Today's poet

[Harry H Howgill]

I might not be on much tonight so have a lovely night all...

To my friends
by Primo Levi


Dear friends, and here I say friends
the broad sense of the word:
Wife, sister, associates, relatives,
Schoolmates of both sexes,
People seen only once
Or frequented all my life;
Provided that between us, for at least a moment,
A line has been stretched,
A well-defined bond.
I speak for you, companions of a crowded
Road, not without its difficulties,
And for you too, who have lost
Soul, courage, the desire to live;
Or no one, or someone, or perhaps only one person, or you
Who are reading me: remember the time
Before the wax hardened,
When everyone was like a seal.
Each of us bears the imprint
Of a friend met along the way;
In each the trace of each.
For good or evil
In wisdom or in folly
Everyone stamped by everyone.
Now that the time crowds in
And the undertakings are finished,
To all of you the humble wish
That autumn will be long and mild.


I love the idea of "everyone stamped by everyone"

Have a lovely evening Freckle. That is a nice poem. Everyone we meet has some sort of influence on us. Some profound, some fleeting. All shape us in one way or another.

[Nathaniel Lee]

Dear reader what are you ?. And would you know if it was gone ?.

Passing through life,
Like a vestigial memory,
Floating, ethereal,
Lost in the moments,
Between life and death,
Unable to find myself,
No solace forever gone,
Erased out of history,
By the medical profession,
Replaced by a pale shadow,
Fake, translucent, empty.

By Herakles.

[Nathaniel Lee]

Ode to Joy.

Ode to joy,
The love between girl and boy,
Times of beauty that make you sing,
Crystal perfection of the diamond ring,
Borrowed the money from my girl for it,
Tried to save so difficult feel like s**t,
I love her so much but i'm an unemployed boy,
And now i find the money is,
Owed to joy.

By Herakles.

[Nathaniel Lee]

Lakeland Hero.

Quiet listening intently,
To the wiry athletic old man,
Talking of the fells and the sheep,
Offcomers buying up the property,
Passion, intensity are there in his eyes,
I coax him into telling me of his running,
A veritable encyclopedia of fell history,
Wasdale and BG'S and all the lakeland,
A true pleasure to listen to this gentleman,
One of a dying breed,
We must cherish them and learn.

By Herakles.

[Mossdog]

A couple of good choices there Mossy

Samuel Butler certainly has a way with the ladies


Renouncement

I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the love that lurks in all delight--
The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the dearest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.

Alice Meynell

Great find Alf, and in the same theme too! Repressed / lamented love

[freckle]

Lakeland Hero.

Quiet listening intently,
To the wiry athletic old man,
Talking of the fells and the sheep,
Offcomers buying up the property,
Passion, intensity are there in his eyes,
I coax him into telling me of his running,
A veritable encyclopedia of fell history,
Wasdale and BG'S and all the lakeland,
A true pleasure to listen to this gentleman,
One of a dying breed,
We must cherish them and learn.

By Herakles.

i like this i can just imagine you sitting and listening intently

[XRunner]

I Am A Runner
(with thanks to the original version of "The Manchester Rambler" by Ewan MacColl)

I've been over Snowdon, I've run up to Crowden,
I've passes by the Wain Stones as well,
I've sunbathed on Kinder, been burnt to a cinder,
And many more things I can tell.
My bumbag has oft been my pillow,
The heather has oft been my bed,
And sooner than part from the mountains,
I think I would rather be dead.

Chorus
I'm a runner, I'm a runner from Manchester way,
I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way.
I may be an employee on Monday,
But I am a free man on Sunday.

There's pleasure in running thro' peat-bogs and bragging
Of all the fine races that you know;
There's even a measure of some kind of pleasure
In running through ten feet of snow!
I've stood on the edge of the Downfall
And seen all the valleys outspread,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

The day was just ending as I was descending
Through Grindsbrook by Upper-Tor,
When a voice cried, "Hey, you!" in the way game-keepers do,
(He'd the worst face that ever I saw).
The things that he said were unpleasant;
In the teeth of his fury I said,
That sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

He called me a louse and said, "Think of the grouse."
Well - I thought but I still couldn't see
Why old Kinder Scout and the moors round about
Couldn't take both the poor grouse and me.
He said, "All this land is my master's!"
At that I stood shaking my head, -
No man has the right to own mountains
Any more than the deep ocean bed.

I once loved a maid, a print-maker by trade,
She was fair as the rowan in bloom,
And the blue of her eye mocked the June moorland sky,
And I loved her from April to June.
On the day that we should have been married
I went for a run instead;
For sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

So I'll run where I will over mountain and hill
And I'll run where the bracken is deep;
I belong to the mountains, the clear running fountains
Where the grey rocks rise rugged and steep.
I have seen the white hare in the galleys
And the curlew fly high overhead,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

[freckle]

Mmmmm...glad to see you back to your mischevious self X runner!

I Am A Runner
(with thanks to the original version of "The Manchester Rambler" by Ewan MacColl)

I've been over Snowdon, I've run up to Crowden,
I've passes by the Wain Stones as well,
I've sunbathed on Kinder, been burnt to a cinder,
And many more things I can tell.
My bumbag has oft been my pillow,
The heather has oft been my bed,
And sooner than part from the mountains,
I think I would rather be dead.

Chorus
I'm a runner, I'm a runner from Manchester way,
I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way.
I may be an employee on Monday,
But I am a free man on Sunday.

There's pleasure in running thro' peat-bogs and bragging
Of all the fine races that you know;
There's even a measure of some kind of pleasure
In running through ten feet of snow!
I've stood on the edge of the Downfall
And seen all the valleys outspread,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

The day was just ending as I was descending
Through Grindsbrook by Upper-Tor,
When a voice cried, "Hey, you!" in the way game-keepers do,
(He'd the worst face that ever I saw).
The things that he said were unpleasant;
In the teeth of his fury I said,
That sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

He called me a louse and said, "Think of the grouse."
Well - I thought but I still couldn't see
Why old Kinder Scout and the moors round about
Couldn't take both the poor grouse and me.
He said, "All this land is my master's!"
At that I stood shaking my head, -
No man has the right to own mountains
Any more than the deep ocean bed.

I once loved a maid, a print-maker by trade,
She was fair as the rowan in bloom,
And the blue of her eye mocked the June moorland sky,
And I loved her from April to June.
On the day that we should have been married
I went for a run instead;
For sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

So I'll run where I will over mountain and hill
And I'll run where the bracken is deep;
I belong to the mountains, the clear running fountains
Where the grey rocks rise rugged and steep.
I have seen the white hare in the galleys
And the curlew fly high overhead,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

[freckle]

first draft


Gifts

I brought gifts, a dream,
above the edge of an escarpement,
unfathomable drop,
I felt the fear and the desire to fall.

Another dream, my naked torso,
huge cavernous omission where a stomach should have been,
the wind howling through.
After that I saw holes everywhere, and the drop,
some kind of pleasant vertigo followed.

At the theatre I gazed at the distance
between my seat and the stage
dizzied with the prospect of some magical falling,
not conceiving of decking out,
the unconscious illogical harness of certainty
held my risk taking mind.

Eventually the delectable fear of falling
could be resisted no longer,
and an unsuspecting catalyst
luminous hood in november rain,
unsure of the descent,
we peeled away, without realising
at each carapace.

And so began the journey,
crashing and banging
down a huge bamboo shoot
of possibilities,
I landed with a bump into uncertainty.
The chockstone unlodged, it got ugly,
I think...
I got ugly.
I wasn’t expecting that.

But now, after the machinations,
I catch glimpses,
here is the centre of myself,
a stillness forgotten.

Tonight my mother found some poems
written for her when I was a child
“you were always writing poems”,
I had forgotten completely,
it was a relief to remember.

[Old Whippet]

first draft


Gifts

I brought gifts, a dream,
above the edge of an escarpement,
unfathomable drop,
I felt the fear and the desire to fall.

Another dream, my naked torso,
huge cavernous omission where a stomach should have been,
the wind howling through.
After that I saw holes everywhere, and the drop,
some kind of pleasant vertigo followed.

At the theatre I gazed at the distance
between my seat and the stage
dizzied with the prospect of some magical falling,
not conceiving of decking out,
the unconscious illogical harness of certainty
held my risk taking mind.

Eventually the delectable fear of falling
could be resisted no longer,
and an unsuspecting catalyst
luminous hood in november rain,
unsure of the descent,
we peeled away, without realising
at each carapace.

And so began the journey,
crashing and banging
down a huge bamboo shoot
of possibilities,
I landed with a bump into uncertainty.
The chockstone unlodged, it got ugly,
I think...
I got ugly.
I wasn’t expecting that.

But now, after the machinations,
I catch glimpses,
here is the centre of myself,
a stillness forgotten.

Tonight my mother found some poems
written for her when I was a child
“you were always writing poems”,
I had forgotten completely,
it was a relief to remember.

Wow! and that's the 1st draft? intruiging to see how it will evole, and brave to do this publicly.