Today's poet

[Stolly]

Great one Hes

[Hes]

Great one Hes

Awww...that is gorgeous! I felt just like that this afternoon.

[freckle]

Sonnet of Fidelity


Above all, to my love I'll be attentive
First and always, with care and so much
That even when facing the greatest enchantment
By love be more enchanted my thoughts

I want to live it through in each vain moment
And in its honor I'll spread my song
And laugh my laughter and cry my tears
When you are sad or when you are content

And thus, when later comes looking for me
Who knows, the death, anxiety of the living,
Who knows, the loneliness, end of all lovers

I'll be able to say to myself of the love (I had):
Be not immortal, since it is flame
But be infinite while it lasts

Vinicius de Moraes

Evening all!

This is lovely DT...

here is one from our ol fave Pablo Neruda....

Always

I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth
to start our life!

[freckle]

The fell poets society in training for the anniversary waltz

tee hee..........well funny.......

[freckle]

this is nice....

the darling letters reading...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason/po...nn_duffy.shtml

Some keep them in shoeboxes away from the light,
sore memories blinking out as the lid lifts,
their own recklessness written all over them.
My own...
Private jokes, no longer comprehended,
pull their punchlines, fall flat in the gaps between the endearments.
What are you wearing?

Don't ever change.
They start with Darling;
end in recriminations, absence, sense of loss.
Even now, the fist's bud flowers into trembling,
the fingers trace each line and see the future then.
Always...
Nobody burns them, the Darling letters, stiff in their cardboard coffins.
Babykins... We all had strange names which make us blush,
as though we'd murdered someone under an alias, long ago.
I'll die without you. Die.
Once in a while, alone, we take them out to read again,
the heart thudding like a spade on buried bones.

[Derby Tup]

'the heart thudding like a spade on buried bones'! Amazing writing

[freckle]

'the heart thudding like a spade on buried bones'! Amazing writing

i know she is amazing....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9N_mpW5ThzM



Warming Her Pearls


Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
when I´ll brush her hair. At six, I place them
round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She´s beautiful. I dream about her
in my attic bed; picture her dancing
with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit´s foot,
watch the soft blush seep through her skin
like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
my red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
her every movement in my head.... Undressing,
taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

she always does.... And I lie here awake,
knowing the pearls are cooling even now
in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.

Carol Ann Duffy

mmmm....discuss?

[Hes]

this is nice....

the darling letters reading...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason/po...nn_duffy.shtml

Some keep them in shoeboxes away from the light,
sore memories blinking out as the lid lifts,
their own recklessness written all over them.
My own...
Private jokes, no longer comprehended,
pull their punchlines, fall flat in the gaps between the endearments.
What are you wearing?

Don't ever change.
They start with Darling;
end in recriminations, absence, sense of loss.
Even now, the fist's bud flowers into trembling,
the fingers trace each line and see the future then.
Always...
Nobody burns them, the Darling letters, stiff in their cardboard coffins.
Babykins... We all had strange names which make us blush,
as though we'd murdered someone under an alias, long ago.
I'll die without you. Die.
Once in a while, alone, we take them out to read again,
the heart thudding like a spade on buried bones.

She is a brilliant writer. The poem below is one of my favourites and I ahve though of posting it many times but haven't for some reason. Re the above...I did burn mine, all the cards, letters, photos...kind of wish I hadn't now but it seemed the right thing at the time.

[Hes]

Carol Ann Duffy


Correspondents

When you come on Thursday, bring me a letter. We
have
the language of stuffed birds, teacups. We don’t have
the language of bodies. My husband will be here.
I shall inquire about your wife, stirring his cup
with a thin spoon, and my hand shall not tremble.
Give me the letter as I take your hat. Mention
the cold weather. My skin burns at the sight of you.

We skim the surface, gossip. I baked this cake and you
eat it. Words come from nowhere, drift off
like the smoke from his pipe. Beneath my dress, my
breasts
swell for your lips, belly churns to be stilled
by your brown hands. The secret life of Gulliver,
held down by strings of pleasantries. I ache. Later
your letter flares up in the heat and is gone.

Dearest Beloved, pretend I am with you . . . I read
your dark words and do to myself things
you can only imagine. I hardly know myself.
Your soft, white body in my arms . . . When we part,
you kiss my hand, bow from the waist, all passion
patiently restrained. Your servant, Ma’am. Now you
write
wild phrases of love. The words blur as I cry out once.

Next time we meet, in drawing-room or garden,
passing our letters cautiously between us, our eyes
fixed carefully on legal love, think of me here
on my marriage-bed an hour after you’ve left.
I have called your name over and over in my head
at the point your fiction brings me to. I have kissed
your sweet name on the paper as I knelt by the fire.

[freckle]

Carol Ann Duffy


Correspondents

When you come on Thursday, bring me a letter. We
have
the language of stuffed birds, teacups. We don’t have
the language of bodies. My husband will be here.
I shall inquire about your wife, stirring his cup
with a thin spoon, and my hand shall not tremble.
Give me the letter as I take your hat. Mention
the cold weather. My skin burns at the sight of you.

We skim the surface, gossip. I baked this cake and you
eat it. Words come from nowhere, drift off
like the smoke from his pipe. Beneath my dress, my
breasts
swell for your lips, belly churns to be stilled
by your brown hands. The secret life of Gulliver,
held down by strings of pleasantries. I ache. Later
your letter flares up in the heat and is gone.

Dearest Beloved, pretend I am with you . . . I read
your dark words and do to myself things
you can only imagine. I hardly know myself.
Your soft, white body in my arms . . . When we part,
you kiss my hand, bow from the waist, all passion
patiently restrained. Your servant, Ma’am. Now you
write
wild phrases of love. The words blur as I cry out once.

Next time we meet, in drawing-room or garden,
passing our letters cautiously between us, our eyes
fixed carefully on legal love, think of me here
on my marriage-bed an hour after you’ve left.
I have called your name over and over in my head
at the point your fiction brings me to. I have kissed
your sweet name on the paper as I knelt by the fire.

Hes this is so brilliant thank you so much for posting......AWESOME!!!!!!!!