First Kiss
by April Lindner
This collision of teeth, of tongues and lips,
is like feeling for the door
in a strange room, blindfolded.
He imagines he knows her
after four dates, both of them taking pains
to laugh correctly, to make eye contact.
She thinks at least this long first kiss
postpones the moment she'll have to face
four white walls, the kitchen table,
its bowl of dried petals and nutmeg husks,
the jaunty yellow vase with one jaunty bloom,
the answering machine's one bloodshot eye.
Am Yisrael Chai
Ah the awkwardness of those first gum sucking and spit swopping sessions, nice to get past that point and be comfortable passing wind in front of each otherOriginally Posted by Mossdog
I'm just an old romantic
Love's Emblems
Now the lusty spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view:
Everywhere on every green
Roses blushing as they blow
And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines of sweet honey full:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
'Ladies, if not plucked, we die.'
Yet the lusty spring hath stayed;
Blushing red and purest white
Daintily to love invite
Every woman, every maid:
Cherries kissing as they grow,
And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,
Winding gently to the waist:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
'Ladies, if not plucked, we die.'
John Fletcher, from the New Penguin Book of Love Poetry
Poacher turned game-keeper
Lovely...I have a vision of cherries hanging from the tree in pairs like lovers sneaking kisses when no-ones looking!
I've posted this before but I felt it's really appropriate for me tonight. I've had such a busy weekend which has involved a hell of a lot of driving, I ran a 25 miler on Sat, and I've just finished a 12 hour shift today(with over 2 hours of driving to add on to the day!) So...now I'm home...alone too...babba has to stay at Grandmas while I'm working...missing her tons...
Jimjams on and glass of wine in hand, I really love this poem...
The Day Is Done
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet.
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
25 miles? Waaaaat? then a 12 hour shift?...i am glad you have a glass of wine in hand....before you know it your babe will be right back, take care you MG and nice choice of poem there!I've posted this before but I felt it's really appropriate for me tonight. I've had such a busy weekend which has involved a hell of a lot of driving, I ran a 25 miler on Sat, and I've just finished a 12 hour shift today(with over 2 hours of driving to add on to the day!) So...now I'm home...alone too
Jimjams on and glass of wine in hand, I really love this poem...
The Day Is Done
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet.
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
Oo la la, doesn't get more sensous than this, anybody think it was saturday night round here ! lovin it tho
Big congratulations and thank you for organising the Simon Armitage gig! That is so fantastic. I'm sorry that I haven't been more help but you guys seem to have it wrapped up. Your efficiency is amazing.
Am shattered...common theme on the thread. Am off for a few days r&r in Penzance with my mum. I'll try and look in and post when I can.
with the setting sun
my running mate grows taller
and then she is gone
Hope you have a wonderful rest at your mums Hes and oh.....HAPPY BIRTHDAY for friday (?).........have fun !!! x
Good morning all!
Crows nerve fails
Ted Hughes
Crow, feeling his brain slip,
Finds his every feather the fossil of a murder.
Who murdered all these?
These living dead, that root in his nerves and his blood
Till he is visibly black?
How can he fly from his feathers?
And why have they homed on him?
Is he the archive of their accusations?
Or their ghostly purpose, their pining vengeance?
Or their unforgiven prisoner?
He cannot be forgiven.
His prison is the earth. Clothed in his conviction,
Trying to remember his crimes
Heavily he flies.
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