What a beautiful and sad poem Alf........verse 4 in particular I found moving....that line "The heart -- the heart -- is lonely still."........sigh....just been reading his bio and he had a bit of an exciting and troubled existence.
What a beautiful and sad poem Alf........verse 4 in particular I found moving....that line "The heart -- the heart -- is lonely still."........sigh....just been reading his bio and he had a bit of an exciting and troubled existence.
Last edited by freckle; 25-08-2010 at 11:49 PM.
Originally Posted by freckle
How's mini freckle getting on? is she up and around showing off her wounds to her friends.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nql1_RKwQt0
Stay close to Mum and do what she says is the moral of the story
Poetry
And it was at that age… Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind
Pablo Neruda
One of my very favourite Neruda poems
Poacher turned game-keeper
a crystal ocean
the scent of sage on the wind
now just memories
Loved that one
Just back off your hols Hes? or are these memories from earlier
Turns
I thought it made me look more 'working class'
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.
My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair:
You're every bit as good as that lot are!)
All the pension queue came out to stare.
Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR) ,
his cap turned inside up beside his head,
smudged H A H in purple Indian ink
and Brylcreem slicks displayed so folks might think
he wanted charity for dropping dead.
He never begged. For nowt! Death's reticence
crowns his life, and me, I'm opening my trap
to busk the class that broke him for the pence
that splash like brackish tears into our cap.
Tony Harrison
Hi Alf! Thanks and yes...just back from 10 days in Crete. Straight back into work and exhibition mayhem and the warmth/relaxation seems like a different world now!
Loved that one
Just back off your hols Hes? or are these memories from earlier
Natural Enemies
all day the owl is dreaming of a crow, dreaming
of a crow, dreaming of a crow and his war caw
rushing through the pines, and the owl opens
her mouth as if to say wait, wait until nightfall,
until nightfall when the crow’s own blackness
is not enough to hide him from her keen eyes.
all night the crow is dreaming of an owl, dreaming
of an owl, dreaming of an owl and battle screech
so close it could run through his dark body and sever
his spine. his mouth moves in silence: wait, wait
until daybreak when the owl’s gray camouflage
cannot protect her from the murders of crows.
in twilight the owl and crow are praying to live, praying
to live, praying to live the long hours of hunting. they do
not fly nor tempt the other into the unowned time
and orange territory of conflicted light. they bide, bide
in their pine churches with their psalms to a god
who would favor their feathers over the other’s.
J.P.Dancing Bear
ohhh, came across the above poet on Words and Music Radio 3 Iplayer. Then discovered this:
Persephone at the Farmer's Market
Even now, I cannot lose the memory of scent.
It leads me to pomegranates, halved, lying on a table,
the globes of puckered skin are red as my own lips.
This is the season of abduction — fruit pulled
from branches and vines. The dense perfumes
of fresh jams and pies slice the slow dawn.
The maples and oaks turn thin and gray
with their testimony of bruised and bloodied leaves.
Drawn to the sanguine, tart sweet, ripe aroma,
hundreds of lusting eyes, I touch the dark
texture and remember my love's rough hands,
the frantic tear and pull of desire.
I hand my money to the farm boy, grab
the pomegranate —no, I don't need a bag—
and rush away to home. Pulling it apart,
the ruby juice bleeding out on my fingers and dress,
I close my lips around the flesh
and dream of the man my husband used to be.
J.P.Dancing Bear
Gosh.....
so that's what happened to Persephone ??
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