Today's poet

[Alf]

What a cute image (you in your arm chair I mean)...well having a rather unremarkable night here in the north east tonight, wishing i was at glastonbury actually! thank god i will see some hills tomorrow even tho no doubt it will involve a lot of huffing and puffing for these road running legs!...here is one from maya angelou....i really wanted to post "still i rise" but have posted it about 20 times before so here is something different....

Caged Bird

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou

Great choice that freckle but just to dispel any "cute" armchair images





To the Poppy


While summer roses all their glory yield
To crown the votary of love and joy,
Misfortune’s victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.
So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her totured mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,
Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,
Thou flimsy, showy, melancholy weed.

Anna Seward

[freckle]

Great choice that freckle but just to dispel any "cute" armchair images





To the Poppy


While summer roses all their glory yield
To crown the votary of love and joy,
Misfortune’s victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.
So stands in the long grass a love-crazed maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her garish ribbons, smeared with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her totured mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,
Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,
Thou flimsy, showy, melancholy weed.

Anna Seward

blimey!....i like this very much....but who prey is the "melancholy weed?"....poor thing whoever it is!...

[Alf]

I see Simon Armitage and his family went to Glastonbury this year and he penned a commemorative poem ? (The Guardian sent them with illustrator Posy Simmonds)


Windscale

The toadstool towers infest the shore:
Stink-horns that propagate and spore
Wherever the wind blows.
Scafell looks down from the bracken band,
And sees hell in a grain of sand,
And feels the canker itch between his toes.

This is a land where dirt is clean,
And poison pasture, quick and green,
And Storm sky, bright and bare;
Where sewers flow with milk, and meat
Is carved up for the fire to eat,
And children suffocate in God's fresh air.

Norman Nicholson

[freckle]

I see Simon Armitage and his family went to Glastonbury this year and he penned a commemorative poem ? (The Guardian sent them with illustrator Posy Simmonds)


Windscale

The toadstool towers infest the shore:
Stink-horns that propagate and spore
Wherever the wind blows.
Scafell looks down from the bracken band,
And sees hell in a grain of sand,
And feels the canker itch between his toes.

This is a land where dirt is clean,
And poison pasture, quick and green,
And Storm sky, bright and bare;
Where sewers flow with milk, and meat
Is carved up for the fire to eat,
And children suffocate in God's fresh air.

Norman Nicholson

Good choice Alf although a bit dark? or perhaps io have missed the irony...mmmm will ponder ....I will enjoy reading that article at my leisure laterthanks for posting...this years glasto has been great and I wasn't even there! anyhoo just ordered my copy of simon's new book seeing stars reading for signing although we hope to have a book stall actually on the night of the dufton gig if folk are keen....)

[freckle]

qoute....alfie.....

"before freckle has me barred "

never!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! x

[Mountain Goatess]

We Are Many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my dashing being,
out comes the same old lazy self,
and so I never know just who I am,
nor how many I am, nor who we will be being.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

Pablo Neruda

[Al Fowler]

Time for my every one in a blue moon rubbish poem.


Its Raining,
Shame really
The sun was cracking
Fun whilst it lasted.
Hey ho back to normal,
Good old England

[XRunner]

Here is a poem by a new poet to this thread.


The Beauty Of A Woman
Author: Ardem

The beauty of a woman
Is not in the clothes she wears,
The figure that she carries,
Or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman
Must be seen from her eyes,
Because that is the doorway to her heart,
The place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman
Is not a facial mole,
But true beauty in a woman
Is reflected in her soul.


It is the caring she lovingly gives,
The Passion that she shows.
The beauty of a woman with passing years,
--only grows and grows.

[Mountain Goatess]

Very lovely Ardem

Here is a poem by a new poet to this thread.


The Beauty Of A Woman
Author: Ardem

The beauty of a woman
Is not in the clothes she wears,
The figure that she carries,
Or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman
Must be seen from her eyes,
Because that is the doorway to her heart,
The place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman
Is not a facial mole,
But true beauty in a woman
Is reflected in her soul.


It is the caring she lovingly gives,
The Passion that she shows.
The beauty of a woman with passing years,
--only grows and grows.

[Alf]

Good choice Alf although a bit dark? or perhaps io have missed the irony...mmmm will ponder ....I will enjoy reading that article at my leisure laterthanks for posting...this years glasto has been great and I wasn't even there! anyhoo just ordered my copy of simon's new book seeing stars reading for signing although we hope to have a book stall actually on the night of the dufton gig if folk are keen....)

I think maybe the irony is you can't see the pollution (compared with other energy sources) therefore there isn't any

I enjoyed MGs Neruda and XRUNNER's poem and Al's take on the English Weather.

Carrying on the fungi theme (grasping at a tenuous link ) here's one from Sylvia Plath

Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

Sylvia Plath