Today's poet

[Alf]

And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

Ezra Pound

[freckle]

I Speak Not

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours - can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, -
We will part, we will fly to - unite it again!
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one! - forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it - whatever thou may'st.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -
Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

Lord Byron

this is beautiful alf...still very much enjoying this thread although these days my computer is monopolised by my children! :-)

[freckle]

WHEN WE TWO PARTED
Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow ---
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me ---
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: ---
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met ---
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? --- With silence and tears.

[Mossdog]

White and Green

Hey! My daffodil-crowned,
Slim and without sandals!
As the sudden spurt of flame upon darkness
So my eyeballs are startled with you,
Supple-limbed youth among the fruit-trees,
Light runner through tasselled orchards.
You are an almond flower unsheathed
Leaping and flickering between the budded branches.

(Amy Lowell)

[XRunner]

The Vision of Piers Plowman - Part 1 (William Langland, written ca. 1360–1387)

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

[Hes]

Poor old William wasn't very good at spelling was he? ha ha ha

The Vision of Piers Plowman - Part 1 (William Langland, written ca. 1360–1387)

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

[Stevie]

The Radioactive Kid by Tim Turnbull

Why do you write the way you write? he asks,
nods and adds, in case there was any doubt,
I mean, you know, it’s dark. I sigh, relax
and leave him. I’m back at Stainmore, thumb out,

the end of April 1986,
nithered, shivering, hair plastered to face,
boots soaking up the groundwater like wicks,
rain pouring down my shirt neck in cascades

and each raindrop plutonium enriched.
My pelt drank it in through every pore,
irradiating the gruel-thin blood which
carried the poison to my very core

and there the change began – cells were ruptured,
DNA strands unfurled, reformed reversed,
gradually, painfully, restructured
and left me whole but with this three-fold curse –

a sense, half wonderstruck and half appalled,
that something dreadful’s about to happen,
a compulsion to tell and, above all,
the sure knowledge that no one will listen.

[Mossdog]

The Radioactive Kid by Tim Turnbull

Why do you write the way you write? he asks,
nods and adds, in case there was any doubt,
I mean, you know, it’s dark. I sigh, relax
and leave him. I’m back at Stainmore, thumb out,

the end of April 1986,
nithered, shivering, hair plastered to face,
boots soaking up the groundwater like wicks,
rain pouring down my shirt neck in cascades

and each raindrop plutonium enriched.
My pelt drank it in through every pore,
irradiating the gruel-thin blood which
carried the poison to my very core

and there the change began – cells were ruptured,
DNA strands unfurled, reformed reversed,
gradually, painfully, restructured
and left me whole but with this three-fold curse –

a sense, half wonderstruck and half appalled,
that something dreadful’s about to happen,
a compulsion to tell and, above all,
the sure knowledge that no one will listen.

That's really an intriguing poem, with a smart twist of humour Stevie - thanks. Not heard of Tim Turnball before, so another one for me to google.

[Mossdog]

Thoughts @ 4:48 pm

I'm gazing
through the window
a steady summer rain
gentle to the skin
falls quietly earthwards
the clouds are singing
a life song for our meadows
now hastily cleared of hay
such a timeless bounty,
the stave against that which
we really don't like to speak of,
not just yet: winter

far to the south
I see your toes,
treading through warm sand
prickly seaweed and sticks
you notice,
the slosh-wash of wavelets
charging high along the sandline
lose their momentum, and spent,
retreat languidly;
voices call to you
and for a moment, maybe,
you focus on the gentle salty
breeze which smoothes your cheek,
squint at the horizon,
then smile and call back;
a dozen thoughts clatter
for your attention

those tidal forces of our lives
did we choose or, too late,
find ourselves stranded ?
Marooned among our own rocky clefted worlds
which vie with a multiple of others,
possibilities; missed-taken-overlooked
-or-chosen, at some point we're all
irrevocably beached

how strange life is
did we imagine it would be like this?
Little fish, darting flecks of silver,
in our own diminishing rock pools
until, inevitably
the grand press of Tide
overruns and spills us all out.

[Mossdog]

The Vision of Piers Plowman - Part 1 (William Langland, written ca. 1360–1387)

What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'

Don't leave us on such a cliff hanger! What happens in Part 2?:w00t::w00t: