Today's poet

[freckle]

Tomorrow Is A Long Time

If today was not an endless highway
If tonight was not a crooked trail
If tomorrow wasn’t such a long time
Then lonesome would mean nothing to you at all
Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin’
Yes, and if I could hear her heart a-softly poundin’
Only if she was lyin’ by me
Then I’d lie in my bed once again

I can’t see my reflection in the waters
I can’t speak the sounds that show no pain
I can’t hear the echo of my footsteps
Or can’t remember the sound of my own name
Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin’
Yes, and if I could hear her heart a-softly poundin’
Only if she was lyin’ by me
Then I’d lie in my bed once again

There’s beauty in the silver, singin’ river
There’s beauty in the sunrise in the sky
But none of these and nothing else can touch the beauty
That I remember in my true love’s eyes
Yes, and only if my own true love was waitin’
Yes, and if I could hear her heart a-softly poundin’
Only if she was lyin’ by me
Then I’d lie in my bed once again

Bob Dylan

this is lovely, just listened to elvis version on you tube great stuff...aye absence certainly does make the heart grow fonder....

sigh.....

The Hug

It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
Half of the night with our old friend
Who'd showed us in the end
To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
Already I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.

I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,
Suddenly, from behind,
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
Your instep to my heel,
My shoulder-blades against your chest.
It was not sex, but I could feel
The whole strength of your body set,
Or braced, to mine,
And locking me to you
As if we were still twenty-two
When our grand passion had not yet
Become familial.
My quick sleep had deleted all
Of intervening time and place.
I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.

Thom Gunn

[stevefoster]

Time for a bit of nonsense. Daft film wasn't bad either.

Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.




"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"


He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.


And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!


One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.


"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.




`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

[Alf]

Leaving Eden

The motor’s running and I’m leaving Eden.
It’s gotten too small, too cramped. It’s too green.
I’ve packed my bags, taken my best face cream,
shaken the apple tree until my wormy heart fell at my feet.

It’s not the serpent. I didn’t need convincing.
It’s not in my nature to be happy to ignore what I know.
Can’t remember when I first went suspicious.
If I’m disenchanted with the past at least I’m something,
something to the core.

There never was a paradise on earth, or heaven.
Each fleshy fist of fruit harbours its seed.
Nothing has changed, nothing was ever how it seemed
in Eden, and if it was, I can’t imagine it was me.

The motor’s running, the asphalt is seething.
My bare legs stick to vinyl slick with sweat.
The air of motion now will run its fingers through me
and like Atlantis underwater I’ll forget.

Liane Strauss

[Alf]

Time for a bit of nonsense. Daft film wasn't bad either.

Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.




"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"


He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.


And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!


One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.


"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.




`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Good choice Steve. I can just imagine Professor Stanley Unwin reading that



Deep joy!

[Derby Tup]

Bacardi and Coke
alcohol mixed with caffeine
Stephanie to blame

[stevefoster]

Good choice Steve. I can just imagine Professor Stanley Unwin reading that



Deep joy!

Love Stanley Unwin, Michelin tyres: Very wettigrip in the slippy-slideyfold:thumbup:

Bang goes my early night

[Mossdog]

Blimey!!!! No posts yesterday and none today so far!!! So, in anticipation of tomorrow, here's one from Sylvia. All i can find out about this poem is that it was one of her early ones (aged 19 years???) and not published in her lifetime.

April 18

the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull

and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation

I would not remember you

or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these

and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops

a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight

[Mossdog]

Ok. So I know this is very unseasonal, but we poets surely just thumb our collective noses at bourgeois conventionalism...


Santie Claas

‘Fit a glaikit thing tae say,’ A thocht
as ma sax ear auld een leuked at missie.
Imaagine tellin us we wur gaun doon tae e hairbour
tae see Santie Claas.

Has naebidy telt her
he disna traivel on boats?
He aye comes on a sleigh.
Ma mither said so.

Afore A kent it,
an A cudna argie
syne she wis wice an een o ma betters,
e hail primary skweel wis trailin
doon e hull in twas
like a muckle, hairy, blaik caterpillar.
At e hairbour, it wis freezin caal
wi e snaa dingin oot-by.
Ae howder aefter anidder owergaed.
A grued.
Gled o ma cosh kwite
A vrapped it
roon aboot masel an poo-ed up e hood.
Us bairns wur telt tae line up
alang e hairbour wa.

Has naebidy telt her
he disna traivel on boats ?
He aye comes on a sleigh.
Ma mither said so.

Fit were we dein doon by e waater
on sic a day.
A wiz aat ill-naturt.
Wi bein aff e skweel for fower days wi ma kist
A wisna richt.
Some bairns were scraichin,
‘Santie Claas , Santie Claas.’
Thir een wur glued tae e hairbour’s moo
an thir lugs wur fair cockit.

Ma jaa drappit.
A heard e steady ‘Phut, Phut’
o an engine comin oor wye.
Tae ma dismay it wisna ony auld boat
bit e lifeboat.
Fa div ye think wis at e wheel?
Santie Claas in a his bairded glory.
A cudna see elves or reindeer
bit he’d a sack bulgin wi praisents.

A keepit thinkin,
‘Santie Claas disna traivel on boats.
He aye comes on a sleigh.
Ma mither said so.’

There he wis lookin up at us an laachin
an a thocht,
‘Weel Mum, ye’ll jist hae tae learn at
Santie Claas disna aye come on a sleigh.
He traivels on boats an a.


Copyright © Brenda Thomson 2010



Fit – what, glaikit - senseless, tae – to, A – I, thocht – thought, ma – my, sax – six, ear – year, auld – old, een – eyes, leuked – looked, missie – (female teacher),imaagine – imagine, tellin – telling, wur – were, gaun – going, doon – down, tae – to, e - the, hairbour – harbour, Santie Claas – Santa Claus, naebidy – nobody, telt – told, disna – doesn’t, traivel – travel, aye – always, mither – mother, afore – before, kent – knew, cudna – couldn’t, argie – argue, wi – with, syne – since, wis – was, wice – wise, een –
one, o – of, hail – whole, skweel – school, trailin – trailing, hull – hill, twas – twos, muckle – large,blaik – black, freezin – freezing, caal – cold, wi – with, snaa – snow, dingin – falling heavily, oot-by – out and a little way off, ae – one, howder – sudden gust of wind, aefter – after, anidder- another, owergaed –went over, grued – shuddered, gled – glad, cosh – cosy, kwite - coat, vrapped – wrapped, roon aboot – round about, masel – myself, pooed – pulled, telt – told, alang – along, wa – wall, naebidy – nobody, dein – doing, waater- water, sic – such, aat – that, ill- naturt – ill-natured, bein – being, aff – off, fower – four, kist – chest, richt – right, bairns – children, scraichin – screeching, thir – their, moo – mouth, lugs – ears, fair cockit – listening hard, jaa – jaw, drappit – dropped, oor – our, wye – way, ony – any, bit – but, fa – who, div –do, ye- you, a – all, bairded – bearded, bulgin – bulging, praisents – presents, keepit – kept, thinkin – thinking, lookin –looking, laachin – laughing, weel – well, jist – just, hae – have.

[Alf]

Having spent Saturday wandering around the Grasmere hills on an LDWA event then this poem will do. I didn't actually see Greenhead Ghyll though as it was hidden in the mist below when I was walking up the ridgeline towards Fairfield. I did see (for the first time) the valley of Greenburn Bottom though which the poem equally fits. This part of the walk took me to the head of the valley where I ascended to the ridge line and walked back over Gibson Knott to Helm Crag. Lovely bit of the lakes I had not visited before.

Poetically speaking though I think Greenhead Ghyll works better than Greenburn Bottom

(From Michael - A Pastoral Poem)


Green-Head Ghyll

If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks, and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky,
It is, in truth, an utter solitude.

William Wordsworth

[freckle]

hello all...been on my hols to cropton forest, it was nice but have to say i prefer woods with older trees...

cue robert frost

Into My Own

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew
—Only more sure of all I thought was true.