Today's poet

[Stevie]

I too like the dream keeper poem. Difficult to follow that but here we are in a new day, remembering or not remembering dreams, and all I have to offer is this poem by Pat Winslow that I find really funny and have been meaning to post on here for ages, just as a change. Her interpretation of the situation was a surprise, to me anyway, and probably why I found it funny. Hope you all do too.

Mycroft and Sherlock by Pat Winslow

You'd call them singular, I suppose.
They were forever counting.

How many steps from our bedpost to the tallboy,
how many stairs to the landing.

There wasn't a cupboard
they hadn't opened or found the key to.

They made an inventory
of everything from saucers to coats.

Holidays were a nightmare -
how many quarter mile posts between stations,

what size boots the ticket inspector wore,
what he'd eaten the day before.

They could look at a train and tell you
what the weather was like in Carlisle.

You can't imagine how many friends we lost.
The 'samples' nurse found beneath their beds -

cigar butts, half-drained glasses, combs,
handerkerchiefs and socks and underwear.

The drugs I can understand. Their father did it.
And at least it kept them quiet.

But the tendency to want the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but.

Our guests were MPs and businessmen.
Besides, I had a lover.

That was soon over. And my marriage.
They didn't care. They had each other.

And later, Sherlock had that doctor.
The signs were there, of course.

I just never saw them.

[Stevie]

And to balance things up, this from Ruth Padel, from the book "Angels" again.

Foxgloves by Ruth Padel

I found her recipe
in the Taunton Evening News,
reading it out Friday night
as I always did. He made do
in the ioniser room six days
with pinpricks on parchment.

'Two to four cups spring water.
Or use distilled. One heaped tsp. ginseng.
Two tbs. sea salt crystals. One head
of coltsfoot. One pinch she-wolf's hair
from a live and shedding wolf.

This is important. Ask keepers
at your local Wildlife Centre. One ounce
graveyard topsoil from the bed
of someone you revered for courage.
Don't use a shovel. Always replace

any sod you pull up.' When we met
it was September. Spores were out.
Asthma bad. Her voice was a samaritan silk.
Her eyes went to slits, bronze fennel.
Something hula-hooped in my belly.

She said, 'Foxgloves. Velvet.
Darkness. Alice, I want it.'
He has forbidden her the house.
He can't see her standing on our path,
full sun, without a shadow. I found
honey in her fingers like the blind.

[Hes]

I really enjoyed both of your choices Stevie especially the funny Sherlock Holmes one. Freckle, that is one of my favourite poems from Being Human.

[Hes]

One Way of Looking at Thirteen Blackbirds

A black cat crossing your path is bad for luck, it's said.
But to cross the path of thirteen blackbirds —
that has to be a sign. There's meaning
in the way they're sitting on that line
side by shadowy side,
yellow eyes unblinking,
staring down at you
all of one mind,
just waiting
to dive.

Jeff Tigchelaar

[Alf]

One Way of Looking at Thirteen Blackbirds

A black cat crossing your path is bad for luck, it's said.
But to cross the path of thirteen blackbirds —
that has to be a sign. There's meaning
in the way they're sitting on that line
side by shadowy side,
yellow eyes unblinking,
staring down at you
all of one mind,
just waiting
to dive.

Jeff Tigchelaar

nice choice Hes

Since the "Buzzard incident" I have had a new respect for birds and what they are capable of.
Apparently they are all descended from meat eating dinosaurs :w00t:

[Alf]

I too like the dream keeper poem. Difficult to follow that but here we are in a new day, remembering or not remembering dreams, and all I have to offer is this poem by Pat Winslow that I find really funny and have been meaning to post on here for ages, just as a change. Her interpretation of the situation was a surprise, to me anyway, and probably why I found it funny. Hope you all do too.

Mycroft and Sherlock by Pat Winslow

You'd call them singular, I suppose.
They were forever counting.

How many steps from our bedpost to the tallboy,
how many stairs to the landing.

There wasn't a cupboard
they hadn't opened or found the key to.

They made an inventory
of everything from saucers to coats.

Holidays were a nightmare -
how many quarter mile posts between stations,

what size boots the ticket inspector wore,
what he'd eaten the day before.

They could look at a train and tell you
what the weather was like in Carlisle.

You can't imagine how many friends we lost.
The 'samples' nurse found beneath their beds -

cigar butts, half-drained glasses, combs,
handerkerchiefs and socks and underwear.

The drugs I can understand. Their father did it.
And at least it kept them quiet.

But the tendency to want the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but.

Our guests were MPs and businessmen.
Besides, I had a lover.

That was soon over. And my marriage.
They didn't care. They had each other.

And later, Sherlock had that doctor.
The signs were there, of course.

I just never saw them.

Thanks for posting this Stevie it made be look for more of her stuff. I found 'Ghost' which I found very moving but probably a litle strong for the thread without a warning.

You can find it here http://www.poetrypf.co.uk/patwinslowpage.html

[Alf]

John Keats, a man who died aged 25 in early "summer" never got to
experience autumn and winter in terms of years but maybe he
did in terms of emotion ?

The Human Seasons

Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring’s honey’d cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

John Keats

[TheReverand]

In the process, of transition
can you capture the moment
when the ownership
of ones heart
passes from one to another

still possesed by one
but knowing it has
to soon move on

to a new host
who will nourish
nuture, revitalise
and love

[Hes]

Hi Rev, I like this very much. The end of a relationship and the start of a new one are very poignant times I think. It sometimes seems inconceivable that you will ever give anyone your heart again but then, out of the blue, you find you are willing to make a leap of faith...I think the potential happiness outweighs the risk!

In the process, of transition
can you capture the moment
when the ownership
of ones heart
passes from one to another

still possesed by one
but knowing it has
to soon move on

to a new host
who will nourish
nuture, revitalise
and love

[Hes]

Hi Alf, I had a buzzard buzzing incident too and it certainly put things in perspective! :w00t:

nice choice Hes

Since the "Buzzard incident" I have had a new respect for birds and what they are capable of.
Apparently they are all descended from meat eating dinosaurs :w00t: