Today's poet

[freckle]

I wonder if anyone can help with the search for the rest of this poem 'Winter: East Anglia' that this verse came from?
I have Blundens excellent book 'Undertones of War' about his 1st WW experiences and war poetry but this poem I believe was written afterwards and isn't a war poem its just about the countryside. Blunden was an admirer of John Clare's work.

Winter: East Anglia

But the cornered weasel stands his ground,
Shrieks at the dogs and boys set round,
Shrieks as he knows they stand all round,
And hard as winter dies.

Edmund Blunden

not having much luck so far Alf! but look you can purchase a copy of one of his books here for a mere £100!!!!

http://www.ashrare.com/catalogue_89.html

Hes...hope your doggie is ok, big hug x

Ali, the snow here is now quite frankly just a bit cuckoo! i am not sure how on eartI will make it work next week at this rate (what a shame!!!!)

[freckle]

alf he is good isn't he? this is pretty stunning....

Concert Party
E Blunden

The stage was set, the house was packed,
The famous troop began;
Our laughter thundered, act by act;
Time light as sunbeams ran.

Dance sprang and spun and neared and fled,
Jest chirped at gayest pitch,
Rhythm dazzled, action sped
Most comically rich.

With generals and lame privates both
Such charms worked wonders, till
The show was over – lagging loth
We faced the sunset chill;

And standing on the sandy way,
With the cracked church peering past,
We heard another matinée,
We heard the maniac blast

Of barrage south by Saint Eloi,
And the red lights flaming there
Called madness: Come, my bonny boy,
And dance to the latest air.

To this new concert, white we stood;
Cold certainty held our breath;
While men in tunnels below Larch Wood
Were kicking men to death.

[Harry H Howgill]

Thank goodness for that. It's one thing knowing you're a top-notch fell runner and creative poet, but having photographic brilliance too! A bloke can only tolerate so much of his sense of inadequacy you know!

You are a star Mossy and you know it.

[Harry H Howgill]

Ali, the snow here is now quite frankly just a bit cuckoo! i am not sure how on eartI will make it work next week at this rate (what a shame!!!!)

I'm sure you'll do your best! It mostly melted here today then the last bit has frozen. Sledging was good this afternoon. Fraser fell asleep in the back pack but I had fun!

[freckle]

I'm sure you'll do your best! It mostly melted here today then the last bit has frozen. Sledging was good this afternoon. Fraser fell asleep in the back pack but I had fun


Aw that sounds a lot of fun indeed, i need to get me a slege tomoz....as judging by my stepladders diy is going to be out for a bit!


Attachment 4208

not much sign of things melting here...


Attachment 4209

[freckle]

snae

infinite tiny muffling drums
descend to obscure
the pedestrian in
ever(y)
sense
and transport us
into inchoate crunches
of softness.

[freckle]

You are a star Mossy and you know it.

here here!

[Hes]

I'm very sorry Mossy. It is a really upsetting poem isn't it? I was shocked when I read it.

HHH rest assured that my poor dog does not have to worry. She is with my ex (the nice one) and being pampered. I wrote an article once (in my previous incarnation as local correspondent for the gazette) about a Masham vet who is a homeopath and I have a suspicion he does acupuncture so if she's still bad and her usual vet can't sort it out, she might come for a holiday and treatment over here.

GULP - Christ Hes! You could have warned us!

[Hes]

Nice one Freckle, I really like the bit about 'obscuring the pedestrian', says it all! I love snow but am not relishing the thought of marshalling the ten mile road race for my club today...must look out my woollie undies!

snae

infinite tiny muffling drums
descend to obscure
the pedestrian in
ever(y)
sense
and transport us
into inchoate crunches
of softness.

[Sunbeam Alpine]

This is The Shore Road by Norman MacCaig - just noticed the poem about the Border Collie. He's a good writer for the out doors.

The Shore Road by Norman MacCaig

The sea pursued
Its beastlike amours, rolling in its sweat
And beautiful under the moon; and a leaf was
A lively architecture in the light.
The space between
Was full, to splitting point, of presences
So oilily adjustable a walking man
Pushed through and trailed behind no turbulence.
The walking man
With octaves in his guts was quartertone
In octaves of octaves that climbed up and down
Beyond his hearing, to back parts of the moon.
As though things were
Perpetual chronologies of themselves,
He sounded his small history, to make complete
The interval of leaves and rutting waves.
Or so he thought,
And heard his hard shoes scrunching in the grit,
Smelt salt and iodine in the wind and knew
The door was near, the supper, the small lamplight.