Old man Winters likes his beer
And his missus ran off with a bombardier.
Grandma sits in the grate with a gin
And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin.
The Welfare Worker lies awake
But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake,
So Timothy Winters drinks his cup
And slowly goes on growing up.
At Morning Prayers the Master helves
For children less fortunate than ourselves,
And the loudest response in the room is when
Timothy Winters roars "Amen!"
So come one angel, come on ten:
Timothy Winters says "Amen
Amen amen amen amen."
Timothy Winters, Lord.
Amen!
By Charles Causley
Cheers Freckle - I will enjoy listening to the author.
This is a bit off thread but have you checked out this site and this guy - really inspirational. It was suggested to me by a friend so if you enjoy it, please pass it on.
http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/be...d_passion.html
:)
Keep moving forward.
The clag comes down,
Rain likes shards of glass hit and the wind pushes me over,
Oh God it's so cold i can't feel my feet must keep moving forward,
Me hands shake i can barely read the map must keep moving forward,
The body is playing tricks on me i feel so tired must sleep,
No must keep moving forward,
Then i see it a small gash in the clag,
I see the way down,
Must keep moving forward,
My legs renewed i leap down the hill for home,
I thank God i kept moving forward so i can do this again next weekend,
As never are you more alive then when you have to keep moving forward.
One is always nearer by not standing still.
Far spread the moory ground, a level scene
Bespread with rush and one eternal green,Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene;
That never felt the rage of blundering plough,
Though centuries wreathed spring blossoms on its brow.
Autumn met plains that stretched them far away
In unchecked shadows of green, brown, and grey.
No fence of ownership crept in between
To hide the prospect from the gazing eye;
Its only bondage was the circling sky.
A mighty flat, undwarfed by bush and tree,
Spread its faint shadow of immensity,
And lost itself, which seemed to eke its bounds,
In the blue mist the horizon's edge surrounds.
Great poem Grouse. Is it your own creation. Really impressive.
By heck no! It's John Clare. Sorry, should have said so.
Bloody Fantastic. One of yours?Quote:
Originally Posted by Grouse
Ah I see - John Clare (1793-1864)
Great find Grouse - thanks.
Errr... no. I was looking for another one of John Clare's with the line 'above the vaulted sky' if I remember right if it rings any bells (about bivvying). Actually that is only half in jest, John Clare was a fascinating character who spent a big chunk of his life in lunatic asylum and he 'escaped' from one and made a long trek home. I think he was one of these artists, like Van Gogh, whose 'artistic vision' was too unbearably intense for his mind. I thin kmost of his poems are about nature.
Found it: this is the final verse of 'I Am' written in Northampton County Asylum
I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smiled or wept;
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below - above the vaulted sky.
Thanks Mossdog i will look forward to listening to that when I can :) it looks really interesting, I watched first 5 mins and he was funny, then kids interrupted me with Halloween type requests!Quote:
Originally Posted by Mossdog
Grouse I too really enjoyed the Clare poems you posted and the insight into his life and torment...the "vaulted sky" poem was particularly moving....there is the common belief is there not that there is a fine line between "insanity" and creativity (whatever that reductionist concept means, as an aside I think it tells us nothing to label someone as "mad", in fact I think it is sometimes an all too convenient label for us to explain something that we do not understand and are frightened of...anyway I am digressing massively....thanks again for posting such a fab poem!)
I can't remember if I have posted this poem by Emily Dickinson but here it is again so apologies if I have...like it tho....and it seems relevant somehow after all the heated debates recently....
The Life that tied too tight too escape,
Will ever run
With a prudential look behind
And spectres of the Rein-
The Horse that scents the loving Grass
And sees the Pastures smile,
Will be retaken with a shot
If he is caught at all-
Oooooo a poetry competition.....!!!!!!
anyone fancy entering their haiku? or other creations....if so you aint got long!....
The National Poetry Competition closes Saturday 31 October at midnight (UK time).
Get your poems in online at http://tinyurl.com/d5o5et
you never know :D :) :D
(I wasn't always this nerdy!...honest!!!! its cos i got a day off training)
A little weeping fairy found
A patch of sunshine on the ground
She knew it was the very thing
To mend a hole torn in her wing
She dried her eyes, picked up the patch
And saw it would exactly match
So sitting beneath a tree they say
She sewed it on and flew away.
Evening all,
I'm glad John Claire finally got a mention. There is a lovely CD by a lass called Vicky Clayton who put a load of them to music which I dug out again as a result of this thread.
I need a bit of inspiration for tonight's efforts, so I'd love a few suggestions.