Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Lament

no more the curlew's bubbling cry
long since flown west
and summer passed by
rain tears are wept
by the moorland sky
as the heather fades
and the flowers die
oh what will become
of you and I?

But the swallows are still hanging in there - just! Another evocative delight Hes

[Derby Tup]

That's a new one for me, and frankly, I can't quite believe its one of our Sylvia's - it's too upbeat. Come on DT, admit it, you penned this gem yourself but are too modest to admit your own genius- eh?

I thought this might interest you Mossy Nothing to do with me, honest

[freckle]

Having been away over much of the summer, I've only had time to quickly scan this thread, now and then, and look what I've overlooked!!! Freckle I enjoyed the naturalness, spontaneous rhythm of your verse which is a sheer delight - many thanks for making me smile. (oh I'd go for a crumble by the way - yummmmmmm)

Aw its so nice to have you back Mossy, it sounds as if you have had a lovely summer, there have been many a crumble and i even managed to make a small blackberry tart...at this rate i will be like a house end by........oh...i better not mention the C word!

[freckle]

Blackberrying !

A great subject and a fine piece from Mr Heaney !Even better when read by him .
I've just sweated over 6 lbs of blackberry jam - a future pleasure on toast and scones - but let's hope it sets nicely.
But the best get picked out so quickly these days - nevertheless my good friend Susie (who'd be an excellent addition to the FPS - and a fine runner over cross country ) organised a foraging trip on Thursday evening along the waggonways and we plucked out what we could. Only the fading light put an end to it.
And to think a blackberry these days is something you can really impress your friends with .Well we had hundreds of them but no one to show them off to.

This is also from Ms Plath - but as usual there's all kinds of twists in the sway of words.There's also a marine theme in there somewhere .

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

Sylvia Plath

Susie would be welcome, someone else to run past me!!!!!! ....bagsie you bring some of that jam to a future gathering....i loved your choice of poem, great stuff!

[Derby Tup]

Poem

If the night flights keep you awake
I will call London Airport and tell them
to land their dangerous junk elsewhere.

And if you fall asleep with the sleeve
of your jacket under your head,
sooner than wake you, I'll cut it off.

But if you say:
'Fix me a plug on this mixer',
I grumble and take my time.

Christopher Logue

[Mossdog]

It's been great pounding my home fells again, yet I can't quite capture their essential magic and majesty, but have penned the below (still needs some work !)

Solo

At August's end the North Pennine fells
offer a blueberried peace above the dales
and turn, as poets, purple liveried
sounding verse of a profound and quiet creed

solo runner, heads west, strives high
seeks to lift society's deluded veneered lie
in wanton search of stillness and solitude,
amalgam in which mind-body gently collude

lone runner, fell bound, forgetting all self,
climbs skywards to trace a mostly overlooked wealth
and casts every thought to the upland wind,
ensuring worldly cares and self-doubts will rescind

the route up being the only way, requires little force
and Reason alone no longer obscures a natural course
each hard won step forwards inevitably alters the path
and intuition released to quell the day's repressed wrath

the world unmasked, rolls in ecstasy at runner's feet
the artful rhythm of pulse and pace complete
flowing onwards, upwards, towards the evening sun
to the coveted prize of the consummate run

and range far across a swallow-emptied vastness,
joy upon joy compound to forge an enchanted fastness
measured breaths catch the honeyed heathered breeze
and a point is reached of simple synchrony and ease

so unveils the truth of life's immanent immediacy
freed from obligation to argue utility or vulgar expediency
this taste of raputure seeds a desire to return eagerly behoved
so this solo runner, to the North Pennine fells, is eternally betrothed.

[freckle]

Ooooooo now this is making me want to throw a sickie tomorrow and make for the hills!.......beautiful stuff Mossy i liked the bits in purple the best but really it was lush all round!...

At August's end the North Pennine fells
offer a blueberried peace above the dales
and turn, as poets, purple liveried
sounding verse of a profound and quiet creed

solo runner, heads west, strives high
seeks to lift society's deluded veneered lie
in wanton search of stillness and solitude,
amalgam in which mind-body gently collude

lone runner, fell bound, forgetting all self,
climbs skywards to trace a mostly overlooked wealth
and casts every thought to the upland wind,
ensuring worldly cares and self-doubts will rescind

the route up being the only way, requires little force
and Reason alone no longer obscures a natural course
each hard won step forwards inevitably alters the path
and intuition released to quell the day's repressed wrath

the world unmasked, rolls in ecstasy at runner's feet
the artful rhythm of pulse and pace complete
flowing onwards, upwards, towards the evening sun
to the coveted prize of the consummate run

and range far across a swallow-emptied vastness,
joy upon joy compound to forge an enchanted fastness
measured breaths catch the honeyed heathered breeze
and a point is reached of simple synchrony and ease

so unveils the truth of life's immanent immediacy
freed from obligation to argue utility or vulgar expediency
this taste of raputure seeds a desire to return eagerly behoved
so this solo runner, to the North Pennine fells, is eternally betrothed.[/QUOTE]

I love the idea that you are betrothed to the hills....great poem!

[freckle]

I really should be in bed by now...typical sunday night behaviour from me then.....not that I am in denial or anything.....


Ode to Glinda

Another toxic day in a structure containing people,
I put on scarlet tights and with mulled wine lips
climb into the bat mobile and drive.
Past the first flush of autumn and some garbage,
In a balletic gust of wind (not quite a tornado).
The ton weight lifts from my shoulders,
as I drive over the Emerald bridge.


The Icelandic girl on my new CD sings
“I hope you choke on your plastic halo”
Which makes me laugh, I kinda get it.
And with a click of the ruby slippers,
I am in an old Mill, eating beef stew
and discussing the finer points of Scottish midgies,
with an aptly languid mountain boy...
Toto and his mate (the boy Armitage’s unwanted lover)

And I think...


"There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home."

[Einar]

Brilliant, Freckle. Just brilliant.

[Einar]

Just to show Piet Hein wasn't all about toast:

Losing one glove is certainly painful,
but nothing
compared to the pain,
of losing one,
throwing away the other,
and finding
the first one again.

"because that sense of betraying your country will be more painful when freedom has been found again" Written after Hitler invaded Denmark.