Today's poet

[freckle]

On my dog walk today I watched some Rooks repairing their nests.

Across a dome of marbled grey
These messengers on high
Philosophise upon the day
And February's sky....
Invariably their time allows
A pause along the route
They gather in the poplar boughs
And look like blackened fruit;
Some may yearn for time and space
With scenes of babbling brooks
But give me dawning solace
With the coming of the rooks!

I really enjoyed this MM very evocative and i particularly like the phrase "dawning solace"...nice to see X runner back on here again...

I was reading a bit of Macneice today and found the following poem ....it made me think that its the type of poem I would like to give to my girls when they are old enough to understand its relevance in life...

Entirely

If we could get the hang of it entirely
It would take too long;
All we know is the splash of words in passing
and falling twigs of song,
And when we try to eavesdrop on the great
Presences it is rarely
That by a stroke of luck we can appropriate
Even a phrase entirely.

If we could find our happiness entirely
In somebody else's arms
We should not fear the spears of the spring nor the city's
Yammering fire alarms
But, as it is, the spears each year go through
Our flesh and almost hourly
Bell or siren banishes the blue
Eyes of Love entirely.

And if the world were black or white entirely
And all the charts were plain
Instead of a mad weir of tigerish waters,
A prism of delight and pain,
We might be surer where we wished to go
Or again we might be merely
Bored but in the brute reality there is no
Road that is right entirely.

[Masham Man]

Glad you enjoyed the poem, I loved it too.Got to hold my hands up to not writing this and I don't know who did. There is a column in the Ripon gazette 'weather wise' and sometimes you get some poetry mixed in, so maybe it was the columnist (Gordon Currie) will have to ask him.
Writing poetry is a bit beyond me but I do enjoy reading it on this ere thread and finding the odd one to post.

[Alf]

Some good stuff posted today :thumbup:


The Secret

I loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.
And when I saw a stranger face
Where beauty held the claim,
I gave it like a secret grace
The being of thy name.
And all the charms of face or voice
Which I in others see
Are but the recollected choice
Of what I felt for thee.

John Clare

[freckle]

Some good stuff posted today :thumbup:


The Secret

I loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.
And when I saw a stranger face
Where beauty held the claim,
I gave it like a secret grace
The being of thy name.
And all the charms of face or voice
Which I in others see
Are but the recollected choice
Of what I felt for thee.

John Clare

TOTALLY beautiful....

on the subject of High Cup Nick...."I'll get me coat"

[Alf]

One of her sonnets from 'Fatal Interview' to finish off.

Even in the moment of our earliest kiss,
When sighed the straitened bud into the flower,
Sat the dry seed of most unwelcome this;
And that I knew, though not the day and hour.
Too season-wise am I, being country-bred,
To tilt at autumn or defy the frost:
Snuffing the chill even as my fathers did,
I say with them, "What's out tonight is lost."
I only hoped, with the mild hope of all
Who watch the leaf take shape upon the tree,
A fairer summer and a later fall
Than in these parts a man is apt to see,
And sunny clusters ripened for the wine:
I tell you this across the blackened vine.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

[freckle]

One of her sonnets from 'Fatal Interview' to finish off.

Even in the moment of our earliest kiss,
When sighed the straitened bud into the flower,
Sat the dry seed of most unwelcome this;
And that I knew, though not the day and hour.
Too season-wise am I, being country-bred,
To tilt at autumn or defy the frost:
Snuffing the chill even as my fathers did,
I say with them, "What's out tonight is lost."
I only hoped, with the mild hope of all
Who watch the leaf take shape upon the tree,
A fairer summer and a later fall
Than in these parts a man is apt to see,
And sunny clusters ripened for the wine:
I tell you this across the blackened vine.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

depressing but brilliant!

[OneOffPoet]

Hello Fell Poets

Long time no post - but that's life, training, kids, work etc...

Enjoyed catching up on this thread after yet another lapse and really enjoyed Masham Man's addition. Some lovely lines in there.

Been back fell running quite a bit after a string of injuries and life events last year. Time in exile has meant time to reflect on this thing we call fell running. I was asked what fellrunning feels like by my niece the other day, which is a really good question. I replied that it's like going back to being a kid when you can just fling off things that bother you and go places that move you, in the physical jolting sense as well as the emotional. That reignited the urge to write something after months of thinking i;d lost the urge to write forever. This is fell running for me, and I wonder if it's recognisable or merely a self-indulgent offering! Any comments welcome, honest!


Jump off the End

Childlike
Running free
Motion, no poetry
Convulsing spontaneity

Puppetlike
Moved by the land
Forced to its shape
Each jolt and shake

Trancelike
Moved by the land
And as much, the air
And what isn’t there

Childlike
Jump off the end
Into whatever hides
Behind downhill tears

[freckle]

Hello Fell Poets

Long time no post - but that's life, training, kids, work etc...

Enjoyed catching up on this thread after yet another lapse and really enjoyed Masham Man's addition. Some lovely lines in there.

Been back fell running quite a bit after a string of injuries and life events last year. Time in exile has meant time to reflect on this thing we call fell running. I was asked what fellrunning feels like by my niece the other day, which is a really good question. I replied that it's like going back to being a kid when you can just fling off things that bother you and go places that move you, in the physical jolting sense as well as the emotional. That reignited the urge to write something after months of thinking i;d lost the urge to write forever. This is fell running for me, and I wonder if it's recognisable or merely a self-indulgent offering! Any comments welcome, honest!


Jump off the End

Childlike
Running free
Motion, no poetry
Convulsing spontaneity

Puppetlike
Moved by the land
Forced to its shape
Each jolt and shake

Trancelike
Moved by the land
And as much, the air
And what isn’t there

Childlike
Jump off the end
Into whatever hides
Behind downhill tears

this is lovely one off poet and to me conveys the sense of a reconnection to a more care free state sometimes possible in amongst the agony (for me!) when running in the hills something which is indeed reminiscent of the carefree ramblings of childhood thank you for posting

[freckle]

It felt like spring running in the hills on saturday...hope I can hold onto that feeling throughout my largely surburban week

Snowdrops retort

The margins of an inchoate slate sky
Ambivalently caress the contours of
This car as we travel in mediocre grief
Out of the weekend.

Unlit lamps and nude silverbirch
Line the motorway as anthracite militia
Whispering in low inaudible tones
“Perhaps spring is not here
It may never come”.

And so with heavy heart
And even heavier limbs
The engine is stopped
The door locked
Perhaps resistance is futile?

Then a weary push of the gate
Reveals
A single snowdrop
Who with a finely tuned
Alabaster screech
Refutes the mob.

[Hes]

This is gorgeous Freckle, totally sums up that 'getting back to reality/normality' feeling after a weekend escape but the last lines are really hopeful and positive. Spring is definitely coming... xx

It felt like spring running in the hills on saturday...hope I can hold onto that feeling throughout my largely surburban week

Snowdrops retort

The margins of an inchoate slate sky
Ambivalently caress the contours of
This car as we travel in mediocre grief
Out of the weekend.

Unlit lamps and nude silverbirch
Line the motorway as anthracite militia
Whispering in low inaudible tones
“Perhaps spring is not here
It may never come”.

And so with heavy heart
And even heavier limbs
The engine is stopped
The door locked
Perhaps resistance is futile?

Then a weary push of the gate
Reveals
A single snowdrop
Who with a finely tuned
Alabaster screech
Refutes the mob.