Today's poet

[XRunner]

Good Morning

I woke up early this morning,
the earth lay cool and still,
when suddenly a tiny bird,
perched on my window sill,
it sang a song so lovely,
so carefree and so gay,
that slowly all my troubles,
began to slip away,
it sang of far off places,
of laughter and of fun,
it seemed his very song,
brought out the morning sun.

By Anonymous

[southernsoftie]

And here's some I prepared earlier:

The Haiku Limericks (couldn't choose between the two)

H ave some fun and try a haiku,
A fter all, you've got nothing to lose.
I *f at first you're not hooked
K ill some time with a book
U ntil inspiration wafts into view.

Having fun with these wonderous haikus,
Try! You've got nothing to lose.
Though short (judged in meters)
There is nothing sweeter
Than these drops of poetic dew.

The Limerick Haiku

Light hearted verse
Invites contributions.
Highly addictive.

The Lonely Aardvark

There once was a tiny aardvark,
Who when talked did talk with a bark.
Other creatures were wary,
And thought her contrary,
So she played alone in the park.

[Boy Wonder]

Looks like I started something with the limericks...


There were some brave runners from Bath
Who went out at night for a laugh
By the light of head torches
They certainly scared the horses
And a few dogwalkers they found on their path..

[XRunner]

I've never seen the word 'grough' before.

When you run over Kinder and Bleaklow, groughs are the most significant feature:


Groughs make wonderful paths to run on the plateau and provide shelter from the wind.
Beware the hags on Kinder however!

[Harry H Howgill]

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...

Ha ha. I know exactly what you mean. That's why I liked that Wendy Cope poem on being boring (that's me, not you ) as the highlight of my week is quite often a quick run out in the dark and rain.

Apart from this week of course when I was two contractions away from delivering a baby at home.

[southernsoftie]

ss this is brilliant! what a star!

Cheers! I like the aardvark one best.

[Hes]

Ha ha. I know exactly what you mean. That's why I liked that Wendy Cope poem on being boring (that's me, not you ) as the highlight of my week is quite often a quick run out in the dark and rain.

Apart from this week of course when I was two contractions away from delivering a baby at home.

...that must have been excitement overload! I once delivered five small puppies and it was one of the most moving and incredibly exciting times ever so I am imagining that tenfold and probably don't even come close! Quiet day in my studio today and a little Neruda, a man after my own heart that gets excited about everday things:

Ode to a Pair of Socks

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
that she knit with her
shepherd's hands.
Two socks as soft
as rabbit fur.
I thrust my feet
inside them
as if they were
two
little boxes
knit
from threads
of sunset
and sheepskin.

My feet were
two woolen
fish
in those outrageous socks,
two gangly,
navy-blue sharks
impaled
on a golden thread,
two giant blackbirds,
two cannons:
thus
were my feet
honored
by
those
heavenly
socks.
They were
so beautiful
I found my feet
unlovable
for the very first time,
like two crusty old
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that embroidered
fire,
those incandescent
socks.

Nevertheless
I fought
the sharp temptation
to put them away
the way schoolboys
put
fireflies in a bottle,
the way scholars
hoard
holy writ.
I fought
the mad urge
to lock them
in a golden
cage
and feed them birdseed
and morsels of pink melon
every day.
Like jungle
explorers
who deliver a young deer
of the rarest species
to the roasting spit
then wolf it down
in shame,
I stretched
my feet forward
and pulled on
those
gorgeous
socks,
and over them
my shoes.

So this is
the moral of my ode:
beauty is beauty
twice over
and good things are doubly
good
when you're talking about a pair of wool
socks
in the dead of winter.

[Old Whippet]

Still on the limericks I see.
Just as well - you wouldn't believe it, but I was in the attic earlier and found this unpublished Limerick by Sylvia Plath hand written on a beer mat.
What's the chances of that?

Today's a good day for dying
For sobbing and moaning and crying
If you tell me tomorrow
Wont bring as much sorrow
I'll know that you're obviously lying.

[Old Whippet]

When you run over Kinder and Bleaklow groughs are the most significant feature:


Groughs make wonderful paths to run on the plateau and provide shelter from the wind.
Beware the hags on Kinder however!

Thanks for that XR - with an example too. Looking at that picture has brought back traumatic memories of the middle third of the Allendale Challenge. Shudder.
Now I know my hags from my groughs.

[freckle]

your not going to believe this...in an attempt to recycle a tuna can i just cut my thumb and it won't stop bleeding...made me think of this bit of plath..,. hope she isn't using me as a conduit...not sure i'm up the task!!!!

Cut
by Sylvia Plath

For Susan O'Neill Roe

What a thrill--
My thumb instead of an onion,
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man --

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump --
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.