Today's poet

[Harry H Howgill]

Anybody in the f.p.s. done their race schedule ?. And if so which thread should we discuss it on ?

I'm never that organised, so most pre-entry races are off the list for starters. Planning on doing the steeper Kendal Winter League races, then Anniversary Waltz, but after that will drop into more of the BOFRA races (Alva of course) or midweek Lakes and Dales ones. I've already booked the day off for Rydal.

[Derby Tup]

I'm doing the Bob Graham in June so weekends wil be spent recceing or on longer fell races / LDWA events. Got below penciled in:

Next Sat Hebden

Feb Ilkley Moor as its local and Wadsworth Trog

Mar Howarth Hobble

April Calderdale Hike

May Fellsman (possibly)

Races will be mid-week faves for a bit of variety

I've also got two weeks in April in Shanghai plus a week or so in South America still to be organised in Feb

[Old Whippet]

I'm doing the Bob Graham in June so weekends wil be spent recceing or on longer fell races / LDWA events. Got below penciled in:

Next Sat Hebden

Feb Ilkley Moor as its local and Wadsworth Trog

Mar Howarth Hobble

April Calderdale Hike

May Fellsman (possibly)

Races will be mid-week faves for a bit of variety

I've also got two weeks in April in Shanghai plus a week or so in South America still to be organised in Feb

hmmm - Hoping for BGR next year. If you fancy some recceing company...I'll be needing and would appreciate the experience!

[TurboTom]

Whey il see you at ilkley adnd wadsworth then DT...if you are reccying leg 3 or4 give us a shout

[Derby Tup]

tough Ilkley Moor run
frozen tussocks melting snow
one brown hare fleeing

[Derby Tup]

OW and TT plus any other fell poets, it'd be good to have some like-minded company on BG recces

[Mossdog]

Sunday running blues
Snow lies languidly, carefree
Slush filled mudclaws.

Now for a real poem...

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

Pablo Neruda

[freckle]

Sunday running blues
Snow lies languidly, carefree
Slush filled mudclaws.

Now for a real poem...

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

Pablo Neruda

THose last two lines are just awesome....i think i might want that on my gravestone or something...will you all come and wail at my funeral in a very dramatic fashion? in a way only artistes do?

[Derby Tup]

Slightly morbid thoughts there freckle! Been overdoing the Plath again?

[Old Whippet]

A bit of Armitage anyone?

I am very bothered


I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.

O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.

Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.

Simon Armitage