Today's poet

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Originally Posted by TurboTom

can you scan a copy and email it me by any chance
[email protected]

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sorry turbo tom i don't have a scanner but perhaps one of the others do? do you not get the mag like?

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Originally Posted by freckle

sorry turbo tom i don't have a scanner but perhaps one of the others do? do you not get the mag like?

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Nope...im not an FRA member :eek:

Solution there is, become a member.

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Originally Posted by TurboTom

Nope...im not an FRA member :eek:

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Lets see if someone has a scanner, if not i can photocopy it for you and send it but it won't look as cool as not in colour! anyway, suffice to say your poem looks very good, the x country one, against the backdrop of hes's print!

Al has come to the rescue

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Originally Posted by TurboTom

Al has come to the rescue

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Well, what do you think?

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Originally Posted by freckle

Well, what do you think?

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I havent scanned it yet! Gi me chance.

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Originally Posted by TurboTom

Al has come to the rescue

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You have mail.

Tis all good in the hood...thanks Al

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Originally Posted by freckle

still loving spring......

Putting in the Seed


by Robert Frost

You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,

The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

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That was a good choice freckle. There's allsorts going on in that poem under the surface that sums up spring well. :)

This is from Antonio Machado a Spanish poet who's wife died young and he makes lots of references to her in his poetry and writings:

The afternoon is bright,
with spring in the air,
a mild March afternoon,
with the breath of April stirring,
I am alone in the quiet patio
looking for some old untried illusion -
some shadow on the whiteness of the wall
some memory asleep
on the stone rim of the fountain,
perhaps in the air
the light swish of some trailing gown.

Antonio Machado