Today's poet

[emmilou]

genius softie!

was mine rubbish he's just showing off!

okay...that's me done then, perhaps the limericks are as bad as the singing?! at least you lot can't hear that!!

[Harry H Howgill]

That's brilliant X Runner - a great poem for me to sign off to. Good night all.

Making the Bed
by Burt Kimmelman

for D.



Summer country. In the morning the leaves
bend

to the window and fold
the house in. Mountains and sun. I fold

the blankets, hand smooth. When
you’re here

I know it. The sun crosses

the hand’s breadth—

and in your face

the unenterable
image. Under

your eyelids
night unfolds. Pull

the blanket over you
and with it

the darkened air.

I'm now afflicted by having to read everything in a Limerick style. I'll come back to this in the morning with a clear head.

[Old Whippet]

X-runner - describes mey experiences in the pennines to a tee. Wonderful stuff. and I've never seen the word 'grough' before.

[Old Whippet]

was mine rubbish he's just showing off!

okay...that's me done then, perhaps the limericks are as bad as the singing?! at least you lot can't hear that!!

yours was a work of self-evident beauty!

[southernsoftie]

was mine rubbish he's just showing off!

okay...that's me done then, perhaps the limericks are as bad as the singing?! at least you lot can't hear that!!

Your Whippet one beat mine.

[Hes]

That is class. Normal quality of service on this thread has returned. This is another quality one for the 'spirit of fell running' chapter

I second that which is about all I am capable of and apologies for being a poetry thread voyeur tonight...I peaked this afternoon and now I am spent. My bike ride was probably a bit too exciting for one who lives in splendid isolation...

[freckle]

Fell Runner

I’ve had my share of the Pennine air,
On mountain and moorland and fell.
I’ve seen groughs of peat, all covered in sleet,
And they looked like the ash tips of Hell.

I’ve run through the bogs, where you wouldn’t send dogs,
In places a man cannot forget.
I’ve sunk to my belly, in peat like black jelly,
And never a moment to regret.

I’ve traversed terrain till my legs have gone lame,
I know about pain and persistence.
I’ve gone the wrong way on a fifteen mile day,
And had to run double the distance.

Though folk here may grin, as they ask where I’ve been,
Not runners, just talkers and boozers.
I’ve seen the white hare, and felt freedom there,
And I know that they are the losers.

this is wonderful x runner....thank you , all your own work too? suitably impressed

[freckle]

That's brilliant X Runner - a great poem for me to sign off to. Good night all.

Making the Bed
by Burt Kimmelman

for D.



Summer country. In the morning the leaves
bend

to the window and fold
the house in. Mountains and sun. I fold

the blankets, hand smooth. When
you’re here

I know it. The sun crosses

the hand’s breadth—

and in your face

the unenterable
image. Under

your eyelids
night unfolds. Pull

the blanket over you
and with it

the darkened air.

Aaaaaaah this is so lovely, wish I had the opportunity to read it myself before turning in last night...thanks mossdog

[freckle]

By the river
Hu Shih
(1915)

Screened by the trees the sound of the brook is a soft jingle;
To welcome us the birds sing in a chatter.
Together we have penetrated the quiet path along the winding stream;
I for you collect berries,
You bedeck my hair with blossoms.

Anon we sit together on the water -brink,
With a tree to shade the haughty sun.
Deep in talk we reck naught of the evening rooks:
At this hour there is only you and I,
And what room is there for them?

[freckle]

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

From the Princess
A L Tennyson