Today's poet

[freckle]

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

all i can say alf is ...thank god your not the editor round here ...oh and that poem was lush!!!!!!!!

[freckle]

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.

Oh gosh, this is a beautiful and sad little poem....hope all is well x

[freckle]

Where is einar when you need him/her? or Alf for that matter? I am up way too late tonight......


Bluebells in Lands Woods

The windows are open in the bedroom
And I lie, so very tired, on this warm and muggy autumnal night.
A fatigue which seems unshakeable,
More than that...
A mind in fear of the body
“What’s that pain in my left clavicle?”
“Is that breathlessness I feel?”
I am getting old.

Sounds of life downstairs soothe me.
A short leap and a dissociation
to the sound of the rain’s breath.
Slow and imperceptible at first,
The process becomes clear,
A reconfiguration begins in my head.

Gentle raindrops on old oaks
In these ancient woods.
Some say they go back to medieval times
Later, coal was brought through mans tracks
Via the rowan and the odd birch.
Can you believe they used to cast aspersions
upon this village?
They thought that only the lowly
lived near Lands Woods.
How erroneous can you get?

The Woods, they have the last laugh
In the mill the spirit of the Coke works is stoked again
For a rare certainty in this changeable life
is captured in the boughs, 450 feet above the Tyne.
In the shedding of leaves, the softness under foot,
frost and maybe even a bit of snow...

then the bluebells, the bluebells will come
regardless.

[XRunner]

Seaside Golf

How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear'd the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker's back -
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp'd it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I'd find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most assuredly in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sound in the air
And splendour, splendour, everywhere.

By John Betjeman, former Poet Laureate

[freckle]

Seaside Golf

How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear'd the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker's back -
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp'd it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I'd find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most assuredly in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sound in the air
And splendour, splendour, everywhere.

By John Betjeman, former Poet Laureate

and I thought I was up late! this is a great choice X Runner and a one that Sunbeam Apline will favour I reckon!

[Mossdog]

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, in your typically incisive way, you have again pointed to the evocative heart of 'strawberries'. That's it exactly, or at least for me!

Snowdrop is exquisite too, and 'Weeds and Wildflowers' sounds interesting. I'm currently reading 'West: a Journey through the Landscapes of Loss' by Jim Perrin, which, despite it's title, is very uplifting. I heard Jim interviewed on BCC Scotland last week, when he mentioned this book, and it's written in Jim's typically thoughtful, very poetic, and at times magical style, that he usually devotes to describing landscapes. A great read.

[Mossdog]

Seaside Golf

How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It clear'd the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker's back -
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipp'd it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I'd find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most assuredly in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sound in the air
And splendour, splendour, everywhere.

By John Betjeman, former Poet Laureate

I loath golf, but adore this poem - especially the last verse - thanks XR

[Mossdog]

Where is einar when you need him/her? or Alf for that matter? I am up way too late tonight......


Bluebells in Lands Woods

The windows are open in the bedroom
And I lie, so very tired, on this warm and muggy autumnal night.
A fatigue which seems unshakeable,
More than that...
A mind in fear of the body
“What’s that pain in my left clavicle?”
“Is that breathlessness I feel?”
I am getting old.

Sounds of life downstairs soothe me.
A short leap and a dissociation
to the sound of the rain’s breath.
Slow and imperceptible at first,
The process becomes clear,
A reconfiguration begins in my head.

Gentle raindrops on old oaks
In these ancient woods.
Some say they go back to medieval times
Later, coal was brought through mans tracks
Via the rowan and the odd birch.
Can you believe they used to cast aspersions
upon this village?
They thought that only the lowly
lived near Lands Woods.
How erroneous can you get?

The Woods, they have the last laugh
In the mill the spirit of the Coke factory is stoked again
For a rare certainty in this changeable life
is captured in the boughs, 450 feet above the Tyne.
In the shedding of leaves, the softness under foot,
frost and maybe even a bit of snow...

then the bluebells, the bluebells will come
regardless.

Freckle, I've now read this poem for the fourth time, and each time I've notice something a fresh that tugs at my sensibilities and spurs a distant memory, a connection, to rise and flavour my mind. You may have gone to bed late, but that was time very well spent, this is a most beautiful poem - thank you.

[Mossdog]

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

Thanks Alf that's really lifted my spirits - I'm still giggling as I type. I missed this one earlier. I think it's a bit rich that nymphs aren't allowed to bemoan their fate, afterall it's a bloody rough time to be a nymph - all said.

I'm just wondering if I have the stamina (not least the ability) to pen a poem containing all of these 'don't' - now that would be fun. Any takers?????????

[Old Whippet]

Chiff Chaff I'm so pleased
you stayed. The fork-tailed party-
poopers left early