Today's poet

[Stef F]

Candles by C P Cavafy

The days that are to come, they stand before us
like to a row of lighted little candles, —
brilliant, and warm, and lively little candles.

The other days, the by-gone, lag behind,
a mournful row of candles that are quenched:
a few of them, the nearest, smoulder still,
but most are cold, and crooked, and reduced.

I dread to look on these: their shape is grievous,
and grievous the remembrance of their light.
In front, my lighted candles I behold.

I dread to turn, lest I perceive, affrighted,
how fast the sombre row is lengthening,
how fast the extinguished candles multiply.

[Derby Tup]

Another from the Hand in Hand poetry collection, edited by Carol Ann Duffy

The Linen Industry

Pulling up flax after the blue flowers have fallen
And laying our handfuls in the peaty water
To rot those grasses to the bone, or building stooks
That recall the skirts of an invisible dancer,

We become a part of the linen industry
And follow its processes to the grubby town
Where fields are compacted into window-boxes
And there is little room among the big machines.

But even in our attic under the skylight
We make love on a bleach green, the whole meadow
Draped with material turning white in the sun
As though snow reluctant to melt were our attire.

What's passion but a battering of stubborn stalks,
Then a gentle combing out of fibres like hair
And a weaving of these into christening robes,
Into garments for a marriage or funeral?

Since it's like a bereavement once the labour's done
To find ourselves last workers in a dying trade,
Let flax be our matchmaker, our undertaker,
The provider of sheets for whatever the bed --

And be shy of your breasts in the presence of death,
Say that you look more beautiful in linen
Wearing white petticoats, the bow on your bodice
A butterfly attending the embroidered flowers.

Michael Longley

[Alf]

Here's one from the man himself...

Nightshift

Once again I have missed you by moments;
steam hugs the rim of the just-boiled kettle,

water in the pipes finds its own level.
In another room there are other signs

of someone having left: dust, unsettled
by the sweep of the curtains; the clockwork

contractions of the paraffin heater.
For weeks now we have come and gone, woken

in acres of empty bedding, written
lipstick love-notes on the bathroom mirror

and in this space we have worked and paid for
we have found ourselves, but lost each other.

Upstairs, at least, there is understanding
in things more telling than lipstick kisses:

the air, still hung with spores of your hairspray;
body-heat stowed in the crumpled duvet.

That's a good posting freckle, the man is pretty good isn't he

[Alf]

Candles by C P Cavafy

The days that are to come, they stand before us
like to a row of lighted little candles, —
brilliant, and warm, and lively little candles.

The other days, the by-gone, lag behind,
a mournful row of candles that are quenched:
a few of them, the nearest, smoulder still,
but most are cold, and crooked, and reduced.

I dread to look on these: their shape is grievous,
and grievous the remembrance of their light.
In front, my lighted candles I behold.

I dread to turn, lest I perceive, affrighted,
how fast the sombre row is lengthening,
how fast the extinguished candles multiply.

I enjoyed that Stef while reflecting there's an awful lot of burnt out candles behind me

[Alf]

Another from the Hand in Hand poetry collection, edited by Carol Ann Duffy

The Linen Industry

Pulling up flax after the blue flowers have fallen
And laying our handfuls in the peaty water
To rot those grasses to the bone, or building stooks
That recall the skirts of an invisible dancer,

We become a part of the linen industry
And follow its processes to the grubby town
Where fields are compacted into window-boxes
And there is little room among the big machines.

But even in our attic under the skylight
We make love on a bleach green, the whole meadow
Draped with material turning white in the sun
As though snow reluctant to melt were our attire.

What's passion but a battering of stubborn stalks,
Then a gentle combing out of fibres like hair
And a weaving of these into christening robes,
Into garments for a marriage or funeral?

Since it's like a bereavement once the labour's done
To find ourselves last workers in a dying trade,
Let flax be our matchmaker, our undertaker,
The provider of sheets for whatever the bed --

And be shy of your breasts in the presence of death,
Say that you look more beautiful in linen
Wearing white petticoats, the bow on your bodice
A butterfly attending the embroidered flowers.

Michael Longley

I like this DT. I have read it a few times now and it gets better each time. I am not familiar with his work so now I am looking for more. Thanks for posting it

[Alf]

This is dedicated to the Gummer's How intrepid team of fell poets

Crossing the Loch

Remember how we rowed toward the cottage
on the sickle-shaped bay,
that one night after the pub
loosed us through its swinging doors
and we pushed across the shingle
till water lipped the sides
as though the loch mouthed 'boat'?

I forgot who rowed. Our jokes hushed.
The oars' splash, creak, and the spill
of the loch reached long into the night.
Out in the race I was scared:
the cold shawl of breeze,
and hunched hills; what the water held
of deadheads, ticking nuclear hulls.

Who rowed, and who kept their peace?
Who hauled salt-air and stars
deep into their lungs, were not reassured;
and who first noticed the loch's
phosphorescence, so, like a twittering nest
washed from the rushes, an astonished
small boat of saints, we watched water shine
on our fingers and oars,
the magic dart of our bow wave?

It was surely foolhardy, such a broad loch, a tide,
but we live—and even have children
to women and men we had yet to meet
that night we set out, calling our own
the sky and salt-water, wounded hills
dark-starred by blaeberries, the glimmering anklets
we wore in the shallows
as we shipped oars and jumped,
to draw the boat safe, high at the cottage shore.

Kathleen Jamie

[freckle]

Candles by C P Cavafy

The days that are to come, they stand before us
like to a row of lighted little candles, —
brilliant, and warm, and lively little candles.

The other days, the by-gone, lag behind,
a mournful row of candles that are quenched:
a few of them, the nearest, smoulder still,
but most are cold, and crooked, and reduced.

I dread to look on these: their shape is grievous,
and grievous the remembrance of their light.
In front, my lighted candles I behold.

I dread to turn, lest I perceive, affrighted,
how fast the sombre row is lengthening,
how fast the extinguished candles multiply.

This is very moving stef...nice choice...i am glad things are well with you and you are enjoying your running, I am ok not seeing fells as much as I would like but back into running more regularly which is good. Onwards and upwards eh? x

[Nathaniel Lee]

A Prayer for Apollo.

Lord Apollo give me strength to finish my race,
Guide my heart on it's way so i do not fail,
Give me the words to celebrate your name,
Bring me the poetic heart so i can tell my tale.

My muscles and sinews are strong my lord,
As your music fills me the race does start,
I praise you for the sun on my back,
Filled with your strength and power in my heart.

Leonidas.

[freckle]

This is dedicated to the Gummer's How intrepid team of fell poets

Crossing the Loch

Remember how we rowed toward the cottage
on the sickle-shaped bay,
that one night after the pub
loosed us through its swinging doors
and we pushed across the shingle
till water lipped the sides
as though the loch mouthed 'boat'?

I forgot who rowed. Our jokes hushed.
The oars' splash, creak, and the spill
of the loch reached long into the night.
Out in the race I was scared:
the cold shawl of breeze,
and hunched hills; what the water held
of deadheads, ticking nuclear hulls.

Who rowed, and who kept their peace?
Who hauled salt-air and stars
deep into their lungs, were not reassured;
and who first noticed the loch's
phosphorescence, so, like a twittering nest
washed from the rushes, an astonished
small boat of saints, we watched water shine
on our fingers and oars,
the magic dart of our bow wave?

It was surely foolhardy, such a broad loch, a tide,
but we live—and even have children
to women and men we had yet to meet
that night we set out, calling our own
the sky and salt-water, wounded hills
dark-starred by blaeberries, the glimmering anklets
we wore in the shallows
as we shipped oars and jumped,
to draw the boat safe, high at the cottage shore.

Kathleen Jamie

Ooooo now this is very enigmatic....bit like our little trip!!!! (NaaaaaaT!...)...thank you for posting, how sweet....

DT I liked The Linen Industry although I had to re read a few times, really loved the line about "as if snow reluctant to melt were our attire" ...very slick!

Hi Leonidas good to see some orginal work on here too....i am stuck as far as writing goes at the minute

[freckle]

i like the way this woman writes, something sassy and sharp about it...

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetrya...o?poemId=13745