Today's poet

[XRunner]

I wonder what the story was behind this one by angelou.....

Men

Can you recognise this opera classic?

Women are fickle
Like a feather in the wind,
They change in tone and in thought.
Always a loveable,
Graceful visage,
That in tears or in laughter is lying.

Always wretched
Is he who trusts her,
He who confides in her reckless his heart!
Yet one never feels
Fully happy,
Who on that breast, does not taste love?

[stevefoster]

ANIMAL LOVE

Rhona McAdam

Tonight I am of the beasts of the backyard.
My face is one of the multitude gazing upwards
at your window; I am one of the rumbling
furred assembly living to twine about your legs
when you step out and among us in the morning.

Tonight I am the wild love running
and rampaging through your flower garden
chasing for the pure speed of it
the small competitors for your favour,
returning happy, panting to wait for you.

Tonight I scratch at your door
behind which you lie sleeping
somewhere in the dark civilized recesses
wherein I would burst in a frenzy of passion
to envelop you in my affection,
the nuzzling, love-thrumming love
of beast for beast

Like that Mossy

[freckle]

Three Weeks by Ann Michaels

Three weeks longing, water burning
stone. Three weeks leopard blood
pacing under the loud insomnia of stars.
The weeks voltaic. Weeks of winter
afternoons, darkness half descended.
Howling at distance, ocean
pulling between us, bending time.
Three weeks finding you in me in new places,
luminescent as a tetra in depths,
its neon trail.
Three weeks shipwrecked on this mad island;
twisting aurora of perfumes. Every boundary of body
electrified, every thought hunted down
by memory of touch. Three weeks of open eyes
when you call, your first question,
Did I wake you….

this is gorgeous...thank you

[freckle]

Can you recognise this opera classic?

Women are fickle
Like a feather in the wind,
They change in tone and in thought.
Always a loveable,
Graceful visage,
That in tears or in laughter is lying.

Always wretched
Is he who trusts her,
He who confides in her reckless his heart!
Yet one never feels
Fully happy,
Who on that breast, does not taste love?

Hey now X runner I am impressed with your knowledge here..i have always liked this tune but now i wonder if I should have??????...thanks

ps one day i'll go the opera in a big flouncy gown...and crows feet!

[Alf]

I wonder what the story was behind this one by angelou.....

Men
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

I don't know freckle but hang on a minute I have to go someplace

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

William Blake

[Alf]

Three Weeks by Ann Michaels

Three weeks longing, water burning
stone. Three weeks leopard blood
pacing under the loud insomnia of stars.
The weeks voltaic. Weeks of winter
afternoons, darkness half descended.
Howling at distance, ocean
pulling between us, bending time.
Three weeks finding you in me in new places,
luminescent as a tetra in depths,
its neon trail.
Three weeks shipwrecked on this mad island;
twisting aurora of perfumes. Every boundary of body
electrified, every thought hunted down
by memory of touch. Three weeks of open eyes
when you call, your first question,
Did I wake you

Good selection Mossy

Pent up passion extinguished by their partner's understatement

[freckle]

I don't know freckle but hang on a minute I have to go someplace

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

William Blake

ah....this is nice!

[freckle]

well top of the morning to ya all!....

i am still half asleep as i get ready for a run....always thought yeats was a bit dreamy.....

he remembers forgotten beauty
wb yeats

When my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God's eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew.
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.

[N-dubya]

just put a donk on it cuz your raps is well sick

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckMvj1piK58

[Hes]

Some great choices last night. The Angelou (I thought Freckle had written it for a while until I spotted her comment later) was very thought provoking and Anne Michaels is one of my favourite poets. Got to collect a few spring poems together for after-school club. I am getting the kids to make books illustrating the poems.

Not in a hurry
to blossom -
plum tree at my gate.

Issa