Today's poet

[Harry H Howgill]

One more Goodnight and it's in the bank

Goodnight Merry!

[Mossdog]

Soft snow and moonlight
What a difference a day makes!
No run is the same.

[stevefoster]

Soft snow and moonlight
What a difference a day makes!
No run is the same.

True words Mossdog, never had the same run twice.

[Harry H Howgill]

Soft snow and moonlight
What a difference a day makes!
No run is the same.

I quite agree. I have my regular routes that I've done dozens and dozens of times, but each time is a slight variation. I never get bored of them.

Have a good day everyone

Harry

[Alf]

Away from Shakespeare I enjoy Sonnets. Their brevity, structure(s) and build up to the delivery of the final "punch line"

Heres one from a local boy in Rochdale, Lord Byron.

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes---but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

[freckle]

Ode to Bicycles

I was walking
down
a sizzling road:
the sun popped like
a field of blazing maize,
the
earth
was hot,
an infinite circle
with an empty
blue sky overhead.

A few bicycles
passed
me by,
the only
insects
in
that dry
moment of summer,
silent,
swift,
translucent;
they
barely stirred
the air.

Workers and girls
were riding to their
factories,
giving
their eyes
to summer,
their heads to the sky,
sitting on the
hard
beetle backs
of the whirling
bicycles
that whirred
as they rode by
bridges, rosebushes, brambles
and midday.

I thought about evening when
the boys
wash up,
sing, eat, raise
a cup
of wine
in honor
of love
and life,
and waiting
at the door,
the bicycle,
stilled,
because
only moving
does it have a soul,
and fallen there
it isn't
a translucent insect
humming
through summer
but
a cold
skeleton
that will return to
life
only
when it's needed,
when it's light,
that is,
with
the
resurrection
of each day.

Pablo Neruda

It has been said that Neruda "puts the eyes and tongues into every dumb and inanimate object"....

funnily enough i picked up a neruda book in oxfam yesterday and was leafing through it, certain poems had been ripped out including "I could write the saddest lines" and "everyday you play"...it made me wonder about the story of the book, who had owned it and why they had ripped the pages out.....

[Hes]

It has been said that Neruda "puts the eyes and tongues into every dumb and inanimate object"....

funnily enough i picked up a neruda book in oxfam yesterday and was leafing through it, certain poems had been ripped out including "I could write the saddest lines" and "everyday you play"...it made me wonder about the story of the book, who had owned it and why they had ripped the pages out.....

It does make you wonder...maybe they were travelling and could only carry the bare minimum but hastily tore the most meaningful poems from the book before giving it away with the rest of their things...or maybe over years they had torn the poems that expressed themselves the best and sent their tattered pages to a loved one? Hope you enjoy what is left of the book.

[Hes]

Away from Shakespeare I enjoy Sonnets. Their brevity, structure(s) and build up to the delivery of the final "punch line"

Heres one from a local boy in Rochdale, Lord Byron.

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes---but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

A lovely choice Alf!

[Hes]

Ode to Sadness

Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton:
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.

Pablo Neruda


Good old Neruda...some of us have to make do with a run to remedy sadness.

[Harry H Howgill]

Beautiful Songs Two
Keeps me in good company
On the journey home