Today's poet

[Alf]

Aw...lovely Herakles, very well put!...so come on fess up everyone WHO exactly is going? so far I have the following:

HHH
Hes
OW
Herakles
N Dubya
Mountain Goatess
? Merrylegs
? Mossy
? Alf

I make that 9 pints of snecklifter so far, I'll not be able to stand up straight at this rate...oh yeah, I won't anyway will I? on account of that geet macca mountain I have to hobble up!!!!

I am doing the TWA so if I get timed out at Newlands Hause I might be one of the first back otherwise one of the last

[Stevie]

I have had a bash at a 3 Peaks poem. Personally I feel bound and gagged by rhyme and metre, but it does have an effect. I thought this one needed to rhyme.

Three lonely Peaks to call us north
To Yorkshire and its Dales.
Hardy runners all come forth
With banter and tall tales.

Of too-fast starts and blowing up
On Inglebugger's length.
Now all talk must be followed up
With action and with strength.

Pen-y-Ghent the first tall hill
Will spread the eager pack.
A running climb goes on until
The summit - then turn back.

Across the rolling countryside
We go, to Ribblehead.
Below the arches, match their stride,
Now watered and well fed.

The second peak is Whernside's top
It's Yorkshire's highest place.
Push for the top it's steep, don't stop,
A key point in the race.

Here you can cramp up as the climb
Sorts out the men from boys.
The men will push on, waste no time.
The boys Whernside destroys.

The third and final lofty peak
Is Ingleborough hill.
Legs are tired and growing weak,
The runners test their will.

To scale the mighty summit and
Achieve three Yorkshire peaks.
Of Pen-y-Ghent and Whernside and
Of Ingleborough bleak.

The finish line is still a way -
Beyond the Sulber Nick.
Five miles to run, to our dismay,
We better get there quick.

Three peaks of stubborn Yorkshire pride!
Three hammer blows to drive!
The hills afford no place to hide -
For honour now we strive!

Stevie

[Nathaniel Lee]

5Hr 30 Mins.

My time for the Anni is slow,
But Al F he says no,
He thinks i'll be faster ,
This young running master,
And i said i'm twice your size you know.

By Herakles.

[XRunner]

Here is a poem for Stef F:

There's a Long, Long Trail A-Winding

Nights are growing very lonely,
Days are very long;
I'm a-growing weary only
List'ning for your song.
Old remembrances are thronging
Thro' my memory.
Till it seems the world is full of dreams
Just to call you back to me.

There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing
And a white moon beams:
There's a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true;
Till the day when I'll be going down
That long, long trail with you.

All night long I hear you calling,
Calling sweet and low;
Seem to hear your footsteps falling,
Ev'ry where I go.
Tho' the road between us stretches
Many a weary mile.
I forget that you're not with me yet,
When I think I see you smile.

by Stoddard King

[Harry H Howgill]

5Hr 30 Mins.

My time for the Anni is slow,
But Al F he says no,
He thinks i'll be faster ,
This young running master,
And i said i'm twice your size you know.

By Herakles.

I'm sure you'll do it faster than that ok. Half of it is downhill don't you know! And everyone will be walking some of the up hill bits. I know I will.

[Harry H Howgill]

That is fabulous Stevie. I think all the better for rhyming too as it keeps a good pace and makes it enjoyable to read.

I can relate to that very well. Too fast a start then I was one of the Whernside boys that got found out.

One of the best fell running poems we have had.

I have had a bash at a 3 Peaks poem. Personally I feel bound and gagged by rhyme and metre, but it does have an effect. I thought this one needed to rhyme.

Three lonely Peaks to call us north
To Yorkshire and its Dales.
Hardy runners all come forth
With banter and tall tales.

Of too-fast starts and blowing up
On Inglebugger's length.
Now all talk must be followed up
With action and with strength.

Pen-y-Ghent the first tall hill
Will spread the eager pack.
A running climb goes on until
The summit - then turn back.

Across the rolling countryside
We go, to Ribblehead.
Below the arches, match their stride,
Now watered and well fed.

The second peak is Whernside's top
It's Yorkshire's highest place.
Push for the top it's steep, don't stop,
A key point in the race.

Here you can cramp up as the climb
Sorts out the men from boys.
The men will push on, waste no time.
The boys Whernside destroys.

The third and final lofty peak
Is Ingleborough hill.
Legs are tired and growing weak,
The runners test their will.

To scale the mighty summit and
Achieve three Yorkshire peaks.
Of Pen-y-Ghent and Whernside and
Of Ingleborough bleak.

The finish line is still a way -
Beyond the Sulber Nick.
Five miles to run, to our dismay,
We better get there quick.

Three peaks of stubborn Yorkshire pride!
Three hammer blows to drive!
The hills afford no place to hide -
For honour now we strive!

Stevie

[Harry H Howgill]

That is really interesting Tooshy.

Ian Hislop was on BBC4 last night talking about poetry, and he said that the purpose of poetry was to take something specific or personal and make it universal. I think you succeeded there.

It’s that time of year again
My brother said she’s drunk is your mum
Then I knew your ghost had taken the train
To Ravenglass from Eskdale

Thirteen years to the night
- How can it be possible -
After the hospital call that taught me
Life unravels as fast as travels the tide

On the Mite sands where you swam
Before your war arrived

Thirty-three years after I’d watched
You strain like Sisyphus with a pipe
At a stranger’s car tide-bound
In the shifting sands of the Mite

And afterwards we took the train
From Ravenglass to Eskdale

Forty years on from the night
The hospital called you to a new son
With roses from the garage for mum
But I became your world

Away from the shore that moves
With the tides of the Esk and the Mite

It was April seventeen and I thought
In the breeze I felt the ghost
Of your hand encompassing both mine
Like it did that distant afternoon

We sat happy on the line
To Ravenglass from Eskdale

[ZootHornRollo]

Thanks for the kind comments.

This is very moving Tooshy, after reading it a few times the sense of time passing and family history really comes through. Some things in life are constants (the Mite and the Esk and the railway), and others change, but although you become more distant in time from events in the past there are some key moments there to hang on to. The things that stay with you may not be the things you expect to stay with you - the red roses, the car on the sand. But one thing that always stays with you and is the memory of your Mum, obviously very intense. The train ride with and without your Mum is a good way of getting the feeling across. Thanks for posting this.

It's actually about my dad Stevie - he bought the roses for my mum when I was born (nearly) forty years ago. He was born and grew up in ravenglass and took me there and on the railway when I was seven.

But I wrote that because something quite unusual just happened.

I was in Eskdale last weekend with some friends, and because of a bad foot on Saturday, had to entertain myself while they went walking.

So I took the little train from Boot and from it spied the cottage on the Mite estuary where he grew up. I wandered round Ravenglass, got misty-eyed, had a couple of pints and that was that.

Until last night, when I spoke to my mum and I realised with a jolt that for the first time in thirteen years I'd missed the anniversary of my dad's death.

But with a second jolt I realised I hadn't really. April 17 was Saturday.

[ZootHornRollo]

oh er ... that's torn it!

ah well, anonymity's overrated ...

[freckle]

It’s that time of year again
My brother said she’s drunk is your mum
Then I knew your ghost had taken the train
To Ravenglass from Eskdale

Thirteen years to the night
- How can it be possible -
After the hospital call that taught me
Life unravels as fast as travels the tide

On the Mite sands where you swam
Before your war arrived

Thirty-three years after I’d watched
You strain like Sisyphus with a pipe
At a stranger’s car tide-bound
In the shifting sands of the Mite

And afterwards we took the train
From Ravenglass to Eskdale

Forty years on from the night
The hospital called you to a new son
With roses from the garage for mum
But I became your world

Away from the shore that moves
With the tides of the Esk and the Mite

It was April seventeen and I thought
In the breeze I felt the ghost
Of your hand encompassing both mine
Like it did that distant afternoon

We sat happy on the line
To Ravenglass from Eskdale

Just catching up and what do I find?...this beautiful little gem.....lovely work Tooshy, very moving, especially when you give us the context...wow!