Today's poet

[Chubbs]

Heard this earlier in the week, it touched me and knew it would strike a chord with most on this thread. Forgive me but don't know the title.

The father reading to his girl
some little tale they always read
is unaware that this may be
the last one that she'll ever need
she's grown past stories softly read
by daddy sitting on the bed.

The mother with her muddy son
kicking a football in the park
cannot sense as they wander home
through chilly, soft approaching dark
this was the last time they'd come out
to kick that happy ball about.

How secret sneaky-soft they come
those last times when we'll kiss it better
hold their hand across the road
or lift them up to post a letter
they pass unmarked, unnoticed for
we're not so needed anymore.

So the abandoned fairy tales and
nursery rhymes that mummy sings
leave behind soft toys and us
and put away their childish things
a loss so small, our loss the greater
un-missed, un-mourned until years later.

Lucy Berry

[Chubbs]

Found a collection of her work, I think she's great.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/shows/vine/poem.shtml
Good one for Derby Tup:

Tea

Backbone of the British nations,
Stiffener of upper lips,
All the isles' rejuvenations:
Lipton's, Typhoo, PG Tips.

Hitler, death, divorce or child-birth;
After stern, hard times are gone,
Britain reaches for her teabags,
Sighs and puts the kettle on.

Shall we? Assam or Darjeeling ?
Orange Pekoe or Earl Grey?
Nothing gives so firm a feeling
We can fight another day.

Those with damned eccentric palates
May prefer the Camomile,
Rosehip, Fennel, Nettle, Kiwi.
Drink that good-time muck awhile.

But, when sad, bad times are on us;
Change or bombs or lovers gone,
Britain yearns a proper cuppa,
Sighs and puts her kettle on.

Lucy Berry

[freckle]

Heard this earlier in the week, it touched me and knew it would strike a chord with most on this thread. Forgive me but don't know the title.

The father reading to his girl
some little tale they always read
is unaware that this may be
the last one that she'll ever need
she's grown past stories softly read
by daddy sitting on the bed.

The mother with her muddy son
kicking a football in the park
cannot sense as they wander home
through chilly, soft approaching dark
this was the last time they'd come out
to kick that happy ball about.

How secret sneaky-soft they come
those last times when we'll kiss it better
hold their hand across the road
or lift them up to post a letter
they pass unmarked, unnoticed for
we're not so needed anymore.

So the abandoned fairy tales and
nursery rhymes that mummy sings
leave behind soft toys and us
and put away their childish things
a loss so small, our loss the greater
un-missed, un-mourned until years later.

Lucy Berry

How beautiful, funny i have been thinking about this very thing this week.....thank you

[Hes]

GASOLINE
Shivering in the almost-drizzle
inside the wooden outboard,
nose over gunwale,
I watched it drip and spread
on the sheenless water:
the brightest thing in wartime,
a slick of rainbow,
ephemeral as insect wings,
green, blue, red, and pink,
my shimmering private sideshow.
Was this my best toy, then?
This toxic smudge, this overspill
from a sloppy gascan filled
with essence of danger?
I knew that it was poison,
its beauty an illusion:
I could spell flammable.
But still, I loved the smell:
so alien, a whiff
of starstuff.
I would have liked to drink it,
inhale its iridescence.
As if I could.
That's how gods lived: as if.

Margaret Atwood

That is a stunning poem HHH, what a great choice. I've never read it before.

[Harry H Howgill]

Attachment 2925

These little guys?

Penguins of the cape
black and white comedians
dropping stinky poop

That sounds about right!

[freckle]

Found a collection of her work, I think she's great.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/shows/vine/poem.shtml
Good one for Derby Tup:

Tea

Backbone of the British nations,
Stiffener of upper lips,
All the isles' rejuvenations:
Lipton's, Typhoo, PG Tips.

Hitler, death, divorce or child-birth;
After stern, hard times are gone,
Britain reaches for her teabags,
Sighs and puts the kettle on.

Shall we? Assam or Darjeeling ?
Orange Pekoe or Earl Grey?
Nothing gives so firm a feeling
We can fight another day.

Those with damned eccentric palates
May prefer the Camomile,
Rosehip, Fennel, Nettle, Kiwi.
Drink that good-time muck awhile.

But, when sad, bad times are on us;
Change or bombs or lovers gone,
Britain yearns a proper cuppa,
Sighs and puts her kettle on.

Lucy Berry

i couldn't agree more! can't function without that first cuppa in the morning! another great choice chubbs

[Stef F]

How beautiful, funny i have been thinking about this very thing this week.....thank you

Good evening Freckle

My fire alarm is up and running
it took two batteries the greedy thing
now I can sleep easy in my bed!



My eldest has just turned 16. Seems like a hundred years since I was falling asleep reading bedtime storys. Many a time I nodded off and woke with a stiff neck and two fast asleep boys. Funny, they never complained!

Thanks for sharing that Chubbs

[Harry H Howgill]

That is a stunning poem HHH, what a great choice. I've never read it before.

I found it last night, and then someone today was describing a myriad of colours to me so it felt very suitable.

[Hes]

Harry H, where's the Southern Cross in the sky please? Just in from dinner and a couple of beers and had a quick look up at the sky but didn't really know where to look Fell Poet fave Orion seems to be in more or less same place as at home (err, not looking over towards Ilkley Moor, but you know what I mean)

El Cruz del Sur....it is a favourite constellation of mine and I used to gaze at it from tiny buses travelling at night through the Andes. I don't know how to explain where it is in the sky from where you are DT but it looks like a kite. Apparently it is close to the constellation of centaurus if you know that one?

[Harry H Howgill]

A lovely and thoughtful poem, but there are some things I don't like to dwell on for too long.

Heard this earlier in the week, it touched me and knew it would strike a chord with most on this thread. Forgive me but don't know the title.

The father reading to his girl
some little tale they always read
is unaware that this may be
the last one that she'll ever need
she's grown past stories softly read
by daddy sitting on the bed.

The mother with her muddy son
kicking a football in the park
cannot sense as they wander home
through chilly, soft approaching dark
this was the last time they'd come out
to kick that happy ball about.

How secret sneaky-soft they come
those last times when we'll kiss it better
hold their hand across the road
or lift them up to post a letter
they pass unmarked, unnoticed for
we're not so needed anymore.

So the abandoned fairy tales and
nursery rhymes that mummy sings
leave behind soft toys and us
and put away their childish things
a loss so small, our loss the greater
un-missed, un-mourned until years later.

Lucy Berry