Today's poet

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Originally Posted by freckle

we are planning to do some kind of fell poet do again at some juncture and it would be great to see you there if pos, watch this space! :-)

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I want to be there!

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Originally Posted by Hes

Ok...this has taken far too long and I need to be working so apologies for it being a bit corny in places but I did enjoy writing it. I nicked the title from the man himself as I think he's a bit of a star.

Seeing Stars!

It was a Thursday and a grey day
But the runners were excited
A band of friends in inov8s
Fell poets reunited

They headed out from Dufton
From a campsite near the ghyll
along an avenue of lime trees
Swallows swooping down the hill

The pace was slow to start with
Time for thinking and to walk
The dogs weaved through the mist
As the runners slowed to talk

We were heading on a mission
A poet was our quarry
A man who walked the Pennine way
And hoped to write his story

The rain it lashed, the gales they howled
The sights they seemed untrue
We saw two sheep stood in the mist
Their bodies striped with blue

It was heading for the afternoon
And time was passing by
When we saw a shape ahead of us
Against the glowering sky

Thank goodness it was Simon
He seemed to be most glad
To see his sodden entourage
After the morning that he’d had

He hugged our Harry Howgill
And shook us all by hand
We stood about him grinning
And introduced him to our band

Flame-haired Freckle gives the glamour,
Old Whippet the wit and food
Harry knows how to navigate
And Hes’s bog diving is good

Together we headed off the fell
One dog got rather rude
He clung on to our poets leg
as hilarity ensued

The weather was still awful
But we really didn’t mind
Simon was great company
Wit and friendliness combined

At last we reached the village pub
Our journey’s end in sight
We said adieu to Simon
To get ready for the night

Before he left he asked us
Is there anything you lack
Harry wangled Hes a Mars Bar
From Simon’s stacked backpack.

Then back at Howgill Mansion
(a four man tent for one)
Whippet’s stew and homemade bread
Was perfect post the run

The women scrubbed up finely
Swapping pertex for a dress
The lads were also mudless
And both ready to impress

Heading for the village hall
The sun would soon appear
As a crowd of people came along
A troubadour to hear

The man himself was weary
But his reading was just great
His anecdotes in Marsden tongue
And poems were first rate

When the evening ended
A sock was passed about
Appreciation was expressed
of that there was no doubt

The poet and the runners
Then headed for a beer
That Thursday may turn out to be
The highlight of the year!

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Hes this is just LUSH!!!!!!!!!!! love it, this raised a smile and brought back some lovely memories, I am mulling over some ideas for our next do and will be in touch!

Absolutely bloody marvelous Hes. There was so many little details of the day I'd already forgotten. That is one to keep and treasure.
Fantastic stuff.
Harry

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Originally Posted by Mossdog

Nice one DT - don't tell me the swifts are heading south already??????:eek: And the nights are drawing in too !

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arrive last, leave first
supreme airborne acrobat
the wonderful swift

My village is very swifty :cool:, but very few still around now sadly. They've usually all gone by late July / early August

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Originally Posted by Stevie

I want to be there!

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Current ideas include a lakeand classic trot out followed by an "open mike" night for all fell poets to read their own poetry in a cosy lakeland venue of some description! it wouldn't have to be a lengthy reading bearing in mind that the man himself only read for 40 mins....

joining in wouldn't be compulsory however, you could come along and just listen and drink beer/pop etc after a nice little run!

well? comments please.....i can sense a bit of tumbleweed heading in my direction!!!

PS don't worry i won't be in charge of navigation!!!!!

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Originally Posted by freckle

Current ideas include a lakeand classic trot out followed by an "open mike" night for all fell poets to read their own poetry in a cosy lakeland venue of some description! it wouldn't have to be a lengthy reading bearing in mind that the man himself only read for 40 mins....

joining in wouldn't be compulsory however, you could come along and just listen and drink beer/pop etc after a nice little run!

well? comments please.....i can sense a bit of tumbleweed heading in my direction!!!

PS don't worry i won't be in charge of navigation!!!!!

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Sounds a great idea freckle :cool:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

Sounds a great idea freckle :cool:

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I would very much hope to see you there DT avec snecklifter and if you so wish the odd haiku or two?

Frankly I don't know how I'm going to follow Hes's great epic, and I'm struggling to string a sentence together so I've resorted to a haiku or two...

Graffitied Swaledales;
Sodden, sporting pissed-off stares.
“What you looking at?”

What’s the etiquette
when your dog shags the leg of
a famous poet?

Playing aeroplanes.
Oops, we’re being videoed
In a force nine gale.

Lone boot tops snow pole
raising the question; did they
hop off the dark fell?

Walking five abreast
One fell poet disappears
With a graceful dive

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Originally Posted by Hes

I nicked the title from the man himself as I think he's a bit of a star.

Seeing Stars!

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Attachment 3810

Is this a fell pony?

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Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

Frankly I don't know how I'm going to follow Hes's great epic, and I'm struggling to string a sentence together so I've resorted to a haiku or two...

Graffitied Swaledales;
Sodden, sporting pissed-off stares.
“What you looking at?”

What’s the etiquette
when your dog shags the leg of
a famous poet?

Playing aeroplanes.
Oops, we’re being videoed
In a force nine gale.

Lone boot tops snow pole
raising the question; did they
hop off the dark fell?

Walking five abreast
One fell poet disappears
With a graceful dive

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Well done HHH and Hes, clearly the Dufton environs proved to be extremely inspirational.


Sonnet LXXV

Here are the house, the sea, the flag.
We wander past other long fences.
We couldn't find the gate, nor the sound
of our absence - as if dead.

At last the house opens its silence,
we enter, step over abandoned stuff,
dead rats, empty farewells,
the water that wept the pipes.

It wept, the house - wept day and night;
it whimpered with spiders, ajar,
it fell apart, with its darkened eyes -

and now, abruptly, we return it to life,
we settle in, and it does not recognise us:
it has to bloom and has forgotten how.

Pablo Neruda