Today's poet

[Harry H Howgill]

It took someone smarter than me to figure out the plural of haiku.

Aha! Haiku is the plural of Haiku You lot are far too clever for me

Alf's sonnet today is an old favourite from the Lakeland poet himself

On Westminster Bridge

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth

[Harry H Howgill]

I love that. It is great that there are new poems and poets still appearing on this thread. I thought at one point we might be running out of choices. But that was a bit of a daft thought.

I think this poem is really special....

Snow
Louise Macneice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes
-On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

[Nathaniel Lee]

Do any poets use the cut up technique Bowie used on 3 albums i think in the late 70's. I think it's a bit like random words out of a hat sort of thing. please feel free to correct me if i'm wrong.

[Harry H Howgill]

That's great ND. I love it how you can find inspiration at things closer to home. I'm always looking out the window to the hills for inspiration. Maybe I should just look around inside.

well now that gener rectification is sorted I must say I really like Louis Macniece's poetry; honest and poignant

Heres a new one, i've become obsessed about inanimate objects being completely the opposite.

Old suitcase

I was found hiding in the attic
of a semi detached ex council house
behind a crumbling concrete wall.
My upper encrusted in a sediment of
brick dust and droppings of a mouse.

The stitching on my handle had
began to unravel from years of
massage and anxious contemplation in airports
and docks; "will I arrive at my destination"

Now a flat screwdriver was being shoved
between backplate and latch, but not
enough force to open. Eager to see my guts,
their prize I am smashed through.
What did you expect to find Nazi Gold,
Van Gogh sketches or the bones
and body parts of some poor tart.

My bowels emptied, displayed nothing
but woollen pullovers, knitting patterns and
old copies of Peoples Friend. Why was I left behind
abondoned. I had never opened up; improptu
and surprised onlookers standing in a ticket que.
I wish I was travelling with you, on the
carousel at JFK or Charles De Gaulle

[Derby Tup]

Do any poets use the cut up technique Bowie used on 3 albums i think in the late 70's. I think it's a bit like random words out of a hat sort of thing. please feel free to correct me if i'm wrong.

I suspect Bowie got the idea from William Burroughs the American writer, who wrote Junkie and the Naked Lunch I was thinking about it the other day when OW or N-dub brought up the Catcher in the Rye. Not sure it'd work with a hiakhu

[N-dubya]

Do any poets use the cut up technique Bowie used on 3 albums i think in the late 70's. I think it's a bit like random words out of a hat sort of thing. please feel free to correct me if i'm wrong.

Ithink he used on life on mars also I think underworld did a similiar tech nique on born slippy.

[N-dubya]

I'm going to see the Staffordshire Hoard (Anglo Saxon Gold)tommorrow at the Potteries museum can't wait anyone else seen it yet.

[N-dubya]

I have been looking for this for ages

love this poem

Simon Armitage

Ten Pence Story

Out of the melting pot, into the mint;
next news I was loose change for a Leeds pimp,
burning a hole in his skin-tight pocket
till he tipped a busker by the precinct.

Not the most ceremonious release
for a fresh faced coin cutting its teeth.
But that's my point: if you're poorly bartered
you're scuppered before you've even started.

My lowest ebb was a seven month spell
spent head down in a wishing well,
half eclipsed by an oxidized tuppence
which impressed me with its green circumference.

When they fished me out I made a few phone calls,
fed a few meters, hung round the pool halls.
I slotted in well, but all that vending
blunted my edges and did my head in.

Once I came within an ace of the end
on the stern of a North Sea Ferry, when
some half-cut, ham-fisted cockney tossed me
up into the air and almost dropped me

and every transaction flashed before me
like a time lapse autobiography.
Now, just the thought of travel by water
lifts the serrations around my border.

Some day I know I'll be bagged up and sent
to that knacker's yard for the over-spent
to be broken, boiled, unmade and replaced,
for my metals to go their separate ways...

which is sad. All coins have dreams. Some castings
from my own batch, I recall, were hatching
an exchange scam on the foreign market
and some inside jobs on one arm bandits.

My own ambition? Well, that was simple:
to be flipped in Wembley's centre circle,
to twist, to turn, to hang like a planet,
to touch down on that emerald carpet.

Those with faith in the system say 'don't quit,
bide your time, if you're worth it, you'll make it.'
But I was robbed, I was badly tendered.
I could have scored. I could have contended.

[Harry H Howgill]

Pace was good
Was going well
Pushed too far
Tried too hard
Couldn't ease off
Wouldn't just rest
Spoilt good work
On the edge
Now must rest
Without my fix
One misjudged day
An amateur mistake
Pay the price
My Achilles found

[Harry H Howgill]

That is absolutely brilliant. What a great concept and beautifully written.

I bet your gold coins tomorrow would have some tales to tell. You'll have to write one following your visit.

I have been looking for this for ages

love this poem

Simon Armitage

Ten Pence Story

Out of the melting pot, into the mint;
next news I was loose change for a Leeds pimp,
burning a hole in his skin-tight pocket
till he tipped a busker by the precinct.

Not the most ceremonious release
for a fresh faced coin cutting its teeth.
But that's my point: if you're poorly bartered
you're scuppered before you've even started.

My lowest ebb was a seven month spell
spent head down in a wishing well,
half eclipsed by an oxidized tuppence
which impressed me with its green circumference.

When they fished me out I made a few phone calls,
fed a few meters, hung round the pool halls.
I slotted in well, but all that vending
blunted my edges and did my head in.

Once I came within an ace of the end
on the stern of a North Sea Ferry, when
some half-cut, ham-fisted cockney tossed me
up into the air and almost dropped me

and every transaction flashed before me
like a time lapse autobiography.
Now, just the thought of travel by water
lifts the serrations around my border.

Some day I know I'll be bagged up and sent
to that knacker's yard for the over-spent
to be broken, boiled, unmade and replaced,
for my metals to go their separate ways...

which is sad. All coins have dreams. Some castings
from my own batch, I recall, were hatching
an exchange scam on the foreign market
and some inside jobs on one arm bandits.

My own ambition? Well, that was simple:
to be flipped in Wembley's centre circle,
to twist, to turn, to hang like a planet,
to touch down on that emerald carpet.

Those with faith in the system say 'don't quit,
bide your time, if you're worth it, you'll make it.'
But I was robbed, I was badly tendered.
I could have scored. I could have contended.