Today's poet

[Alf]

A bit more of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage


There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
And mine were nothing had I such to give;
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
Which, living, waves where thou didst cease to live,
And saw around me the wild field revive
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.

Lord Byron

[freckle]

two beautiful choices alf.....fleur adcocks in particular

well, weary and with a nasty bug i trot off to bed in the hope of pleasant dreams....i like this e e cummings, its structure seems a bit different to many of his others and i like his description of those sought after times on half waking, where the fulfillment of a good dream and the permanence of its pleasant associations seem possible...i also think it is imbued with loss and a sense of the bittersweet

it is at moments after i have dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy)i have deemed
with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;

at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms
one pierced moment whiter than the rest-

turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

ee cummings

[Stevie]

Yes Varley not Farley! Don't know why I wrote that - good thing you know who is!

Err, no, it's Farley not Varley.

[Hes]

That would be my fault! Sorry Stevie...just a typo.

Err, no, it's Farley not Varley.

[Hes]

I really love this Alf and it is a very timely posting. I was up until 2am last night making lists of everything that I need to get done over the next four days because I keep waking up in the small hours remembering things or panicking and my head needs emptying! All better now and will be more so when I get off this laptop and into my studio!

Things

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.


Fleur Adcock

[Hes]

How are you feeling today Freckle? I do hope you are a bit better.xxx

I really liked this poem by cummings. Do you think he was experimenting with a different form? It definitely has a more traditional feel to his other verse.

two beautiful choices alf.....fleur adcocks in particular

well, weary and with a nasty bug i trot off to bed in the hope of pleasant dreams....i like this e e cummings, its structure seems a bit different to many of his others and i like his description of those sought after times on half waking, where the fulfillment of a good dream and the permanence of its pleasant associations seem possible...i also think it is imbued with loss and a sense of the bittersweet

it is at moments after i have dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy)i have deemed
with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;

at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms
one pierced moment whiter than the rest-

turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

ee cummings

[Mossdog]

two beautiful choices alf.....fleur adcocks in particular

well, weary and with a nasty bug i trot off to bed in the hope of pleasant dreams....i like this e e cummings, its structure seems a bit different to many of his others and i like his description of those sought after times on half waking, where the fulfillment of a good dream and the permanence of its pleasant associations seem possible...i also think it is imbued with loss and a sense of the bittersweet

it is at moments after i have dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy)i have deemed
with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;

at moments when the glassy darkness holds
the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms
one pierced moment whiter than the rest-

turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

ee cummings

It is very lyrical and those last two lines, separate and discordant from the verses above, somehow confirm the meaning towards melancholy, already hinted at above (fool, darkness, apparition, strangeness, etc.) maybe. And yes, Freckle, I think you're right, 'bittersweetness' captures it's tone well.

[Hes]

Its Friday night and time for some poems before bed. I've posted this before but I like it so I'm reposting

Alicante

An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet present of the present
Cool of the night
Warmth of my life.

Jacques Prevert

[Mossdog]

I've just noticed that nobody contributed to this thread AT ALL yesterday :w00t: (shock - horror!) and I can only conclude that it's because we've all become far to chipper, jovial, love-struck, etc. In short, enjoying way too much joie de vivre! So, to redress the balance, here's a dose of miserable reality to draw you all back...

Departure

The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green;
Green, also, the grapes on the green vine
Shading the brickred porch tiles.
The money's run out.

How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters.
Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking.
The sun shines on unripe corn.
Cats play in the stalks.

Retrospect shall not often such penury-
Sun's brass, the moon's steely patinas,
The leaden slag of the world-
But always expose

The scraggy rock spit shielding the town's blue bay
Against which the brunt of outer sea
Beats, is brutal endlessly.
Gull-fouled, a stone hut

Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers:
Across the jut of ochreous rock
Goats shamble, morose, rank-haired,
To lick the sea-salt.

Sylvia P

By eck, Our Sylvia knows how 'to do' melancholy.

[crowhill]

Following the kind comments received for my first attempt at a fell poem, here's my second go at one. Like the subject matter, it's probably overly long and not to everyone's liking

Three Peaks

Pen-y-ghent

The tannoy crackles with the names, contenders for the day
Can Jebb notch up another win? Or this time Holmes or Gray?

I check the number on my vest, this year it's eighty-one
I join the throng and wait too long to hear the starting gun

We set off running from the field, all buoyed by glories past
There's cheers and roars and loud applause which make me run too fast!

"Three thirty" is the goal again, if just to cut it fine
A five year itch, a focal point, an arbitrary line

I know that pacing is the key to running a good race
I've started quick, but feeling wick, I vow to hold my place

But soon we reach the open track, the climb beyond the wall
I feel my will begin to wilt, my pace is now a crawl

Don't be weak, I urge myself and show some Yorkshire grit
For in this race that quality is most appropriate

I clench my teeth and tell myself to dig a little deep
As soon as I get past that bend the way is not as steep

I turn off left and leave the path the summit now in sight
While Jebb and Holmes come crashing down, a flash of blue and white

My dibber bleeps to signify the climb of Pen-y-ghent
A quick "thanks" to the marshal then I'm off on my descent

The ground is soft and true, affords a quick check of the time
Then on the track and heading back, past runners who still climb

I reach the gate where club mates wait, with Lucozade I'm plied
Then off I tread, with hope and dread, to battle with Whernside

Whernside

I'm Yorkshire's highest mountain but a point I'd like to state...
There's a different hill called Whernside with the moniker of "Great"

Deepdale's to my north and to the east there is Blea Moor
My summit is just half way round a classic mountain tour

The Three Peaks is that challenge of which I'm the second fell
It's hiked and biked and once a year a running race as well

I look towards the south-east to my neighbour Pen-y-ghent
The way he rises in that hump is rather impudent

Old Ingleborough is to my south, a steep and flat roofed hill
Frequented by the caving crowd who head to Gaping Gill

I'm quite the gentle giant with my long and sloping ridge
There's runners fast approaching me from underneath the bridge

They take the shortest line and then they climb my steepest side
And once again it's Jebb out front with elongated stride

A strange thing seems to happen as they clamber to my top
Half of them start hobbling and half of them just stop

But as they recompose themselves, the clouds drift slowly by
And Yorkshire looks its finest from my vista in the sky

Here comes number eighty-one, he's struggled on the climb
He's reached the top, now checks his watch and curses at the time

He mentions to a marshall that two hours is the key
To finish in his target time of "under three thirty"

He sighs and pointing to his watch he says "two hours four"
The man who hands out jellybeans says "here mate, take some more"

He's scrawled the split times on his hand, his preparation thorough
Then off he sets with straight legged steps to head for Ingleborough

Ingleborough

I'm standing by the duckboards and I'm feeling rather fraught
I've run this race in recent years, but this time to support

Some novices can start too quick, by now they show the strain
There's seven miles left to run, their faces etched in pain

Of course the lead, a different breed, are moving free and fast
And Morgan Donelly still smiles as he goes running past

I'm waiting for my husband who is in a Calder vest
I think I see him from afar with "eight-one" on his chest

He's set himself a target of a sub three-thirty mark
And if he fails to break that then his mood will be quite dark

He lifts his feet across the boards, there's not much in the tank
He's moving like the guilty man condemned to walk the plank

I offer drink and sustenance that seem to hit the spot
He takes a bite, and says it's tight, while glancing at his watch

He starts the steep ascent and hauls his body up the rocks
His calves are stiff and cramping up despite the knee length socks

It's nip and tuck, I wish him luck: "you're still on track" I say
And wait for other Calder vests, to cheer them on their way

If he's going to make it back in time he'd better summit quick
And keep it ticking over on the run through Sulber Nick

He rings me from the finish field and says he's crossed the line
He's going to have to try next year, his time three thirty one.