Today's poet

[Hes]

Picture a small waif of a child, in an African village, sobbing. It has been a long summer and if the rains don't come soon her poor father will have to sell his only possesions, his goats. The family's only income too. Her sister comes over to her as asks: "I know things are bad sister, but have hope and we shall survive this drout." Her sister looks up at her, eyes red, and replies tearfully: "It's not us I'm worried about, I hear they only get their bins collected once a fortnight in Milton Keynes."

You are awful!

[Hes]

Gosh Hes...the Scott poem. Jaw dropping. Loads of lines lept out. This in particular.

Men returned from war
without faces, with noses lost
discretely as antique statues.

Are you going to pour another Talisker and treat us to another? Hope so.

Ha ha...just a wee dram left, maybe it is the right time for it! (nevermind the teaching tomorrow...). By the way, really loved your poem from earlier today and also the educational bit about witch's knickers! Excellent.

[Harry H Howgill]

You are awful!

I bet you didn't see that coming!

I can't remember where I first heard that, but I thought it made a good point as well as being funny.

[Hes]

One more...she writes really long narrative poems that are incredible but take ages to type so I picked a short one about rain!

Rain makes its own night

Rain makes its own night, long mornings with the lamps left on.
Lean beach grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer's pollen rises from damp metal screens.

This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.

The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
The human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest's gren assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.

[Hes]

From earlier today

The Road to Thirsk

soft focus morning
the damp ghostworld's muted hues
gently waken me

[Harry H Howgill]

One more...she writes really long narrative poems that are incredible but take ages to type so I picked a short one about rain!

Rain makes its own night

Rain makes its own night, long mornings with the lamps left on.
Lean beach grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer's pollen rises from damp metal screens.

This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.

The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
The human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest's gren assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.

That's really interesting, I wouldn't dare use the line "clothes clinging to chairs" for the fear of alliteration overload, but maybe that's the image she wants to portray; clinging words, clinging clothes.

[Hes]

That's really interesting, I wouldn't dare use the line "clothes clinging to chairs" for the fear of alliteration overload, but maybe that's the image she wants to portray; clinging words, clinging clothes.

That's an interesting observation...you could be right. There is a lot of 'cl's going on.

[Harry H Howgill]

I bumped into Chris Bonnington in town yesterday. We just said a quick hello, but I'd finally met one of my boyhood heroes.

Kendal Mountain Film
Festival. Puffer jackets
invade the high street.

[Old Whippet]

From earlier today

The Road to Thirsk

soft focus morning
the damp ghostworld's muted hues
gently waken me

1st I was going to say something appreciative about the rain poem, because as I read it, the rain has re-started noisily here, giving another dimension.

But the Haiku....
surely the finest that has graced this thread? Bloody good whisky softening your focus and muting your hues!

[Hes]

1st I was going to say something appreciative about the rain poem, because as I read it, the rain has re-started noisily here, giving another dimension.

But the Haiku....
surely the finest that has graced this thread? Bloody good whisky softening your focus and muting your hues!

You are far too kind OW but thank you anyway! The whisky is going down well but the measure was a bit too small for my liking.