Today's poet

[Old Whippet]

well....it's getting late, and it seems the poets are sleeping tonight.
A little offering from Margaret Atwood for the night.


Night Poem

There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain

In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,

your true parents disappear
when the curtain
covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whipers.

You rock in the rain's arms
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle
, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.

Margaret Atwood

[XRunner]

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

[Hes]

THE SLOTH

In moving-slow he has no Peer.
You ask him something in his Ear,
He thinks about it for a Year;

And, then, before he says a Word
There, upside down (unlike a Bird),
He will assume that you have Heard -

A most Ex-as-per-at-ing Lug.
But should you call his manner Smug,
Hell sigh and give his Branch a Hug;

Then off again to Sleep he goes,
Still swaying gently by his Toes,
And you just know he knows he knows.


Theodore Roethke

off to sleep I go....feeling like a sloth!

[freckle]

well....it's getting late, and it seems the poets are sleeping tonight.
A little offering from Margaret Atwood for the night.


Night Poem

There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain

In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,

your true parents disappear
when the curtain
covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whipers.

You rock in the rain's arms
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle
, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.

Margaret Atwood

Not asleep OW entertaining!....they have all gone home now except one who has crashed at the bottom of the stairs and refuses to budge as apparently "quite comfortable",mmmmm....anyway i really liked this poem especially the line "you rock in the rain's arms"...lovely

[freckle]

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
by Robert Herrick

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.

[Nathaniel Lee]

Some really great stuff again. I really enjoyed reading them.

[freckle]

A Prayer

Run awaken
dull senses!
Envelope with
a shuddering heart,
salt on the brow
quickening of breath
and the hope
of fresh sun crumbs
for a solitary soul

Offski !!!!!!!!

[Old Whippet]

A Prayer

Run awaken
dull senses!
Envelope with
a shuddering heart,
salt on the brow
quickening of breath
and the hope
of fresh sun crumbs
for a solitary soul

Offski !!!!!!!!

I do like that! I never thought of writing one about what I want from a run. Hope your Sunday run delivers it all!

[Harry H Howgill]

Now I was just about to compliment you on your continuing high standard of writing, but then I thought I'd have a quick Google of the first line just in case I was about to embarrass myself with my poetic ignorance and it was written be someone dead famous. Anyone heard of Yeats?

evening all....just a quick one then i'm offski...

NEVER give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

[Harry H Howgill]

well....it's getting late, and it seems the poets are sleeping tonight.
A little offering from Margaret Atwood for the night.

BOFRA dinner last night OW. A fine end of season bash, catching up with friends that often only get a quick hello at races all season.

I'm sure I'll get a composition out of that thought sooner or later.