Today's poet

[XRunner]

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When the landlord turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

(Emily Dickinson)

[freckle]

Parting

One day i’ll bump into you
"Look" you say with glee!
You produce a leather notebook
from your breast pocket
The scribbles of your life
places, struggles,
your children’s lives.
The dreams that came to fruition,
the frustrations,
the sketch of you.
“There are a few pages remaining”
you hand me the book
and all at once
I remember the call of your eyes
and our parting.


P.Pitstop

[XRunner]

Old Kinder keeps calling
A call that’s enthralling
It’s time I was running
Up and over the Low

For the grey in my hair
Means I’ve no time to spare
So I’m running up there
Still moving too slow.

It’s a pretty stiff climb
And I’m taking my time
But these old legs of mine
Will not give up the fight.

As I’m reaching the top
I feel ready to drop
Still my heart didn’t stop
So I must be all right.

Then I’m off on my way
On a windy, old day
And I’m covered in spray
Passing Kinder Downfall.

William Clough is a test
For I’m well past my best
And I want a good rest
As I’ve run a long way.

I’m back where I begun
After a very good run
It’s been great fun
Another good day.

[Mossdog]

hello all, some great stuff on here today i admire everyone's haiku...

here is one i like by anne sexton...there is an interesting story behind it....


http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton

My God. Everyone's on a roll tonight I just can't keep up (or get started) - story of my life, me thinks .

Freckle you're gonna have to help - what's the story behind that poem. I've checked the website but can't find a clue (quite poetic really cos I'm clueless quite often!).

[freckle]

My God. Everyone's on a roll tonight I just can't keep up (or get started) - story of my life, me thinks .

Freckle you're gonna have to help - what's the story behind that poem. I've checked the website but can't find a clue (quite poetic really cos I'm clueless quite often!).

she suffered from depression and had an affair with her psychiatrist...when his wife found out about it (stumbled across some exchanged letters) the affair ended and apparently this poem was the result....aye the tortured soul of the artiste!!!! ....anyway mossy how the hell are ya?

PS i think mondays are good on here on account of the high misery factor....pleeeeeeaaaaase someone find a good plath for me !

[Mossdog]

Anne Sexton...no surprise that she was a friend of our Sylvia.

as in....

Anne Sexton -

Sylvia's Death
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!

And....stylewise...

Just Once
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.

Anne Sexton.

[Harry H Howgill]

she suffered from depression and had an affair with her psychiatrist...when his wife found out about it (stumbled across some exchanged letters) the affair ended and apparently this poem was the result....aye the tortured soul of the artiste!!!! ....anyway mossy how the hell are ya?

PS i think mondays are good on here on account of the high misery factor....pleeeeeeaaaaase someone find a good plath for me !

I hear competitive boys furiously Googling for our Sylvia....

back with one soon.

[Mossdog]

she suffered from depression and had an affair with her psychiatrist...when his wife found out about it (stumbled across some exchanged letters) the affair ended and apparently this poem was the result....aye the tortured soul of the artiste!!!! ....anyway mossy how the hell are ya?

PS i think mondays are good on here on account of the high misery factor....pleeeeeeaaaaase someone find a good plath for me !

Thanks freckle - you is a hedgeucation, no mistake.

And how about this for your Plath...

Admonition

If you dissect a bird
To diagram the tongue
You'll cut the chord
Articulating song.

If you flay a beast
To marvel at the mane
You'll wreck the rest
From which the fur began.

If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll halt the clock
That syncopates our love.

[freckle]

Mossy you little star! I adored these poems, especially the latter one which is appealing to my monday night melancholia...loved the reference to analysts in the first poem and the description of the stars as "scar diasies" just utterly brilliant! thank you x

Anne Sexton...no surprise that she was a friend of our Sylvia.

as in....

Anne Sexton -

Sylvia's Death
for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about rasing potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief --
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon's bad,
and the king's gone,
and the queen's at her wit's end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!

And....stylewise...

Just Once
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.

Anne Sexton.

[Mossdog]

I hear competitive boys furiously Googling for our Sylvia....

back with one soon.

Boys or maybe Girls eh Freckle