Today's poet

[Alf]

snae

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

That's very good freckle and the snae is enigmatic, is it only about one kind of fallout ?

[Harry H Howgill]

Sodium-bathed flurry.
A galaxy suspended,
below lone streetlamp.

[Harry H Howgill]

I've got a pair of Buffalo mitts, but it very rarely cold enough to wear them!

Mine would be considered worn out by any standard, but they are now cool enough to wear in winter after about 20 years!

[Derby Tup]

Lorna Goodison - 'Poui'

She doesn't put out for anyone.
She waits for HIM
and in the high august heat
he takes her
and their celestial mating
is so intense
that for weeks her rose-gold dress
lies tangled round her feet
and she doesn't even notice

From the Carol Ann Duffy edited Hand in Hand collection, selected by Linton Kwesi Johnson

[Harry H Howgill]

Well I've got no need for wooly underwear now. That warmed me up! :-)

Lorna Goodison - 'Poui'

She doesn't put out for anyone.
She waits for HIM
and in the high august heat
he takes her
and their celestial mating
is so intense
that for weeks her rose-gold dress
lies tangled round her feet
and she doesn't even notice

From the Carol Ann Puffy edited Hand in Hand collection, selected by Linton Kwesi Johnson

[Sunbeam Alpine]

More MacCaig.
Hes - there was a TV programme on the book you mention. Camerawork from Assynt was great - but the BBC went for the celeb route by getting Billy Collonny to appear. Andrew Grieg is a bit too earnest for me.
Think I'll file some George Mackay Brown next time round.

Summer Farm

Straws like tame lightnings lie about the grass
And hang zigzag on hedges. Green as glass
The water in the horse-trough shines.
Nine ducks go wobbling by in two straight lines.

A hen stares at nothing with one eye,
Then picks it up. Out of an empty sky
A swallow falls and, flickering through
The barn, dives up again into the dizzy blue.

I lie, not thinking, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me - as
This grasshopper with plated face
Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.

Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.

[Hes]

Thanks SA, there are times when I wish I had a tv (although I'd probably have missed it anyway). I really like this choice too. The description of the grasshopper is perfect.

More MacCaig.
Hes - there was a TV programme on the book you mention. Camerawork from Assynt was great - but the BBC went for the celeb route by getting Billy Collonny to appear. Andrew Grieg is a bit too earnest for me.
Think I'll file some George Mackay Brown next time round.

Summer Farm

Straws like tame lightnings lie about the grass
And hang zigzag on hedges. Green as glass
The water in the horse-trough shines.
Nine ducks go wobbling by in two straight lines.

A hen stares at nothing with one eye,
Then picks it up. Out of an empty sky
A swallow falls and, flickering through
The barn, dives up again into the dizzy blue.

I lie, not thinking, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me - as
This grasshopper with plated face
Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.

Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.

[Hes]

This is great HHH, I can actually see the scene in my mind's eye. I always think that when you look up, snowflakes look like asteroids coming at you.

Sodium-bathed flurry.
A galaxy suspended,
below lone streetlamp.

[Hes]

Snow Dance
by: Evelyn Scott (1893-1963)

Black brooms of trees sweep the sky clean;
Sweep the house fronts,
And heave them bleak in sleep.
High up the empty moon
Spills her vacuity.

I dance.
My long black shadow
Weaves an invisible pattern of pain.
The snow
Is embroidered with my happiness.

[Harry H Howgill]

"Embroidered with my happiness" is just a wonderful line to start a day with.

Snow Dance
by: Evelyn Scott (1893-1963)

Black brooms of trees sweep the sky clean;
Sweep the house fronts,
And heave them bleak in sleep.
High up the empty moon
Spills her vacuity.

I dance.
My long black shadow
Weaves an invisible pattern of pain.
The snow
Is embroidered with my happiness.