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Thread: Today's poet

  1. #6251
    Master
    Join Date
    Aug 2009
    Location
    North Yorkshire
    Posts
    3,970

    Re: Today's poet

    Snowflakes
    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    Out of the bosom of the Air.
    Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
    Over the woodlands brown and bare,
    Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
    Silent and soft and slow
    Descends the snow.

    Even as our cloudy fancies take
    Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
    Even as the troubled heart doth make
    In the white countenance confession,
    The troubled sky reveals
    The grief it feels

    This is the poem of the air,
    Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
    This is the secret of despair,
    Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
    Now whispered and revealed
    To wood and field.

  2. #6252

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by Hes View Post
    riding through darkness
    countless icy asteroids
    stinging my cheeks

    Getting to and from running club is a challenge on a small motorbike but it is all character building stuff! How different to this morning:

    so cold and foggy
    your car and conversation
    keeps me safe and warm
    countless icy asteriods.....beautiful hes

    good morning all!

  3. #6253

    Re: Today's poet

    A minor bird

    I have wished a bird would fly away,
    And not sing by my house all day;

    Have clapped my hands at him from the door
    When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

    The fault must partly have been in me.
    The bird was not to blame for his key.

    And of course there must be something wrong
    In wanting to silence any song.

    Robert Frost

  4. #6254
    Master
    Join Date
    Aug 2009
    Location
    North Yorkshire
    Posts
    3,970

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by freckle View Post
    A minor bird

    I have wished a bird would fly away,
    And not sing by my house all day;

    Have clapped my hands at him from the door
    When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

    The fault must partly have been in me.
    The bird was not to blame for his key.

    And of course there must be something wrong
    In wanting to silence any song.

    Robert Frost
    I've not read that Frost before. There is a bird that calls at daybreak near my house and in the summer it wakes me up at 4am with a sound like a car alarm. I often curse it and then feel guilty as it is probably a lovely little thing!

  5. #6255

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by Hes View Post
    I've not read that Frost before. There is a bird that calls at daybreak near my house and in the summer it wakes me up at 4am with a sound like a car alarm. I often curse it and then feel guilty as it is probably a lovely little thing!
    Aw that is such a sweet story

  6. #6256

    Re: Today's poet

    I wonder if ol Pablo could get me into some serious birdwatching?......................

    Ode to birdwatching
    Pablo Neruda

    Now
    Let's look for birds!
    The tall iron branches
    in the forest,
    The dense
    fertility on the ground.
    The world
    is wet.
    A dewdrop or raindrop
    shines,
    a diminutive star
    among the leaves.
    The morning time
    mother earth
    is cool.
    The air
    is like a river
    which shakes
    the silence.
    It smells of rosemary,
    of space
    and roots.
    Overhead,
    a crazy song.
    It's a bird.
    How
    out of its throat
    smaller than a finger
    can there fall the waters
    of its song?
    Luminous ease!
    Invisible
    power
    torrent
    of music
    in the leaves.
    Sacred conversations!
    Clean and fresh washed
    is this
    day resounding
    like a green dulcimer.
    I bury
    my shoes
    in the mud,
    jump over rivulets.
    A thorn
    bites me and a gust
    of air like a crystal
    wave
    splits up inside my chest.
    Where
    are the birds?
    Maybe it was
    that
    rustling in the foliage
    or that fleeting pellet
    of brown velvet
    or that displaced
    perfume? That
    leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
    - was that a bird? That dust
    from an irritated magnolia
    or that fruit
    which fell with a thump -
    was that a flight?
    Oh, invisible little
    critters
    birds of the devil
    with their ringing
    with their useless feathers.
    I only want
    to caress them,
    to see them resplendent.
    I don't want
    to see under glass
    the embalmed lightning.
    I want to see them living.
    I want to touch their gloves
    of real hide,
    which they never forget in
    the branches
    and to converse with
    them
    sitting on my shoulders
    although they may leave
    me like certain statues
    undeservedly whitewashed.
    Impossible.
    You can't touch them.
    You can hear them
    like a heavenly
    rustle or movement.
    They converse
    with precision.
    They repeat
    their observations.
    They brag
    of how much they do.
    They comment
    on everything that exists.
    They learn
    certain sciences
    like hydrography.
    and by a sure science
    they know
    where there are harvests
    of grain.

  7. #6257
    Master
    Join Date
    Sep 2009
    Location
    Bethlem
    Posts
    1,478

    Re: Today's poet

    Self Taught.

    School days spent,
    Drinking smoking,
    Bunking off no,
    Time for they don't,
    Give you brains,
    In school,
    Cogito ergo sum,
    More like i drink,
    Therefore i am,
    Waste of time,
    All my smarts,
    I taught myself,
    On the street,
    Not from some,
    Coffee smelling,
    Good samaritan.

    By Herakles

  8. #6258
    Super Moderator
    Join Date
    May 2007
    Location
    The Worth
    Posts
    17,254

    Re: Today's poet

    Neruda on bird-watching - brilliant


    Quote Originally Posted by freckle View Post
    I wonder if ol Pablo could get me into some serious birdwatching?......................

    Ode to birdwatching
    Pablo Neruda

    Now
    Let's look for birds!
    The tall iron branches
    in the forest,
    The dense
    fertility on the ground.
    The world
    is wet.
    A dewdrop or raindrop
    shines,
    a diminutive star
    among the leaves.
    The morning time
    mother earth
    is cool.
    The air
    is like a river
    which shakes
    the silence.
    It smells of rosemary,
    of space
    and roots.
    Overhead,
    a crazy song.
    It's a bird.
    How
    out of its throat
    smaller than a finger
    can there fall the waters
    of its song?
    Luminous ease!
    Invisible
    power
    torrent
    of music
    in the leaves.
    Sacred conversations!
    Clean and fresh washed
    is this
    day resounding
    like a green dulcimer.
    I bury
    my shoes
    in the mud,
    jump over rivulets.
    A thorn
    bites me and a gust
    of air like a crystal
    wave
    splits up inside my chest.
    Where
    are the birds?
    Maybe it was
    that
    rustling in the foliage
    or that fleeting pellet
    of brown velvet
    or that displaced
    perfume? That
    leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
    - was that a bird? That dust
    from an irritated magnolia
    or that fruit
    which fell with a thump -
    was that a flight?
    Oh, invisible little
    critters
    birds of the devil
    with their ringing
    with their useless feathers.
    I only want
    to caress them,
    to see them resplendent.
    I don't want
    to see under glass
    the embalmed lightning.
    I want to see them living.
    I want to touch their gloves
    of real hide,
    which they never forget in
    the branches
    and to converse with
    them
    sitting on my shoulders
    although they may leave
    me like certain statues
    undeservedly whitewashed.
    Impossible.
    You can't touch them.
    You can hear them
    like a heavenly
    rustle or movement.
    They converse
    with precision.
    They repeat
    their observations.
    They brag
    of how much they do.
    They comment
    on everything that exists.
    They learn
    certain sciences
    like hydrography.
    and by a sure science
    they know
    where there are harvests
    of grain.
    Poacher turned game-keeper

  9. #6259

    Re: Today's poet

    glad you liked it DT....

    i do like thursday's, generally speaking...pottering on and looking at poetry when i should doing the housework....

    Did not
    Thomas Moore

    'Twas a new feeling - something more
    Than we had dared to own before,
    Which then we hid not;
    We saw it in each other's eye,
    And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
    To speak, but did not.

    She felt my lips' impassioned touch -
    'Twas the first time I dared so much,
    And yet she chid not;
    But whispered o'er my burning brow,
    'Oh, do you doubt I love you now?'
    Sweet soul! I did not.

    Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
    I pressed it closer, closer still,
    Though gently bid not;
    Till - oh! the world hath seldom heard
    Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
    And yet, who did not.

  10. #6260
    Master
    Join Date
    Apr 2008
    Posts
    6,158

    Re: Today's poet

    Quote Originally Posted by freckle View Post
    The outdoor lounge

    Running through the rivers multi coloured eye,
    posh quayside’s alreet, but
    skipping past the thin edge of this watery wedge,
    with an idler and his knowing wink,
    we sprint uphill, giggling to the summit
    of a very urban ascent.

    There, a fragment of
    (without) time is found
    in this the outdoor lounge.
    At the centre, our inglenook,
    two b-e-a-t-i-n-g drums
    enclosed in runners mist.

    Two days growth
    and 48 hours absence
    construct an exquisite dissolve,
    as eyes meet eyes and hands
    SWEEP over clamminess
    in a Byker bone imprint.

    Train overhead and the drip, drip
    on a bridge daubed with graffiti ,
    sweating we share tiny you and I beads,
    the hardening of your groin a reminder
    of adolescence and TWO
    perfectly formed triangles.


    But then, a reluctant reality bell chimes
    and like forgotten youths we run with pace,
    as willing fugitives into the future,
    crying
    we had and we have
    no choice.
    Absolutely bl**dy brilliant freckle .. made my day that has

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