Today's poet

[Hes]

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.

[freckle]

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!

[freckle]

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

[Hes]

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!

[freckle]

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

[freckle]

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.

[Nathaniel Lee]

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

[Derby Tup]

Neruda on bird-watching - brilliant

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.

[freckle]

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.

[Alf]

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