Today's poet

[Hes]

I was driving the pretty (or prettier) route back from Settle on Saturday and had to wait until a pack of hounds had made their way down the road. It was quite odd to see all those dogs and know they were bred to chase down a fox. I love dogs and so it was a treat to see them all but the idea of foxhunting chills me.

Foot Hounds

There are no bad dogs someone says
as they river from the van.
I have never seen so many
up-antenna tails, magnetic noses
drawn along the ground.
We turtle into parkas, stamp our feet.
Someone has gone ahead, dragged the scent bag—
we're to follow the dogs on foot,
false masters in a false hunt
to hone the dogs. At the fence
a steamy rag of colts keeps their distance.
Suddenly dogs congeal, rip across the field,
a liver-spotted sheet.
We stumble after hoarse howls
that seem to come from everywhere—
stubble, brush, sky—everything sharp and gray.
Where are we, what are we doing,
what ruined god moves us at his pleasure.
No one follows us, no one calls us back
to a living place, not even crows
whose shaken rug arises and falls.
Frantic, obsessed, the pack is one mind.
They found it someone says.
Not the bird's breath,
not the warm beat of rabbit,
but the ghost of something living, a lie
that's taken hold.

Claudia Burbank

[Hes]

Then

Then, he held me there as if stunned, the figure who had appeared saying
this is the edge between what is and what is not.

On one side was the forest in all its complex depth and verdancy,
on the other side stretched the field, a wide field full of emptiness

where memory was hidden among the grasses, each day of the past moving
like small winds there among the tall grasses.

And therefore I chose, leaving behind what was supposed to be left behind—

and grasped his luminous robe to follow, without a question,
across the transition zone into the old growth forest with its wing sounds.

I might have been the story that wasn't told-- of the woman who left her home
without looking back-- changing forever what happened after.

I trusted only in that spectral figure who moved, with such grace, ahead of me
into the dark evergreens, and the door of their branches closed behind us.

Patricia Fargnoli

[freckle]

Then

Then, he held me there as if stunned, the figure who had appeared saying
this is the edge between what is and what is not.

On one side was the forest in all its complex depth and verdancy,
on the other side stretched the field, a wide field full of emptiness

where memory was hidden among the grasses, each day of the past moving
like small winds there among the tall grasses.

And therefore I chose, leaving behind what was supposed to be left behind—

and grasped his luminous robe to follow, without a question,
across the transition zone into the old growth forest with its wing sounds.

I might have been the story that wasn't told-- of the woman who left her home
without looking back-- changing forever what happened after.

I trusted only in that spectral figure who moved, with such grace, ahead of me
into the dark evergreens, and the door of their branches closed behind us.

Patricia Fargnoli

There is something about this which is intangible yet alluring! nice choice Hes x

[stevefoster]

Lyrics from Under the Bridge by Red Hot Chilli Peppers, originally written as a poem by Anthony Kiedis.
Saw them last night in Manchester, still buzzing.


Sometimes I feel
Like I don't have a partner
Sometimes I feel
Like my only friend
Is the city I live in
The city of angels
Lonely as I am
Together we cry

I drive on her streets
'Cause she's my companion
I walk through her hills
'Cause she knows who I am
She sees my good deeds
And she kisses me windy
I never worry
Now that is a lie

I don't ever want to feel
Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love
Take me all the way

It's hard to believe
That there's nobody out there
It's hard to believe
That I'm all alone
At least I have her love
The city she loves me
Lonely as I am
Together we cry

I don't ever want to feel
Like I did that day
Take me to the place I love
Take me all that way

Under the bridge downtown
Is where I drew some blood
Under the bridge downtown
I could not get enough
Under the bridge downtown
Forgot about my love
Under the bridge downtown
I gave my life away

[Ady In Accy]

Call me a philistine but how have I managed not to here 'Under Milk Wood' until these past days?? Starless, bible black. Flying like black flour. Trotting silent with seaweed on its hooves.
Not enjoyed such like since I heard Wilfred Owen's Dulce et decorum est 29 years ago!

[Harry H Howgill]

Call me a philistine but how have I managed not to here 'Under Milk Wood' until these past days?? Starless, bible black. Flying like black flour. Trotting silent with seaweed on its hooves.
Not enjoyed such like since I heard Wilfred Owen's Dulce et decorum est 29 years ago!

Life's great. It is fab when you stumble across great poetry, writing, music or a photograph. Savour the moment and smile.

[Hes]

Its a gem isn't it Ady? One thing I'd like to hear again is Dylan Thomas's 'A child's christmas in Wales'. My mum used to read it to me and my sisters at Christmas when we were kids. I've also heard a version on the radio read by Dylan himself. hmmm....must see if its available somewhere.

Call me a philistine but how have I managed not to here 'Under Milk Wood' until these past days?? Starless, bible black. Flying like black flour. Trotting silent with seaweed on its hooves.
Not enjoyed such like since I heard Wilfred Owen's Dulce et decorum est 29 years ago!

[Mossdog]

Clean me

I love to watch these bodies, how lovely and shapely
they are, as if, as Cavafy put it—Eros had fashioned them out of
his perfect experience—and in a small town in the middle
of Missouri no less, nothing to speak of
yet here they are, fashionably draped and going
about their business as if it were Paris or New York,
their lives full and meaningful without boredom, want or iniquity.
I stare at them, as if doing so would extract from them
an urgent gift they can not openly offer.
But this is no solution: too much distance lies
between the knife of appreciation and the fork of possession.
As if the mere act of shaping an appearance,
out of chaste fabric and otherwise incoherent dust,
could salvage what we’d never save.
As if it qualifies us for, makes us worthy of, affection.
We no longer believe in child gods—and really why should we?—
yet up and down the street, parked cars mock us
with these letters, traced in filth, crying out for action.

John Estes


There's been some excellent posts of the past couple of weeks - too many to mentio, but I've really enjoyed reading over the postings. Found this one while pursuing the web and it caught my attention.

[Mossdog]

love is the every only god

love is the every only god

who spoke this earth so glad and big
even a thing all small and sad
man,may his mighty briefness dig

for love beginning means return
seas who could sing so deep and strong

one queerying wave will whitely yearn
from each last shore and home come young

so truly perfectly the skies
by merciful love whispered were,
completes its brightness with your eyes

any illimitable star

ee cummings

[XRunner]

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.



In memory of my father who passed away recently.