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Photo No 1 For Freckles' Fellrunning Calendar.
Who is that girl in the photo there,
Running through shot with wind in her hair,
Red blooded males lift their heads up,
By gosh it's Freckle the Fellrunners Pin-Up.
By Herakles.
P.S. When will the 2011 calendar be ready.;)
Yes I am getting quite a bit of ribbing for this photo you lot!......2011 will be ready just as soon as I complete my ten fell races this year (two so far) with two months showing me lounging around drinking snecklifter in various stunning locations!Quote:
Originally Posted by Herakles
I vote for one of the locations to be lounging about on a peat bog on top of kinder with just for your pleasure a couple of topless mountain rescue men stopping you sinking. In fact guys lets have a where should Freckle be seen drinking Snecklifter for her calendar comp.:D
Now your talking!...I could have done with them today!.....Quote:
Originally Posted by Herakles
well I am a little tired now...all that running you know, makes a calender gal/tip top athlete sleepy....i'll sign of with one of my faves from Auden...night all...
Lullaby
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.
Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.
Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love
Gosh, this is delicious Frecks....where do you find these? Keep them coming please. :):)Quote:
Originally Posted by freckle
Hello again, it's been a while since I was last here, and there are some names I don't even recognise.
Anyway, since spring is upon us, and everything is good, a quick attempt at a couple of verses.
Spring in my step, daylight running!
Snowdrops, crocus, primrose, daffodils
Banishing the long long winter at last.
Soon bluebells. I have been reborn.
But wait, look in the shade there -
Nettles waiting to rise and strike.
Soon bracken will unfurl noxious ferns,
Cow parsley rising again to crowd the path.
Tangling bramble and dog mercury in the forest.
Crops rising in fields to scratch my legs.
Picnickers spoiling the peace and quiet.
Oh I can't wait for Autumn...
I don't really mean it! It's just that sooner or later, in mid summer, probably when it's raining and the nettles are drooping across the paths and stinging hard, I just long for the empty landscape of winter. Terrible really, to wish my life away like that. But spring is great, and it's also good to catch up with what's happening on the poetry forum.
Steve
Herakles, your words
reminded me of a couple of lines in Sylvia Plath's poem The Colossus. Your poem and Sylvia's are about different things, I know, but after I went and read The Colossus again I thought it was worth sharing:Quote:
Originally Posted by Herakles
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It's worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches above us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightning-stroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
By Sylvia Plath
You've made me smile Stevie thanks. Who was it who said a weed is just a plant whose virtue has yet to be discovered? Could have been talking about me, perhaps ;).Quote:
Originally Posted by Stevie
I seem to recall reading that the North American Indians (Native Amercians?), before the Spanish brought the horse to the continent, did rather alot of running. When they were tired (bonked), they use to thrash their legs with stinging nettles to squeeze those extra miles out of them :eek:. I can see that catching on. Gap in the market for some nettle 'rub' me thinks:).
The Effortless Point
Three long-distant-runners
out for buoyancy
pad by me, leaving the weed tassles a-waggle
and are past the sumach clump and
fleet, into brightness flowing,
they bear along
lungs
all rinsed with morning.
For Richard Rolle, swift in the strength of stillness,
flowed light, and the out there flooded
his pulses
leaping these six centuries -
love breathes him alive.
Moving into sky
or stilled under it
we are in the becoming
moved: let wisdom learn
unnoticing in this.
Margaret Avision
From her anthology 'sunblue'
Found this in a second hand bookshop this morning while muching around Barney Castle -ain't it just lovely, or what? Sadly the FRA formatting won't allow me to post it in its orginal spacing.
:)
Richard Rolle (1290–1349) was an English religious writer, Bible translator, and hermit.[1] He is known as Richard Rolle of Hampole or de Hampole, since after years of wandering he settled in Hampole, near the Cistercian nunnery.
According to Wiki.