Today's poet

[freckle]

well..the wassailing songs all seem to reference God and I'm n no mood for that so here is some Kamala Das instead:

Words are Birds

Words are birds.
Where have they gone to roost,
Wings tired,
Hiding from the dusk?
Dusk is on my hair,
Dusk is upon my skin;
When I lie down to sleep
I am not sure
That I shall see
The blessed dawn again.

This just made me sigh...i really like the female indian poet that you picked as well (name alludes me) whilst you were away...she is very sensual...great stuff Hes!

[Old Whippet]

Memories of the curlew

Gazing all the way
Through a haze of fatigue
At the pulchritude INFRONT
And all around me

Metamorphosis takes it toll
in need of replenishment
The hills, a salve
to personal torment.

Pretty little village
under cheviots white stare
Cars with their hats of snow
Enclose hearts laid bare

Memories of December cairns
Now seem ludicrously old
This northern fell
a different vista to behold

And so prints plodge
a (not quite) virgin track
After an hour
Time to head back

Smiles and double polos
The journey home
With memories of the curlew
To soothe the soul

I love this poem! I'm very fond of snowy runs and the call of the curlew.

[Hes]

Robert Browning..wanted to add that but too many words apparently!

glad you like the poem....

now what was that you said you were up to next?......i need educating!

Evening! I went wassailing at my friends' farm. It is a very old tradition that takes place round about twelth night and involves feasting and drinking cider and then going into the orchard and feeding the trees whilst making lots of noise by singing, banging on pots and pans and shooting guns into the branches (we omitted that bit) to ward away evil spirits and encouraging good spirits to ensure a bountiful crop of fruit. There is a bit more to it than that but suffice to say that it was a noisy and fun evening that helped my jetlag.

[Hes]

This just made me sigh...i really like the female indian poet that you picked as well (name alludes me) whilst you were away...she is very sensual...great stuff Hes!

This one was another of hers...I'm quite hooked. I'll post another although most of the ones I like best are tragic!

[Old Whippet]

It's bugged me for years when people bleat on about political correctness (as if gratuitous offensiveness was preferable). I was thus chuffed to stumble across the works of Atilla the Stockbroker earlier.



Use of English


The phrase ‘politically correct’
is not at all what you’d expect.
But how has it been hijacked so?
I’m going to tell you, ‘cos I know.

You’d think it should mean kind and smart
Radical and stout of heart
A way of living decently.
Well, so it did, till recently.

And then some cringing, nerdy divs
Sweaty, misogynistic spivs
Sad, halitosis-ridden hacks
all wearing lager-stained old macs
with spots and pustules and split ends
and absolutely zero friends
(Yes, living, breathing running sores:
The right wing press’s abject whores)
Were all told, by their corporate chiefs
To rubbish decent folks’ beliefs
To label with the phrase ‘P.C’
All that makes sense to you and me
And write off our progressive past.
Their articles came thick and fast
The editors gladly received them
and loads of idiots believed them.

So let me make it very clear
To all of you assembled here
In strident tones both rude and loud
That I’m ‘P.C.’ and bloody proud
‘Cos it’s a term we should reclaim.
Yes, we’re correct - so where’s the shame?
I’m foxed by the strange implication
Accepted somewhere in this nation
that to be ‘incorrect’ is right.
Those who think that are not that bright.

Attila the Stockbroker

[freckle]

Evening! I went wassailing at my friends' farm. It is a very old tradition that takes place round about twelth night and involves feasting and drinking cider and then going into the orchard and feeding the trees whilst making lots of noise by singing, banging on pots and pans and shooting guns into the branches (we omitted that bit) to ward away evil spirits and encouraging good spirits to ensure a bountiful crop of fruit. There is a bit more to it than that but suffice to say that it was a noisy and fun evening that helped my jetlag.

That sounds like my kind of night!

[Hes]

Here is one called Flotsam...

We were the homeless, he and I, floating ones
Who recognise swiftly another of the tribe
By that certain hunger in the eye, a slight
Narrowing, for, although brimming with a desert sun,
It fancies it sees an oasis; the mirage
Greenly reflected in each lonely cornea,
And, so together we stumbled so clumsily
Into lust, But pushing his urgent limbs away
I fought to regain my body's poise till he cried
I love you, you've no need to be afraid of me.
When at last he left, scolded, sent away, alone
On the white desert of my sheets I wondered if
I should have fought at all to save this dubious
Asset, my aloneness, my terrible aloneness.

[freckle]

It's bugged me for years when people bleat on about political correctness (as if gratuitous offensiveness was preferable). I was thus chuffed to stumble across the works of Atilla the Stockbroker earlier.



Use of English


The phrase ‘politically correct’
is not at all what you’d expect.
But how has it been hijacked so?
I’m going to tell you, ‘cos I know.

You’d think it should mean kind and smart
Radical and stout of heart
A way of living decently.
Well, so it did, till recently.

And then some cringing, nerdy divs
Sweaty, misogynistic spivs
Sad, halitosis-ridden hacks
all wearing lager-stained old macs
with spots and pustules and split ends
and absolutely zero friends
(Yes, living, breathing running sores:
The right wing press’s abject whores)
Were all told, by their corporate chiefs
To rubbish decent folks’ beliefs
To label with the phrase ‘P.C’
All that makes sense to you and me
And write off our progressive past.
Their articles came thick and fast
The editors gladly received them
and loads of idiots believed them.

So let me make it very clear
To all of you assembled here
In strident tones both rude and loud
That I’m ‘P.C.’ and bloody proud
‘Cos it’s a term we should reclaim.
Yes, we’re correct - so where’s the shame?
I’m foxed by the strange implication
Accepted somewhere in this nation
that to be ‘incorrect’ is right.
Those who think that are not that bright.

Attila the Stockbroker

Mmmm interesting food for thought here OW

[stevefoster]

involves feasting and drinking cider

Sounds like a typical night in for me
Hope you enjoyed your holiday Hes

[Hes]

Brilliant OW!!! That is a great poem about a subject that bugs me too.