Today's poet

[freckle]

Evening all!

A moving choice there Mossy...and thanks X Runner!

After a brilliant birthday weekend I am in a cheery mood...


THE GOOD NEWS
Thich Nhat Hanh

The good news
they do not print.
The good news
we do print.
We have a special edition every moment,
and we need you to read it.
The good news is that you are alive,
that the linden tree is still there,
standing firm in the harsh winter.
The good news is that you have wonderful eyes
to touch the blue sky.
The good news is that your child is there before you,
and your arms are available:
hugging is possible.
They only print what is wrong.
Look at each of our special editions.
We always offer the things that are not wrong.
We want you to benefit from them
and help protect them.
The dandelion is there by the sidewalk,
smiling its wondrous smile,
singing the song of eternity.
Listen. You have ears that can hear it.
Bow your head.
Listen to it.
Leave behind the world of sorrow,
of preoccupation,
and get free.
The latest good news
is that you can do it.

[stevefoster]

Belated Happy Birthday freckle, seen the pics, looks like you had a great time:thumbup:

[freckle]

Belated Happy Birthday freckle, seen the pics, looks like you had a great time:thumbup:

Thanks Steve it was a wonderful suprise..tho having seen the pics myself I am now gravitating towards the overweight to race weight thread ;-)

hope your knee is mending dear

[stevefoster]

Thanks Steve it was a wonderful suprise..tho having seen the pics myself I am now gravitating towards the overweight to race weight thread ;-)

hope your knee is mending dear

Haddaway pet, nowt wrong with thee,
With regards to me knee, getting better,
Happy me

[freckle]

Haddaway pet, nowt wrong with thee,
With regards to me knee, getting better,
Happy me

Thats good news Steve
and before you know it
you will be a reet good poet!

Oh it looks like you are :-) nice one!

[jellybabyfairy]

Just discovered my club mate Charlotte Wetton is a performance poet. Rather like what I've seen/heard so far and thought a few fell runners might appreciate this one in particular http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGOXbiNUI3w

[Alf]

Just discovered my club mate Charlotte Wetton is a performance poet. Rather like what I've seen/heard so far and thought a few fell runners might appreciate this one in particular http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGOXbiNUI3w

Charlotte is very good Not just running talent at CVFR by the look of it :thumbup:

[Alf]

Birch

Bone-spur, stirrup of veins—white colt
a tree, sapling bone again, worn to a splinter,
a steeple, the birch aground

in its ravine of leaves. Abide with me, arrive
at its skinned branches, its arms pulled
from the sapling, your wrist taut,

each ganglion a gash in the tree's rent
trunk, a child's hackwork, love plus love,
my palms in your fist, that

trio a trident splitting the birch, its bark
papyrus, its scars calligraphy,
a ghost story written on

winding sheets, the trunk bowing, dead is
my father, the birch reading the news
of the day aloud as if we hadn't

heard it, the root moss lit gas,
like the veins on your ink-stained hand—
the birch all elbows, taking us in.

Cynthia Zarin

[Alf]

I was refilling the bird feeders that hang in the two Silver Birch trees in my garden this morning and it reminded me that these trees were saplings when my young family moved into our house and we have grown up with them over the years. Both these poems link trees to personal lives.

Russian Birch


Is it agony that has bleached them to such beauty? Their stand
is at the edge of our property—white spires like fingers, through which
the deer emerge with all the tentative grace of memory. Your father

loved these trees. When you try to imagine his childhood, it is all old
footage, in a similar scheme: black and white. But he died, and all you know
is that they reminded him of home. As they remind you he is gone

to a country as unimaginable as his life before you were born, before
the woman who would be your mother lived as she does now—lost,
wandering at the edge of her life’s whitened gates.

After a storm, one birch fell in the field, an ivory buttress collapsed across
the pasture. Up close there is pink skin beneath the paper, green lichen
ascending in settlements of scales. In the dark yard it beckons you back

to snow, the static of the past—your father, a boy, speaking in a tongue
you never knew, calling down from the branches. Or the letter you wrote
to a mother you weren’t allowed to miss—black ink scrawled across

the white pulp of the page: I am very lonely without you.


Nathaniel Bellows

[freckle]

Just discovered my club mate Charlotte Wetton is a performance poet. Rather like what I've seen/heard so far and thought a few fell runners might appreciate this one in particular http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGOXbiNUI3w

she is sooooo good! thanks for posting it JBF I enjoyed it