Today's poet

[stevefoster]

It is a kiddies book that I picked off the shelf tonight and thought I'd share it with you.

Big kid at heart me, thanks for sharing Harry:wink:

[Harry H Howgill]

That's lovely. I 've not come across John Drinkwater before.

A seasonal one - and one of my favourites. There's an apple tree growng wild on the river bank - which I've fleeced of fruit. It would be good to know the type. I need to catch up with some of the posts - but I'll first grab an apple

MOONLIT APPLES

At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes
A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.

A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is no sound at the top of the house of men
Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.

They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,
And quiet is the steep stair under.

In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.
And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep
Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep
On moon-washed apples of wonder

[stevefoster]

Dog, kids, headtorch
3 miles of fun and laughter
No arguments, plenty of bats:thumbup:

[Sunbeam Alpine]

Thank you. This is one I just came across from John Kinsella in Australia - there is a lichen that fluoresces - but I've forgotten its name. Lichens have colonised everywhere including the statues on Easter Island. Apparently the 'authorities' fearing that the lichen are doing damage are making a forcible eviction of them (probably after several thousand years of living there) - thereby causing damage for which they've called in eperts from Italy to apply cosmetic surgery.

Lichen Glows in the Moonlight

by John Kinsella
John Kinsella
Lichen glows in the moonlight
so fierce only cloud blocking
the moon brings relief. Then passed by,
recharged it leaps up off rocks


and suffocates—there is no route
through rocks without having to confront
its beseeching—it lights the way,
not the moon, and outdoes epithets


like phosphorescent, fluorescent, or florescent:
it smirks and smiles and lifts the corner
of its lips in hideous or blissful collusion,
and birds pipe an eternal dawn, never knowing


when to sleep or wake. They might
be tricked into thinking their time’s up,
in the spectrum of lichen, its extra-gravital
persuasion, its crackling movement


remembered as still, indifferent, barely
living under the sun, or on a dark night;
climbing up you’d escape, but like all great
molecular weights it leaves traces


you carry with you into the realms
of comfort and faith.

[stevefoster]

Just found this, don't know who wrote it, but i like it:thumbup:

A Night Run
The rhythmic footfall, darkness
Adrenaline pumping, rustling, shadows
Eyes watching, waiting
Breathing, heavy breathing
The first rays of light, a salty smear
Across face, into eyes
But the passing of night and I am
The passing of night and I am still here

[OneHillWonder]

I like it very much merrystevefosterlegs :thumbup:

[Alf]

oops! looks like the old Alfer missed National Poetry Day on the thread

This is a War Poem but maybe not immediately apparent.

Landlock

Rain came rarely to the white wood valley.
In between times, he did what he could,
cut rhubarb and gooseberries, brought flowers
from the hill: camel-thorn in winter, rest-harrow
in summer, rock-rose, barberry, mimosa.
He ground wormwood to settle her fever.
When the trouble was done he would take back the farm,
plant olive and cedar, build her a home.
But she thought mostly of the sea -
the uncommissioned sea -
wild at her, salt strong -
not the starving river, brackish and torn -
a river is never enough.
One of her wishes was to find her own path,
but the lowlands were locked down, the plains undone;
so they climbed, and climbed as one.
And when she could not walk he carried her
and when he could not carry her she walked.
Such as this the days went by, till his strength too was sapped.
He laid his back against the longer rock
and set her head that gently in his lap.
Sleep overtook them on the slope.
He woke to take the sunlight in his eyes
and could not see at first the greater distance,
the strange blue, stain blue light in the distance,
that seemed every bit to move, impossible, surely,
a thin drawn band of sea, somewhere meeting sky.
He raised her head that she might see it done.
But where she was she had already gone.

Matthew Hollis

[Derby Tup]

Long-Tailed Titmice
flutter across misty road
feathered tadpoles

[freckle]

Long-Tailed Titmice
flutter across misty road
feathered tadpoles

i really like this, its misty here too very "season of mists and mellow fruitfeluness" and all that!

Alf i enjoyed your choice, moving........thank you

[Stolly]

Hoorah! I’ve finally found some poems about my bit of the Yorkshire Dales
Boo! I don’t really like most of them

See here --> Dentdale - poems

I guess of them all this is probably the poem that best hits the spot with me

Moor Song

Here is my element.
The lift and swell
and lip and lie.
The stretch of sky
over the hills.
The way the moor folds;
the way it breaks
into a run of ghylls;
the way it falls;
the way the wide fells
hold the eye and all
is clear and still.