Today's poet

[Cliveybaby]

This is another old one that I wrote whilst sitting on Shutlingsloe back in 1996.


Sunset on Shutlingsloe

The sun sets in front of me
A red ball slowly sinking in the spring sky
Sharp colours begin to fade away
Not to be seen again until the new dawn

Families have disappeared back to their homes
The Sunday stroll is enough for them
Shutlingsloe and the forest peaceful once more
No screaming children, red socks or picnic lunches

Sheep calmly grazing in the fields
The worry of running barking dogs gone for another day
If you listen you can hear the chatter of tiny birds
Saying their goodnights as they find a perch

The wind gets stronger as pink skies turn to grey
A warning to those still out that it is time to go home
The solitary fellrunner fades into the distance
I say goodnight to the hill and follow the path to where I began

[stevefoster]

That was great crowhill I really enjoyed reading it.

Agree, nice one Jason and conratulations for the big day mate:thumbup:

[crowhill]

Agree, nice one Jason and conratulations for the big day mate:thumbup:

Thanks Steve, we had a tremendous day. Just perfect. You may have heard the church bells in Ripponden!

[stevefoster]

Thanks Steve, we had a tremendous day. Just perfect. You may have heard the church bells in Ripponden!

Good stuff, wishing you and Jo many years of happiness together, couldn't hear the church bells though, too many noisy kids round here!

[freckle]

Thanks Alf! - I've been watching this thread for a while and really enjoyed the poems, especially those written by our very own forumites. I had to choose a poem for our wedding and I had a crack at writing one for my speech so I've been in the "zone" recently. I wrote this one on my flight home yesterday - good way to pass a few hours!

it was wonderful and I am so pleased that we are seeing some new writers on this thread, keep it going crowhill and clive baby and oh congratulations to the newly weds!

[Stevie]

A very short one by Paul Farley that I can type in the 7 minutes remaining of my lunchtime:

Bacon and Eggs by Paul Farley

Breakfast. In a fat splashed gown
your working model fitted:
'The chicken is only involved
but the pig, the pig is committed.'

[freckle]

A very short one by Paul Farley that I can type in the 7 minutes remaining of my lunchtime:

Bacon and Eggs by Paul Farley

Breakfast. In a fat splashed gown
your working model fitted:
'The chicken is only involved
but the pig, the pig is committed.'

love it! that made me laugh out loud!

[Alf]

I wasn't too sure whether this bordered on patronising when I first read it but it was written before the days of Social Security and the Health service which clears it of that charge.
The last two lines are very good indeed


A Northern Suburb

Nature selects the longest way,
 And winds about in tortuous grooves;
A thousand years the oaks decay;
 The wrinkled glacier hardly moves.


But here the whetted fangs of change
 Daily devour the old demesne –
The busy farm, the quiet grange,
 The wayside inn, the village green.


In gaudy yellow brick and red,
 With rooting pipes, like creepers rank,
The shoddy terraces o'erspread
 Meadow, and garth, and daisied bank.


With shelves for rooms the houses crowd,
 Like draughty cupboards in a row –
Ice-chests when wintry winds are loud,
 Ovens when summer breezes blow.


Roused by the fee'd policeman's knock,
 And sad that day should come again,
Under the stars the workmen flock
 In haste to reach the workmen's train.


For here dwell those who must fulfil
 Dull tasks in uncongenial spheres,
Who toil through dread of coming ill,
 And not with hope of happier years –


The lowly folk who scarcely dare
 Conceive themselves perhaps misplaced,
Whose prize for unremitting care
 Is only not to be disgraced.

John Davidson

[Trig]

I cross the earth in studded shoes
They leave my imprint on the ground
There’s nought but swirling fog around
The path now forks which way to choose?

It must be left so right instead
I leave new patterns as I go
The rocks and reeds force me to slow
And interrupt the tracks I tread

I know that I’ve been here before
That tree is like some dreadful beast
My compass shows that west is east
And fresh new imprints mark the floor

Not Montrail’s lugs nor Walsh’s square
But Inov8s and they are mine
They stretch in front and make a line
That mark the route of my despair

I’m trying to get from A to B
To make a true and simple curve
If I could float up to observe
Concentric circles I would see

Out on this moor I like to roam
But I could be here for a year
By then I think the mist should clear
And I could find my own way home

And then salvation from this curse
For in the mist it all comes clear
My tracks map out how I got here
Which I now follow in reverse

My footsteps are now light with air
And overlay the ones I made
But soon the rain will make them fade
As If I’d never left them there

I reach the hill down which I slide
To take me from this foggy fell
And when I’m home and all is well
My studded shoes can rot outside

Nice words Crow Hill - glad I'm not the only one with neglected shoes rotting at the back door

[Stevie]

I wasn't too sure whether this bordered on patronising when I first read it but it was written before the days of Social Security and the Health service which clears it of that charge.
The last two lines are very good indeed


A Northern Suburb

Nature selects the longest way,
 And winds about in tortuous grooves;
A thousand years the oaks decay;
 The wrinkled glacier hardly moves.


But here the whetted fangs of change
 Daily devour the old demesne –
The busy farm, the quiet grange,
 The wayside inn, the village green.


In gaudy yellow brick and red,
 With rooting pipes, like creepers rank,
The shoddy terraces o'erspread
 Meadow, and garth, and daisied bank.


With shelves for rooms the houses crowd,
 Like draughty cupboards in a row –
Ice-chests when wintry winds are loud,
 Ovens when summer breezes blow.


Roused by the fee'd policeman's knock,
 And sad that day should come again,
Under the stars the workmen flock
 In haste to reach the workmen's train.


For here dwell those who must fulfil
 Dull tasks in uncongenial spheres,
Who toil through dread of coming ill,
 And not with hope of happier years –


The lowly folk who scarcely dare
 Conceive themselves perhaps misplaced,
Whose prize for unremitting care
 Is only not to be disgraced.

John Davidson

I really like this Alf, a depiction of the north after the glory days of the industrial revolution and before the modern period when all parts of the country enjoy similar levels of domestic comfort.