Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Whitman

After we've had
our age of gold
and sung our song of brass,
fingers will brush
the age aside,
fingers and leaves
of grass.

Alfred Kreymborg

[Mossdog]

a warm playful wind
ripples through a barley sea
curlews rise calling

Mmmmmmmmmmm - lovely, I can hear them now.

[freckle]

That's a truely delicious peom Freckle really well written. To me, it's perhaps reflecting a longing for/or maybe a recent experience of, early solid foundations. For me, that final verse is especially moving.

Thank you Mossy I am glad you liked it I felt particularly moved when writing it, your interpretation was spot on really, I find these days that I am more acutely aware of the connections between my past experiences as a child with more recent ones, especially when it comes to attachment figures. In this poem I am trying to describe such a moment in time when I had a pleasant reminder of how it is to feel held by the ordinary aspects of sharing a space with another, with the creaks of the boards but more significantly little moments like when someone watches you sleep. There was also a bit of longing thrown in there too! :-)

[freckle]

Delay

The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago. The light that now
Glitters up there my eyes may never see,
And so the time lag teases me with how

Love that loves now may not reach me until
Its first desire is spent. The star's impulse
Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.

Elizabeth Jennings

I like this...there is definately a theme in your choices emerging and one which I can relate to....I have to be careful not to dwell too much on the passage of time and could learn a trick or two in this instance from some eastern philosophies about "living in the moment" a bit more!!!!! :-)

[Alf]

Leaving the door a jar

Did I dream?
I was a child again
And leaving the door a jar
Quite on purpose
A shard of light
And the odd trip to the loo
From each parent
Bestowing a gaze or two
Invisible embraces
As I lay pretending to sleep
Adoration evidenced by stillness.

Time passes unusually,
As it does in dreams
And now, in the creaks
In the every day sounds
of this new (old) house
I sense
I have come home again
an ancient village of memories
is reawakened

Not with these boards,
Nor the enveloping woods,
Not in the coke fire,
or the nan like ceilings
In fact, not in this
or any other abode
can security be so tenured.

Its in the listening ear,
the invisible embraces
and hands upon hands
here where we walk
adjacent companions
and time owed in lieu
with a glance or two
of long forgotten stillness.

Gorgeous poem freckle I remember how important that shard of light was

[Alf]

The Dead Man Walking

They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.

There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ...

-- A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.

But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;

And when my Love's heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.

And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,

Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.

Thomas Hardy

[freckle]

The Dead Man Walking

They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.

There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ...

-- A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.

But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;

And when my Love's heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.

And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,

Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.

Thomas Hardy

Alf this is such a beautiful poem imbued with such a strong sense of loss, really moving and so well observed I think, certainly makes you think...thank you for posting...you have reminded me again how great a poet Thomas Hardy is :-)

[N-dubya]

Hello all

liked that last poem frecks. Heres a couple more i've done recently

Homeless chic

He was leant up against the bus stop railings.
His pose, deliberate, staged, one hand raised,
cupped around an ear, listening.
his outfit was brilliant!
Well thought out, heavily repaired trousers
and an ill fitting coat, two sizes too large.
no boho hats or scarves
too pretentious.
A carrier bag,
genius!

I wonder whart effort is required to create
that; slept outdoors, through the winter
in the same set of clothes look.

Some would say he was trying
too hard and his sartorial ideas,
obviously had come from a book or photo
sets of the great depression when this
image was last bang on trend.
No one can be this original.

But this is a look; hard to carry off
a bit more effort is required and integrity
needed than just being a fashion geek.
If you want to wear it,
you've got to live homeless chic.

[freckle]

Hello all

liked that last poem frecks. Heres a couple more i've done recently

Homeless chic

He was leant up against the bus stop railings.
His pose, deliberate, staged, one hand raised,
cupped around an ear, listening.
his outfit was brilliant!
Well thought out, heavily repaired trousers
and an ill fitting coat, two sizes too large.
no boho hats or scarves
too pretentious.
A carrier bag,
genius!

I wonder whart effort is required to create
that; slept outdoors, through the winter
in the same set of clothes look.

Some would say he was trying
too hard and his sartorial ideas,
obviously had come from a book or photo
sets of the great depression when this
image was last bang on trend.
No one can be this original.

But this is a look; hard to carry off
a bit more effort is required and integrity
needed than just being a fashion geek.
If you want to wear it,
you've got to live homeless chic.

Damn it N Dubya you are gooooooood! I love this, the way you have told a story with a twist at the end, ironic as ever, you make it look easy! hey, i should be your publicist! can I have a cut when you get your first book deal! ........... seriously though nice one!

[freckle]

"Between Us Now"

Between us now and here -
Two thrown together
Who are not wont to wear
Life's flushest feather -
Who see the scenes slide past,
The daytimes dimming fast,
Let there be truth at last,
Even if despair.

So thoroughly and long
Have you now known me,
So real in faith and strong
Have I now shown me,
That nothing needs disguise
Further in any wise,
Or asks or justifies
A guarded tongue.

Face unto face, then, say,
Eyes mine own meeting,
Is your heart far away,
Or with mine beating?
When false things are brought low,
And swift things have grown slow,
Feigning like froth shall go,
Faith be for aye.

Thomas Hardy