Today's poet

[Alf]

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more”

― George Gordon Byron

[Hes]

Love it!! Just in from a run and its like spring is in the air. The birds are singing, the snowdrops are beginning to flower, the river is no longer a fierce torrent and the sun is shining. So much happier today

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more”

― George Gordon Byron

[Hes]

Just been reading The River's Voice anthology and I love this. It really sums up the sound of a chattering mountain stream.

Lothian Burn

Up here, scarcely
birdsong even: only

the labials and gutturals
of this burn as it gurgles

downhill, locality of accent
in vowel and consonant,

each circumlocution
through heather and sandstone

traced by inflection
and sharp interjection

until, in a mossy outcrop,
it comes to a glottal stop.

Stewart Conn

[Alf]

Just been reading The River's Voice anthology and I love this. It really sums up the sound of a chattering mountain stream.

Lothian Burn

Up here, scarcely
birdsong even: only

the labials and gutturals
of this burn as it gurgles

downhill, locality of accent
in vowel and consonant,

each circumlocution
through heather and sandstone

traced by inflection
and sharp interjection

until, in a mossy outcrop,
it comes to a glottal stop.

Stewart Conn

Yes its really well written to give that effect

[Alf]

My Soul is Dark

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once - or yield to song.

Lord Byron

[freckle]

My Soul is Dark

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;

And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once - or yield to song.

Lord Byron

Such an elegant articulation of aching solitude ....beautiful ....i also enjoyed the more spring like contributions, I too went for a run this morning and there was something rather lovely about the suprise of sunshine ;-)

[Mossdog]

My Soul is Dark

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once - or yield to song.

Lord Byron

Blimey Alf, that's a bit strong. Nearly got me reaching for the Sylvia Plath - but not quite!

Try this for a snigger instead...


How freakin Zeitgeist are you?



Are you local, organic, animal friendly?

Fairly traded, into bondage and Pilates, are you bendy?



Near the juice bar, with your iPad?

In your high tops, are you cool Dad?



Aiawaskaor Iboga?

Shivananda for your Yoga?



Are you Linked in, are you Beebo?

On your blog spot, drinking Miso?



Are you fluid, are you flexi?

Is your lifestyle well connected?



Are you posting, multi platform?

Is it Beijing that you’re back from?



Are you aware of cultural demographic shifts?

And interconnected network trends?



Yet aware of the difference in the new catagorisations?

In the world of us and those whom we call followers and friends?



Are you aware of mass customization and the 121 future?

And how black cabbage and Spanish cider fit with these developmental rules?



And that: 360 record deals

iPods as DJ decks

And rappers rapping about premium alcohol brands

Is now considered passé and deeply uncool?



Do you have an allotment?

And a bell tent, have you got one?



At a festi, set in parkland?

With a recycled wristband?



Are you surfing the eclectic?

Are you solar and electric?



Funky lifestyle, do you live one?

Or a monky's, could you give one?



So I guess what I’m kinda asking

While I’m kinda multi tasking

Is how feakin Zeitgeist are you?


Murray Lachlan Young

[Mossdog]

Just been reading The River's Voice anthology and I love this. It really sums up the sound of a chattering mountain stream.

Lothian Burn

Up here, scarcely
birdsong even: only

the labials and gutturals
of this burn as it gurgles

downhill, locality of accent
in vowel and consonant,

each circumlocution
through heather and sandstone

traced by inflection
and sharp interjection

until, in a mossy outcrop,
it comes to a glottal stop.

Stewart Conn

Yes! It's really marvellous - great find Hes.

[Alf]

Blimey Alf, that's a bit strong. Nearly got me reaching for the Sylvia Plath - but not quite!

Try this for a snigger instead...


How freakin Zeitgeist are you?



Are you local, organic, animal friendly?

Fairly traded, into bondage and Pilates, are you bendy?



Near the juice bar, with your iPad?

In your high tops, are you cool Dad?



Aiawaskaor Iboga?

Shivananda for your Yoga?



Are you Linked in, are you Beebo?

On your blog spot, drinking Miso?



Are you fluid, are you flexi?

Is your lifestyle well connected?



Are you posting, multi platform?

Is it Beijing that you’re back from?



Are you aware of cultural demographic shifts?

And interconnected network trends?



Yet aware of the difference in the new catagorisations?

In the world of us and those whom we call followers and friends?



Are you aware of mass customization and the 121 future?

And how black cabbage and Spanish cider fit with these developmental rules?



And that: 360 record deals

iPods as DJ decks

And rappers rapping about premium alcohol brands

Is now considered passé and deeply uncool?



Do you have an allotment?

And a bell tent, have you got one?



At a festi, set in parkland?

With a recycled wristband?



Are you surfing the eclectic?

Are you solar and electric?



Funky lifestyle, do you live one?

Or a monky's, could you give one?



So I guess what I’m kinda asking

While I’m kinda multi tasking

Is how feakin Zeitgeist are you?


Murray Lachlan Young

Not a lorra laughs in Byron's poems Mossy and I'm not very feakin Zeitgeist but I enjoyed the poem

[Alf]

I am old enough to remember the licorice sticks they used to sell in sweet shops and apparently they are being grown again in Pontefract :thumbup:

The licorice fields of Pontefract

In the licorice fields at Pontefract
My love and I did meet
And many a burdened licorice bush
Was blooming round our feet;
Red hair she had and golden skin,
Her sulky lips were shaped for sin,
Her sturdy legs were flannel-slack'd
The strongest legs in Pontefract.

The light and dangling licorice flowers
Gave off the sweetest smells;
From various black Victorian towers
The Sunday evening bells
Came pealing over dales and hills
And tanneries and silent mills
And lowly streets where country stops
And little shuttered corner shops.

She cast her blazing eyes on me
And plucked a licorice leaf;
I was her captive slave and she
My red-haired robber chief.
Oh love! for love I could not speak,
It left me winded, wilting, weak,
And held in brown arms strong and bare
And wound with flaming ropes of hair.

John Betjeman