Today's poet

[freckle]

So many good choices on here - Murphy's Law, John Anderson, My Jo, - and the bird haikus sound great. Perhaps this one has been posted before but I'd like to share it with you, in memory of a dear friend who has passed away.

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

A beautiful and moving choice Einar, take care

[Mossdog]

http://www.wingbeats.co.uk/the_book.html

This is the one Mossy.

Many thanks Triple H - looks like one to add to my C??????? (I'm not mentioning it!) List

[Harry H Howgill]

Many thanks Triple H - looks like one to add to my C??????? (I'm not mentioning it!) List

What? Camping? Ho ho ho

[Mossdog]

Stawberries by Edwin Morgan

There were never strawberries

like the ones we had

that sultry afternoon

sitting on the step

of the open french window

facing each other

your knees held in mine

the blue plates in our laps

the strawberries glistening

in the hot sunlight

we dipped them in sugar

looking at each other

not hurrying the feast

for one to come

the empty plates

laid on the stone together

with the two forks crossed

and I bent towards you

sweet in that air

in my arms

abandoned like a child

from your eager mouth

the taste of strawberries

in my memory

lean back again

let me love you

let the sun beat

on our forgetfulness

one hour of all

the heat intense

and summer lightning

on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

[freckle]

Stawberries by Edwin Morgan

There were never strawberries

like the ones we had

that sultry afternoon

sitting on the step

of the open french window

facing each other

your knees held in mine

the blue plates in our laps

the strawberries glistening

in the hot sunlight

we dipped them in sugar

looking at each other

not hurrying the feast

for one to come

the empty plates

laid on the stone together

with the two forks crossed

and I bent towards you

sweet in that air

in my arms

abandoned like a child

from your eager mouth

the taste of strawberries

in my memory

lean back again

let me love you

let the sun beat

on our forgetfulness

one hour of all

the heat intense

and summer lightning

on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

Oooooooo la la ! .....what a wonderful "friday" night poem, loving it! beautifully written and that last line is brilliant! why waste time washing up when they are so many other more "fruitful" things to be done!.....thanks for posting Mossy! x

[Mossdog]

Glad you enjoyed it Frecks - found it archived at the Guardian Saturday poems site.

[Alf]

Glad you enjoyed it Frecks - found it archived at the Guardian Saturday poems site.

Good choice Mossy and freckle didn't use the word "lush" once so I will. It was lush (I will be drinking Newcastle Brown Ale next!)

This is one from Fleur Adcock and I am off for a dook

The Prize-Winning Poem

It will be typed, of course, and not all in capitals: it will use upper and lower case
in the normal way; and where a space is usual it will have a space.
It will probably be on white paper, or possibly blue, but almost certainly not pink.
It will not be decorated with ornamental scroll-work in coloured ink,
nor will a photograph of the poet be glued above his or her name,
and still less a snap of the poet's children frolicking in a jolly game.
The poem will not be about feeling lonely and being fifteen
and unless the occasion of the competition is a royal jubilee it will not be about the queen.
It will not be the first poem the author has written in his life
and will probably not be about the death of his daughter, son or wife
because although to write such elegies fulfils a therapeutic need
in large numbers they are deeply depressing for the judges to read.
The title will not be 'Thoughts' or 'Life' or 'I Wonder Why'
or 'The Bunny-rabbit's Birthday Party' or 'In Days of Long Gone By'.
'Tis and 'twas, o'er and e'er, and such poetical contractions will not be found
in the chosen poem. Similarly cliches will not abound:
dawn will not herald another bright new day, nor dew sparkle like diamonds in a dell,
nor trees their arms upstretch. Also the poet will be able to spell.
Large meaningless concepts will not be viewed with favour: myriad is out;
infinity is becoming suspect; aeons and galaxies are in some doubt.
Archaisms and inversions will not occur; nymphs will not their fate bemoan.
Apart from this there will be no restrictions upon the style or tone.
What is required is simply the masterpiece we'd all write if we could.
There is only one prescription for it: it's got to be good.


Fleur Adcock

[Hes]

I love the recent choices posted. The selection seems to get better and better. Strawberries has made me really sad, looking back at defining moments in love and the wish to revisit them and the time when all seemed possible and hopeful. Hmmm....

A friend has just given me a wonderful book of etchings by Jessica Greenman and poetry by Alice Oswald called Weeds and Wildflowers, its wonderful. Here is an extract from Snowdrop:

A pale and pining girl, head bowed, heart gnawed,
whose figure nods and shivers in a shawl
of fine white wool, has suddenly appeared
in the damp woods, as mild and mute as snowfall.
She may not last. She has no strength at all,
but she stoops and shakes as if she'd stood all night
on one bare foot, confiding with the moonlight.

[Hes]

Thank you for sharing this Einar. It is a beautiful choice.

So many good choices on here - Murphy's Law, John Anderson, My Jo, - and the bird haikus sound great. Perhaps this one has been posted before but I'd like to share it with you, in memory of a dear friend who has passed away.

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

[Hes]

Oohhhh, this is lovely DT. I'm about to go in search of some curlews on their winter feeding grounds. Just had the meeting for my museum residency project and they like my ideas for my flight of curlews through the museum. (they will be woodcut prints on japanese paper. The shapes of curlews in flight made from the patterns of the landscapes that they breed and feed on....hard to explain here!). I have a five minute recording of the curlews at pateley bridge and I hope to bring the moors into the museum. I miss the curlews here.

through September dew
fifteen migrating Curlew
probe turf eagerly