Today's poet

[stevefoster]

The Body may grow weak
But the Spirit's up to you
You are in control

[Hes]

Too true Steve!

The Body may grow weak
But the Spirit's up to you
You are in control

[freckle]

The Body may grow weak
But the Spirit's up to you
You are in control

loved this steve and Hes's haiku too!

[freckle]

The Self-Unseeing by Thomas Hardy

Here is the ancient floor,
Footworn and hollowed and thin,
Here was the former door
Where the dead feet walked in.

She sat here in her chair,
Smiling into the fire;
He who played stood there,
Bowing it higher and higher.

Childlike, I danced in a dream;
Blessings emblazoned that day;
Everything glowed with a gleam;
Yet we were looking away

[Mossdog]

Wedding mourning

I sip bitter coffee and smoke a wasted fag while he
no doubt, is pressing a dress shirt, or polishing shoes,
or positioning his buttonhole, (a thistle to prick
his conscience), accompanied by
an early morning whisky (a stone to blunt
serrated nerves) and last minute guests are fretting
over last minute ladders pulled with ragged nails,
and battered hats, that, after the journey on the train,
are barely intact, and sporrans that have gone astray and I flick
my cigarette into the bin for want of a better
ashtray. I should have a shower but pour
another mug instead and sit here in my dressing gown
with last night’s makeup smeared around my eyes
and this morning’s hangover pressing down.
I should get dressed.

I should get dressed.
He will be ready now, his kilt pleated and poised to flow,
his woollen socks held up by tartan garter flecks
and silver hip flask accessible and primed
(in case he has a need for some Scotch courage)
and his satin waistcoat as tight across his chest
as the silky clutch of a python. And his mother is spitting
on her handkerchief to wipe away her orange lipstick kiss
and is telling her son how proud she is. But in his pocket
the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam.
And now, I guess a ribbonned car is wending through
the drizzle and city traffic queue to the chapel
at the university where we first met.
I light another cigarette and inhale as if my life were over.


Helen Taylor

[XRunner]

A Lancashire Hare


O brown are the moors in the grey morning lying
Where the west wind comes singing o'er wide sea and plain;
O blithe on the hills when the autumn is dying
The hound and the horn wake the echoes again.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare:
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound,
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

O hark, and O hark, to the sound of the hollo,
Afar on the hills, in the fall o' the year!
O hark, and O hark, to the hounds that we follow,
How their full-throated chorus swells tuneful and clear.
Through the bent and the heather they revel and rally, -
Their voices all chiming out gallant and gay
A quest by the brookside, a view in the valley,
Then over the hilltop and for'ard away!

0 gone are all burdens of sorrow and yearning,
0 fast fly the hours that were made for delight,
Till red in the West like a torch dimly burning,
The last gleam of day gives the hunter good-night.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare,
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

Cicely Fox Smith
(With her name she HAD to write this poem!)

[Alf]

A Lancashire Hare


O brown are the moors in the grey morning lying
Where the west wind comes singing o'er wide sea and plain;
O blithe on the hills when the autumn is dying
The hound and the horn wake the echoes again.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare:
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound,
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

O hark, and O hark, to the sound of the hollo,
Afar on the hills, in the fall o' the year!
O hark, and O hark, to the hounds that we follow,
How their full-throated chorus swells tuneful and clear.
Through the bent and the heather they revel and rally, -
Their voices all chiming out gallant and gay
A quest by the brookside, a view in the valley,
Then over the hilltop and for'ard away!

0 gone are all burdens of sorrow and yearning,
0 fast fly the hours that were made for delight,
Till red in the West like a torch dimly burning,
The last gleam of day gives the hunter good-night.
Here's to the hills bleak and bare,
To the winds that give challenge to care!
Here's to the sound of a Lancashire hound
And the speed of a Lancashire hare!

Cicely Fox Smith
(With her name she HAD to write this poem!)

Great choice xrunner. One of those poems that you hang on to and enjoy the ride

[Alf]

Wedding mourning

I sip bitter coffee and smoke a wasted fag while he
no doubt, is pressing a dress shirt, or polishing shoes,
or positioning his buttonhole, (a thistle to prick
his conscience), accompanied by
an early morning whisky (a stone to blunt
serrated nerves) and last minute guests are fretting
over last minute ladders pulled with ragged nails,
and battered hats, that, after the journey on the train,
are barely intact, and sporrans that have gone astray and I flick
my cigarette into the bin for want of a better
ashtray. I should have a shower but pour
another mug instead and sit here in my dressing gown
with last night’s makeup smeared around my eyes
and this morning’s hangover pressing down.
I should get dressed.

I should get dressed.
He will be ready now, his kilt pleated and poised to flow,
his woollen socks held up by tartan garter flecks
and silver hip flask accessible and primed
(in case he has a need for some Scotch courage)
and his satin waistcoat as tight across his chest
as the silky clutch of a python. And his mother is spitting
on her handkerchief to wipe away her orange lipstick kiss
and is telling her son how proud she is. But in his pocket
the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam.
And now, I guess a ribbonned car is wending through
the drizzle and city traffic queue to the chapel
at the university where we first met.
I light another cigarette and inhale as if my life were over.

Helen Taylor

Nice selection Mossy. "the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam"

(She is probably better off without him )

[Alf]

The Self-Unseeing by Thomas Hardy

Here is the ancient floor,
Footworn and hollowed and thin,
Here was the former door
Where the dead feet walked in.

She sat here in her chair,
Smiling into the fire;
He who played stood there,
Bowing it higher and higher.

Childlike, I danced in a dream;
Blessings emblazoned that day;
Everything glowed with a gleam;
Yet we were looking away

Lovely choice young freckle Very evocative of those visits to your parent(s) house where you suddenly find yourself looking at the seat your father used to sit in and the sudden memories that come flooding back to you.

Three excellent choices of poems tonight so far

[Hes]

Well said Alf!

Nice selection Mossy. "the teardrop weight of wedding rings is tearing
at the stitches of the seam"

(She is probably better off without him )