Today's poet

[Derby Tup]

tangerine sky
moorland gritstone escarpment
contrasting starkly

[Mountain Goatess]

Really love this. Owls are amazing creatures, 'silent assassin' a perfect description DT x

ghostly barn owl
patrolling Axe Valley fields
silent assassin

[Mountain Goatess]

I'm not sure how to translate Freckle's cheesy poem....it all seemed a bit rude to me....or is that just how my mind works??? :w00t:
Explain yourself young lady! :sneaky:

[Stolly]

I'm not sure how to translate Freckle's cheesy poem....it all seemed a bit rude to me....or is that just how my mind works??? :w00t:
Explain yourself young lady! :sneaky:

Your hands

When your hands go out,
love, toward mine,
what do they bring me flying?
Why did they stop
at my mouth, suddenly,
why do I recognize them
as if then, before,
I had touched them,
as if before they existed
they had passed over
my forehead, my waist?

Their softness came
flying over time,
over the sea, over the smoke,
over the spring,
and when you placed
your hands on my chest,
I recognized those golden
dove wings,
I recognized that clay
and that color of wheat.

All the years of my life
I walked around looking for them.
I went up the stairs,
I crossed the roads,
trains carried me,
waters brought me,
and in the skin of the grapes
I thought I touched you.
The wood suddenly
brought me your touch,
the almond announced to me
your secret softness,
until your hands
closed on my chest
and there like two wings
they ended their journey.

My guess is that its something to do with hands. And those holding her head (?), waist and <cough> chest. What she doesn't mention is that his (and I'm assuming he is a he ) hands look like this:

[Einar]

Thanks for the Kathleen Jamie, Mossdog. Lovely. Here's Meg Bateman:

Happiness

with thanks to Neil

Often have I seen them come together,
two old friends, two crofters,
who after a brief murmured greeting
will stand wordlessly together,
side by side, not facing each other,
and look out on the land whose
ways and memories unite them,
breathe in the air, and the scent of
tobacco and damp and lamb scour,
in the certain knowledge that talk
would hamper that expansive communion,
break in on their golden awareness
of all there is between them.

[Mountain Goatess]

No it was the really cheesy poem I was on about Stolly...the one entitled Raclette! I'm sure it's very rude!

[Mossdog]

Thanks for the Kathleen Jamie, Mossdog. Lovely. Here's Meg Bateman:

Happiness

with thanks to Neil

Often have I seen them come together,
two old friends, two crofters,
who after a brief murmured greeting
will stand wordlessly together,
side by side, not facing each other,
and look out on the land whose
ways and memories unite them,
breathe in the air, and the scent of
tobacco and damp and lamb scour,
in the certain knowledge that talk
would hamper that expansive communion,
break in on their golden awareness
of all there is between them.

Spot on - cheers Einar

[freckle]

Thanks for the Kathleen Jamie, Mossdog. Lovely. Here's Meg Bateman:

Happiness

with thanks to Neil

Often have I seen them come together,
two old friends, two crofters,
who after a brief murmured greeting
will stand wordlessly together,
side by side, not facing each other,
and look out on the land whose
ways and memories unite them,
breathe in the air, and the scent of
tobacco and damp and lamb scour,
in the certain knowledge that talk
would hamper that expansive communion,
break in on their golden awareness
of all there is between them.

This is really beutiful Einar thank you for posting...there is a real gentleness to it

[freckle]

No it was the really cheesy poem I was on about Stolly...the one entitled Raclette! I'm sure it's very rude!

Lord above.....

Why my poem is merely a little ink blot
Within it you may spot
Whatever your heart so desires

As Don Paterson once said the best poems are slightly vague and leave a great deal of scope for interpretation! anyhow I do hope nothing that I have written causes offence but I plead artistic licence (and imagination) :wink:

[freckle]

Lit Windows
Glyn Maxwell

When I go home again,
when I know so many homes, but I mean the home
with the longest vowel, when I wander the old realm,
I pass them on the lane,
boys turned to men,

so I turn back to a boy
to pass them saying nothing. For it's death
to be where one is not, where every breath
is a heaving of the oars
alone at sea.

I could grow white and old
and I will, I am well aware, grow white and old
looking through lit windows of the world
for people in their rooms;
for the blue, cold

light of a TV on
in an empty room . . . girl at a light so bright
she's silhouette . . . a man who hangs his coat
and stands quite still . . . a mother
agrees with someone

over cake . . . the frosted light
of suppertime, of bathtime, of sex.
I don't have what I have from reading books
but stopping by your homes
to see those sights

to and wondering forever
who is someone else? Who on earth
are all these people to have known this with,
this world? Whole skies of stars
are a lesser wonder

than all your lights at evening,
all your lives. When the lights go out I'm there,
moving on. When it's dark the stars are clear,
their immaterial eyes
believing, disbelieving.