This topic has been archived, and won't accept reply postings.
The other thread was getting too big, so I am starting this one.
Tonight is ladies night. Ladies, imagine that your partner is doing all the laundry, washing up, general chores as well as taking care of the kids if any this evening, so that you can participate to this thread! Go on, write a few lines, I know you can be as daring as you are when climbing.
Since this is meant to encourage you, the theme is up to you.
Gentlemen, on the other hand, your theme is a wonderful one:
women!
Tonight is ladies night. Ladies, imagine that your partner is doing all the laundry, washing up, general chores as well as taking care of the kids if any this evening, so that you can participate to this thread! Go on, write a few lines, I know you can be as daring as you are when climbing.
Since this is meant to encourage you, the theme is up to you.
Gentlemen, on the other hand, your theme is a wonderful one:
women!
In reply to Sandrine:
In the land of the blind,
Where the one eyed man is king,
Can you still see me smile,
Can you still hear me sing,
For I smile with the light,
That you cast on my soul,
And I sing with the happiness,
Of the free nightingale,
For when you say that you love me,
Well it lights up my life,
And it gives me my wings,
So that I might take flight,
You can make me feel,
When I can feel no thing,
Fore you are the wind,
Beneath my wings.
Mikey.
In the land of the blind,
Where the one eyed man is king,
Can you still see me smile,
Can you still hear me sing,
For I smile with the light,
That you cast on my soul,
And I sing with the happiness,
Of the free nightingale,
For when you say that you love me,
Well it lights up my life,
And it gives me my wings,
So that I might take flight,
You can make me feel,
When I can feel no thing,
Fore you are the wind,
Beneath my wings.
Mikey.
In reply to Sandrine:
Once there was a man called Buckwheat
he gots thing wrong all the time and forgot to eat
he used to put spoons up his nose and talk to bits of meat
He died trying to fly off Froggatt - silly old Fu*kweet!
;0)
Si
Once there was a man called Buckwheat
he gots thing wrong all the time and forgot to eat
he used to put spoons up his nose and talk to bits of meat
He died trying to fly off Froggatt - silly old Fu*kweet!
;0)
Si
In reply to Sandrine:
New thread, huh? Ain't you the fancypants!
women is things what holds your ropes
then burdens the air with too much hopes
i got no truck with them there women
until they gets to that there slimmin
anythin bout them i need to understand
i can get easy enuff from the magazine stand
marie claire, of course, is my true favourite
i hide it in the bathroom, and sneak in to savour it
New thread, huh? Ain't you the fancypants!
women is things what holds your ropes
then burdens the air with too much hopes
i got no truck with them there women
until they gets to that there slimmin
anythin bout them i need to understand
i can get easy enuff from the magazine stand
marie claire, of course, is my true favourite
i hide it in the bathroom, and sneak in to savour it
In reply to Steve Parker:
If I am the fancypants? You mean posh?
So you read Marie-claire? Steve Parker sitting on the loo and reading Marie-claire, now that's an amusing image!
If I am the fancypants? You mean posh?
So you read Marie-claire? Steve Parker sitting on the loo and reading Marie-claire, now that's an amusing image!
In reply to Sandrine:
Clickety click click click
is the paparazzi trick,
They wait in the bush,
being rather hush,
Then out springs the celebrity from their great big house,
The paparazzi waste their film to only see it was a man dressed as a mouse!
Clickety click click click
is the paparazzi trick,
They wait in the bush,
being rather hush,
Then out springs the celebrity from their great big house,
The paparazzi waste their film to only see it was a man dressed as a mouse!
In reply to Sandrine:
Fancy Pants means someone who suddenly thinks they are special and stylish, and acts like it. It's an Americanism stemming, literally, from people who wore fancy (smart) pants instead of work pants. I bet you ain't wearing no work pants, are you!
And I don't sit on no loos reading no Marie Claires. It was just a JOKE. Got it? Not ever, ever! Oh, okay, maybe once or twice...
Fancy Pants means someone who suddenly thinks they are special and stylish, and acts like it. It's an Americanism stemming, literally, from people who wore fancy (smart) pants instead of work pants. I bet you ain't wearing no work pants, are you!
And I don't sit on no loos reading no Marie Claires. It was just a JOKE. Got it? Not ever, ever! Oh, okay, maybe once or twice...
In reply to wushu:
I would have thought a mouse dressed as a man was more usually the case with celebrities. Wouldn't fit your rhyme, though.
I would have thought a mouse dressed as a man was more usually the case with celebrities. Wouldn't fit your rhyme, though.
In reply to Sandrine: Yep! Start college september 11th. Loads of time off! :-D
In reply to Steve Parker: Aye i know, Ah well.
In reply to Steve Parker:
No I do not consider myself special or stylish. I bet you would not say something like that if it was Simon or The Crow posting it. I reckon it's a last bit of chauvinism in your cerebellum. You ought to get rid of it Steve!
Fancy pants, work pants, American or English meaning? Not replying as you will most probably make fun of me anyway!
<Oh, okay, maybe once or twice...>
See, you admit it. No shame, everyone needs to chill every once in a while.
No I do not consider myself special or stylish. I bet you would not say something like that if it was Simon or The Crow posting it. I reckon it's a last bit of chauvinism in your cerebellum. You ought to get rid of it Steve!
Fancy pants, work pants, American or English meaning? Not replying as you will most probably make fun of me anyway!
<Oh, okay, maybe once or twice...>
See, you admit it. No shame, everyone needs to chill every once in a while.
In reply to Sandrine:
its rubbish i know. but hey. it took me little time at the end of my french exam.
MY ANGEL
She opens her wings to fly
I remember when she soared
She used to float so high
But things have happened
And times have changed
And left this angel
Tired, flightless, drained
Where once she used to touch the sky
Her wings now fail her
She falls and dies
There on the ground
My angel has fallen
You pulled her down
Weak, lonely, trapped
She is now just mere mortal
She has felt human pain
The love ended, she felt it all
All the emotions, an angel
Doesn’t cry, but her heart
Got torn,
Withered, and died.
its rubbish i know. but hey. it took me little time at the end of my french exam.
MY ANGEL
She opens her wings to fly
I remember when she soared
She used to float so high
But things have happened
And times have changed
And left this angel
Tired, flightless, drained
Where once she used to touch the sky
Her wings now fail her
She falls and dies
There on the ground
My angel has fallen
You pulled her down
Weak, lonely, trapped
She is now just mere mortal
She has felt human pain
The love ended, she felt it all
All the emotions, an angel
Doesn’t cry, but her heart
Got torn,
Withered, and died.
In reply to Sandrine:
I open my wallet
With a click.
She is there,
- younger than she is now -
And we smile together.
Y.
> (In reply to Simon)
>
>
> Camera
I open my wallet
With a click.
She is there,
- younger than she is now -
And we smile together.
Y.
In reply to mm548:
Self-deprecating Mm is on this thread! Now, that's a treat! I don't think that your poem is rubbish at all, lots of emotions in it. I hope you will come back again with more (and also that your French test went OK .
Self-deprecating Mm is on this thread! Now, that's a treat! I don't think that your poem is rubbish at all, lots of emotions in it. I hope you will come back again with more (and also that your French test went OK .
In reply to Sandrine:
Funnily enough im doing a national diploma in Photography! lol at the local arts college. Erm going to try and get out climbing this summer... alot! Since i've started trad climbing and love it!
Funnily enough im doing a national diploma in Photography! lol at the local arts college. Erm going to try and get out climbing this summer... alot! Since i've started trad climbing and love it!
In reply to mm548:
I liked it anyway!
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> its rubbish i know. but hey. it took me little time at the end of my french exam.
>
You are wrong. It is not rubbish.
>
> its rubbish i know. but hey. it took me little time at the end of my french exam.
>
I liked it anyway!
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
I've never been a big poetry fan but I do like Auden:
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total darkness sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
I've never been a big poetry fan but I do like Auden:
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total darkness sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
In reply to Sandrine:
thanks... and yeah, i think the test went alright... wasnt too hard!
(i got pretty worried when my friend said she finished it in ten minutes mind :oS that cant be a good thing can it?! :oP )
ill see what i can do on the more poetry front
> (In reply to mm548)
>
> Self-deprecating Mm is on this thread! Now, that's a treat! I don't think that your poem is rubbish at all, lots of emotions in it. I hope you will come back again with more (and also that your French test went OK .
>
> Self-deprecating Mm is on this thread! Now, that's a treat! I don't think that your poem is rubbish at all, lots of emotions in it. I hope you will come back again with more (and also that your French test went OK .
thanks... and yeah, i think the test went alright... wasnt too hard!
(i got pretty worried when my friend said she finished it in ten minutes mind :oS that cant be a good thing can it?! :oP )
ill see what i can do on the more poetry front
In reply to Sandrine:
oh and who can forget the mighty McGonagall:
On yonder hill there stood a coo,
it moved awa' it's no there noo
oh and who can forget the mighty McGonagall:
On yonder hill there stood a coo,
it moved awa' it's no there noo
In reply to Sandrine: After i have taught myself!
In reply to mm548:
(i got pretty worried when my friend said she finished it in ten minutes mind :oS that cant be a good thing can it?! :oP )
It's not the quantity that counts, it's the quality.
Next theme: sovereign.
Oops, must go now, night everyone.
(i got pretty worried when my friend said she finished it in ten minutes mind :oS that cant be a good thing can it?! :oP )
It's not the quantity that counts, it's the quality.
Next theme: sovereign.
Oops, must go now, night everyone.
In reply to mikeski:
But I have an Elizabethan song book, to which he writes the introduction. It is good to read one poet critically praising another.
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> I've never been a big poetry fan but I do like Auden:
>
I've not read much by him
>
> I've never been a big poetry fan but I do like Auden:
>
But I have an Elizabethan song book, to which he writes the introduction. It is good to read one poet critically praising another.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine: Night Night.
In reply to Sandrine:
From yonder they came,
Through hill and dale,
To steal henry's rack,
They were on their bail,
Baseball caps and sovereign rings,
Henry thought screw this and ran for cover,
The sounds that blasted 'yeah your mother!'
The chavs had come to wreak some havoc,
Henry grabbed his hexes he'd let them have it,
Bang and clash thwack and claw,
Henry was at home,
The sovereign rings looked nice on his new drawer.
From yonder they came,
Through hill and dale,
To steal henry's rack,
They were on their bail,
Baseball caps and sovereign rings,
Henry thought screw this and ran for cover,
The sounds that blasted 'yeah your mother!'
The chavs had come to wreak some havoc,
Henry grabbed his hexes he'd let them have it,
Bang and clash thwack and claw,
Henry was at home,
The sovereign rings looked nice on his new drawer.
In reply to wushu:
When they brought out the pound coin (in the midst of the miner's strike), some people suggested it should be called the Thatcher, becuase it is brassy with pretentions to be a sovereign. Other people suggested it should be called a Scargill, for similar reasons, with the added advantage you could call fifty pence.....
I don't need to spell it out, do I
There is a poem in there somewhere, but it lapses into McGonnegal.
Y.
When they brought out the pound coin (in the midst of the miner's strike), some people suggested it should be called the Thatcher, becuase it is brassy with pretentions to be a sovereign. Other people suggested it should be called a Scargill, for similar reasons, with the added advantage you could call fifty pence.....
I don't need to spell it out, do I
There is a poem in there somewhere, but it lapses into McGonnegal.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf: Well there is also the term soveriegn rings, hence why i mentioned it since alot of the chavs around here wear them..
In reply to Sandrine:
Or whatever Chauvin was.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> No I do not consider myself special or stylish. I bet you would not say something like that if it was Simon or The Crow posting it. I reckon it's a last bit of chauvinism in your cerebellum. You ought to get rid of it Steve!
>
I certainly would say it to Simon or the Crow, as it was only a joke! And I ain't got no French foreign ministers in my cerebellum!!!
>
> No I do not consider myself special or stylish. I bet you would not say something like that if it was Simon or The Crow posting it. I reckon it's a last bit of chauvinism in your cerebellum. You ought to get rid of it Steve!
>
Or whatever Chauvin was.
In reply to Steve Parker:
I meant it as male chauvinism.
Ah! The delight of teasing Steve Parker! It works each time!
Teasable
I meant it as male chauvinism.
Ah! The delight of teasing Steve Parker! It works each time!
Teasable
Quench
In reply to Sandrine:
Une fille impatiente
(or the difficulty of acting at the right moment)
(or the speedy muse)
There's a girl I know who wants to inspire,
A single word and her suitors compete.
They hasten to rhyme they work and perspire,
Yet others have finished while I'm incomplete.
In love as in poetry timing is key,
(maintenant maintenant maintenant)
But poems take time when written by me.
(ne m'attendent pas)
I fear to post verse once the topic is dead,
(satisfont moi)
I can't hope to compete with the pace of each thread.
(OH! de tels plaisirs lyriques)
So I ask of the muse can we simply pretend
(type il, le dactylographient)
That I'm bang up to speed when I post at the end?
(oui, oui, OUI!)
;oP
Une fille impatiente
(or the difficulty of acting at the right moment)
(or the speedy muse)
There's a girl I know who wants to inspire,
A single word and her suitors compete.
They hasten to rhyme they work and perspire,
Yet others have finished while I'm incomplete.
In love as in poetry timing is key,
(maintenant maintenant maintenant)
But poems take time when written by me.
(ne m'attendent pas)
I fear to post verse once the topic is dead,
(satisfont moi)
I can't hope to compete with the pace of each thread.
(OH! de tels plaisirs lyriques)
So I ask of the muse can we simply pretend
(type il, le dactylographient)
That I'm bang up to speed when I post at the end?
(oui, oui, OUI!)
;oP
In reply to Sandrine:
By a freind
I know -
when I see the covey of nervous quail scatter,
absolutely dismantled, by my new boots approaching, so adventurous
that you're not far.
And, I know -
when the sun comes up and cracks the morning's cover,
shattering it - to lilac, and lavender,
and it says 'you're in an opal'
you're not far.
And-
when I see the dirty seagulls on their brazen perches,
thieving everything they can from Pike Street Market,
the dirty gets.
you're not far.
And-
tonight, when the sky itself is hunkered down, and concerned.
Sure the clouds are at the door!
miles, mountains, nothing.
you're not far.
By a freind
I know -
when I see the covey of nervous quail scatter,
absolutely dismantled, by my new boots approaching, so adventurous
that you're not far.
And, I know -
when the sun comes up and cracks the morning's cover,
shattering it - to lilac, and lavender,
and it says 'you're in an opal'
you're not far.
And-
when I see the dirty seagulls on their brazen perches,
thieving everything they can from Pike Street Market,
the dirty gets.
you're not far.
And-
tonight, when the sky itself is hunkered down, and concerned.
Sure the clouds are at the door!
miles, mountains, nothing.
you're not far.
In reply to Sandrine:
When I have had a beer
I am teasable
But I might take your flirting
As an invitation
for a walk up Teesdale
Y.
When I have had a beer
I am teasable
But I might take your flirting
As an invitation
for a walk up Teesdale
Y.
In reply to The Crow:
The problem with this thread is people write stuff, and I think "I wish I could have done that"
You are a case in point.
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> Une fille impatiente
>
>
> Une fille impatiente
>
The problem with this thread is people write stuff, and I think "I wish I could have done that"
You are a case in point.
Y.
Quench my thirst for goals
give me a moment of standing play
with the ball like a zephyr
and Gerrard saving the day.
Let me not have to shudder again
as England's defence become clowns
just this once, Mister Sven,
please spare us our customary frowns.
One great wave, one linking move,
threaded with art up the park,
finished mightily into the net:
then all else can go dark.
give me a moment of standing play
with the ball like a zephyr
and Gerrard saving the day.
Let me not have to shudder again
as England's defence become clowns
just this once, Mister Sven,
please spare us our customary frowns.
One great wave, one linking move,
threaded with art up the park,
finished mightily into the net:
then all else can go dark.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I don't know what you mean with that, I have never been to Teesdale. Beside I am not flirting with anyone. Just teasing a bit, that's all.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> But I might take your flirting
> As an invitation
> for a walk up Teesdale
> But I might take your flirting
> As an invitation
> for a walk up Teesdale
I don't know what you mean with that, I have never been to Teesdale. Beside I am not flirting with anyone. Just teasing a bit, that's all.
In reply to Sandrine: It was written for me which makes me blush. an Irish lady from Co. Louth. I have quite a lot of her stuff, much of it written on hand made paper.
I miss her very much.
I miss her very much.
In reply to Sandrine:
The kettle's on, the sun has gone, another day
She offers me, Tibetan tea, on a flower tray
She's at the door, she's want's to score, she really needs to say:
"I once loved you a long time ago, you know
Where the winds own forget-me-nots blow, you know
But I couldn't let myself go
Not knowing what on earth there was to know
But I wish that I had, 'cause i'm feeling so sad
that I never had one of your children."
Across the room, inside a tomb, a chance is waxed and waned
The night is young, why are we so hung-up, in each other's chains
I must take her, I must make her, while the dove domains
See the juice run as she flies
Run my wings under her sighs
As the flames of eternity rise
To lick us with the first born lash of dawn
Oh really my dear, I can't see what we fear
With ourselves, sat here between us
And at the door, we can't say more, than just another day
Without a sound, I turn around, and I walk away
The kettle's on, the sun has gone, another day
She offers me, Tibetan tea, on a flower tray
She's at the door, she's want's to score, she really needs to say:
"I once loved you a long time ago, you know
Where the winds own forget-me-nots blow, you know
But I couldn't let myself go
Not knowing what on earth there was to know
But I wish that I had, 'cause i'm feeling so sad
that I never had one of your children."
Across the room, inside a tomb, a chance is waxed and waned
The night is young, why are we so hung-up, in each other's chains
I must take her, I must make her, while the dove domains
See the juice run as she flies
Run my wings under her sighs
As the flames of eternity rise
To lick us with the first born lash of dawn
Oh really my dear, I can't see what we fear
With ourselves, sat here between us
And at the door, we can't say more, than just another day
Without a sound, I turn around, and I walk away
In reply to Fawksey:
A lost love? Written on hand-made paper...
I think you can probably consider yourself lucky to have such a friend...
A lost love? Written on hand-made paper...
I think you can probably consider yourself lucky to have such a friend...
In reply to Sandrine:
same freind
Thin air
I think of you, suspended
up there, from the white mountain
what majesties you must view!
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, cold
up there, in the thin air,
ice around you, bearing down on you
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, warm
down from the white mountain
safely home by the fire's grate,
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, covered
lying in the bed,
alive and loving, beautiful.
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, the words
and thoughts in verse,
how rare it is, and you..
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, and a kiss
searching, scented with peat smoke
and oh, my heart stops.
Just the thought of it.
same freind
Thin air
I think of you, suspended
up there, from the white mountain
what majesties you must view!
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, cold
up there, in the thin air,
ice around you, bearing down on you
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, warm
down from the white mountain
safely home by the fire's grate,
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, covered
lying in the bed,
alive and loving, beautiful.
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, the words
and thoughts in verse,
how rare it is, and you..
- and my heart stirs, to think of it.
I think of you, and a kiss
searching, scented with peat smoke
and oh, my heart stops.
Just the thought of it.
In reply to Fawksey:
It's easy enough to say that now, but as a woman I can definetely relate to the details she mentions.
It's easy enough to say that now, but as a woman I can definetely relate to the details she mentions.
In reply to Sandrine:
Assiduous
I'm collecting moments of history:
fragments, snatches of time,
images lost in dazzled air,
and pasting them into my big book
of silence.
I'm doing this carefully
and slowly, so as not to interrupt
the rhythm of that heart
that I can hear beating
somewhere near my head.
With every beat, an image rises,
a kestrel shrieks in the wind's whip,
clawing love's madness from the sky
and pasting it all into dry pages,
even the tears now dried into memory,
all of it history, dust,
all of it with that smell
of old books, that haunting smell
of everything that is suddenly lost.
Like I said, I'm doing all this
carefully, so as not to lose
the scent into those quiet rooms
of the heart, those chambers
into which an animal once came
crashing from the rain, laughing,
breaking things, joking
its violent way into love.
Hearts require some care
from their file clerks.
Quiet, please. Quiet.
Assiduous
I'm collecting moments of history:
fragments, snatches of time,
images lost in dazzled air,
and pasting them into my big book
of silence.
I'm doing this carefully
and slowly, so as not to interrupt
the rhythm of that heart
that I can hear beating
somewhere near my head.
With every beat, an image rises,
a kestrel shrieks in the wind's whip,
clawing love's madness from the sky
and pasting it all into dry pages,
even the tears now dried into memory,
all of it history, dust,
all of it with that smell
of old books, that haunting smell
of everything that is suddenly lost.
Like I said, I'm doing all this
carefully, so as not to lose
the scent into those quiet rooms
of the heart, those chambers
into which an animal once came
crashing from the rain, laughing,
breaking things, joking
its violent way into love.
Hearts require some care
from their file clerks.
Quiet, please. Quiet.
Next theme: charm
In reply to Sandrine:
You certainly dont get no charm,
From the dirty pigs in the farm,
Even if they oink and snort,
Charm comes with a bottle of port.
<said in farmerish voice! lol>
How is everyone?
You certainly dont get no charm,
From the dirty pigs in the farm,
Even if they oink and snort,
Charm comes with a bottle of port.
<said in farmerish voice! lol>
How is everyone?
In reply to wushu:
Hi Wushu, nice to read you again! I am good tonight, pleased with the work I have done today.
Hi Wushu, nice to read you again! I am good tonight, pleased with the work I have done today.
In reply to Sandrine:
I bought a strange old charm
in the shape of a human ear;
it came with some instructions
and a faint miasma of fear.
Your heart's desire, it promised:
just speak these words and stroke it.
Perhaps I was too excited,
perhaps I clumsily broke it,
but next morning my cigarettes
had inexplicably vanished,
my whiskey was all gone,
my drug dealer seemingly banished.
My fridge was full of lettuce,
and my steaks had strangely fled,
my beer had all become Volvic,
strange new hungers filled my head.
Smartass bloody heart!
I bought a strange old charm
in the shape of a human ear;
it came with some instructions
and a faint miasma of fear.
Your heart's desire, it promised:
just speak these words and stroke it.
Perhaps I was too excited,
perhaps I clumsily broke it,
but next morning my cigarettes
had inexplicably vanished,
my whiskey was all gone,
my drug dealer seemingly banished.
My fridge was full of lettuce,
and my steaks had strangely fled,
my beer had all become Volvic,
strange new hungers filled my head.
Smartass bloody heart!
In reply to Sandrine: Thats good to hear! I've managed to retire my anasazi velcro's by my toe going straight through the front! Ah well.
In reply to Sandrine:
Sinecure
They gave big John some houses,
with beds full of flowers,
let him croquet his trousers,
then stripped all his powers.
He retains quite a title,
down there in Whitehall,
though with zero requital
it really means shite all.
Sinecure
They gave big John some houses,
with beds full of flowers,
let him croquet his trousers,
then stripped all his powers.
He retains quite a title,
down there in Whitehall,
though with zero requital
it really means shite all.
Hotel
In reply to wushu:
I normally knacker mine by my right big toe going through the sole. I used to go through a pair every 3 months when I was climbing all the time. Went through quite a few toenails too. Yuck. Shoes full of blood.
> (In reply to Sandrine) Thats good to hear! I've managed to retire my anasazi velcro's by my toe going straight through the front! Ah well.
I normally knacker mine by my right big toe going through the sole. I used to go through a pair every 3 months when I was climbing all the time. Went through quite a few toenails too. Yuck. Shoes full of blood.
In reply to Sandrine:
I stayed up for days in the Chelsea Hotel
writing Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands for you.......B Dylan
I stayed up for days in the Chelsea Hotel
writing Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands for you.......B Dylan
In reply to Steve Parker: Aye thats where i've done mine! Have been climbing nearly every day lately though..
In reply to Sandrine:
Now this IS getting too machine-like! Maybe you do Hotel. You can even use the opportunity to dig out your circumflex!
>
> Hotel
> Hotel
Now this IS getting too machine-like! Maybe you do Hotel. You can even use the opportunity to dig out your circumflex!
In reply to Fawksey:
Take it she was called Sarah? F*cking fantastic song.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> I stayed up for days in the Chelsea Hotel
> writing Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands for you.......B Dylan
>
> I stayed up for days in the Chelsea Hotel
> writing Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands for you.......B Dylan
Take it she was called Sarah? F*cking fantastic song.
In reply to Sandrine: About 10months , 5 of them i didn't climb due to injury.
In reply to Steve Parker: I believe he wrote it for Joan Baez as he states "I gave you an Egyptian ring", which he did give Joan Baez
In reply to Fawksey:
I presume you're familiar with Diamonds and Rust, Joan Baez's epic ballad to Dylan? If not, get it. It's a pretty amazing song of lost love and all that might have been.
I presume you're familiar with Diamonds and Rust, Joan Baez's epic ballad to Dylan? If not, get it. It's a pretty amazing song of lost love and all that might have been.
In reply to Fawksey:
I think this song (She belongs to me) is the song about Joan Baez and the Egyptian ring:
http://homepage.mac.com/danielmartin/Dylan/html/songs/S/SheBelongsToMe.html
> (In reply to Steve Parker) I believe he wrote it for Joan Baez as he states "I gave you an Egyptian ring", which he did give Joan Baez
I think this song (She belongs to me) is the song about Joan Baez and the Egyptian ring:
http://homepage.mac.com/danielmartin/Dylan/html/songs/S/SheBelongsToMe.html
In reply to Steve Parker: joan Baez's web site is called "Sad Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands"
In reply to Fawksey:
I think there's some dispute about who he wrote it for. Obviously, in Sarah he claims it was written for Sarah Lownds, but others reckon it was written for Joan Baez Maybe Joan thinks so too. Maybe she knows so.
I think there's some dispute about who he wrote it for. Obviously, in Sarah he claims it was written for Sarah Lownds, but others reckon it was written for Joan Baez Maybe Joan thinks so too. Maybe she knows so.
In reply to Steve Parker: the sites I have been on say the Joan thinks its for her others claim the link
Sad Eyed Lady Of the Lowlands
SA L O W NDS
not so sure about that myself.
Anyhow just reread the lyrics to Visions of Joanna, WOW.
The missus just told me Idiot Wind is the best song
Sad Eyed Lady Of the Lowlands
SA L O W NDS
not so sure about that myself.
Anyhow just reread the lyrics to Visions of Joanna, WOW.
The missus just told me Idiot Wind is the best song
In reply to Steve Parker:
In the track "Sara" - he states that he spent a night "writing SELOTHL for you"
Sara was once married & divorced & the lyric "magazine husband" reffered to her ex...
he just messed about a bit with the other women in his life by putting other references in I guess!!
good ol bob!!
;0)
si
In the track "Sara" - he states that he spent a night "writing SELOTHL for you"
Sara was once married & divorced & the lyric "magazine husband" reffered to her ex...
he just messed about a bit with the other women in his life by putting other references in I guess!!
good ol bob!!
;0)
si
In reply to Fawksey:
Yeah, that sounds like crap.
Love both of them. F*cking genius.
> (In reply to Steve Parker) the sites I have been on say the Joan thinks its for her others claim the link
>
> Sad Eyed Lady Of the Lowlands
> SA L O W NDS
>
> not so sure about that myself.
>
> Sad Eyed Lady Of the Lowlands
> SA L O W NDS
>
> not so sure about that myself.
Yeah, that sounds like crap.
>
> Anyhow just reread the lyrics to Visions of Joanna, WOW.
>
> The missus just told me Idiot Wind is the best song
> Anyhow just reread the lyrics to Visions of Joanna, WOW.
>
> The missus just told me Idiot Wind is the best song
Love both of them. F*cking genius.
In reply to Simon:
I wondered how long it would be till you spotted a Dylan debate going on!!!
I bet you can smell one from six miles.
I wondered how long it would be till you spotted a Dylan debate going on!!!
I bet you can smell one from six miles.
In reply to Simon: to play tricks when your trying to be so quiet
In reply to Sandrine:
What meetings were witnessed by their parked car?
What whispers were heard by this bar?
What rendezvous revealed in the restaunt?
Or hidden in a garden 'neath the stars?
What kisses were stolen on the sweeping stairs?
Could the lovers evade the fixéd stares
Of the frusty old portraits that line the walls
As they giggled to their room, Unaware
That the walls can remember the touch of their fingers
That in the brass ballusters an image still lingers
That the floors still vibrate to their dancing feet.
The chandeliers still shake to their beat.
Y.
>
> Hotel
> Hotel
What meetings were witnessed by their parked car?
What whispers were heard by this bar?
What rendezvous revealed in the restaunt?
Or hidden in a garden 'neath the stars?
What kisses were stolen on the sweeping stairs?
Could the lovers evade the fixéd stares
Of the frusty old portraits that line the walls
As they giggled to their room, Unaware
That the walls can remember the touch of their fingers
That in the brass ballusters an image still lingers
That the floors still vibrate to their dancing feet.
The chandeliers still shake to their beat.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Go on then...one for the road.
A hole in my heart,
I’ve had one before,
But since I met you,
It’s appeared once more,
Although we feel so close,
We are still so far,
It’s ever growing bigger,
This hole in my heart,
For the rift between us,
Remains the same,
It feels so much bigger,
My spirit feels lame,
And though I’m at the end,
It feels like the start,
It starting to repair,
This hole in my heart.
Imagine please,
If you can do,
The happiness you bring,
The smiles you induce,
For at the end of the day,
Even though we’re apart,
You still manage to fill,
This hole in my heart.
Go on then...one for the road.
A hole in my heart,
I’ve had one before,
But since I met you,
It’s appeared once more,
Although we feel so close,
We are still so far,
It’s ever growing bigger,
This hole in my heart,
For the rift between us,
Remains the same,
It feels so much bigger,
My spirit feels lame,
And though I’m at the end,
It feels like the start,
It starting to repair,
This hole in my heart.
Imagine please,
If you can do,
The happiness you bring,
The smiles you induce,
For at the end of the day,
Even though we’re apart,
You still manage to fill,
This hole in my heart.
In reply to Steve Parker:
been crooning "it taks a lot to laugh - it takes a train to cry" - slowly becomming a fave - especailly the 1975 bootleg live version - great song!
- nice to stumble upon the Bob faithfull debating Sad eyed - a great debate - but it was for Sara at the end of the day!!
cheers
si
been crooning "it taks a lot to laugh - it takes a train to cry" - slowly becomming a fave - especailly the 1975 bootleg live version - great song!
- nice to stumble upon the Bob faithfull debating Sad eyed - a great debate - but it was for Sara at the end of the day!!
cheers
si
In reply to Steve Parker:
and we are allll dooing our beest to deny it!!!
...lights flicker - from the opposite loft...
and we are allll dooing our beest to deny it!!!
...lights flicker - from the opposite loft...
In reply to Simon:
oops! shud be!
and louise holds a handfull of rain tempting you to defy it...
...lights flicker - from the opposite loft...
soz!
si
oops! shud be!
and louise holds a handfull of rain tempting you to defy it...
...lights flicker - from the opposite loft...
soz!
si
In reply to Simon:
Yeah, fantastic song.
Wonder who it might have been for at the start of the day, though!?
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>
> been crooning "it taks a lot to laugh - it takes a train to cry" - slowly becomming a fave - especailly the 1975 bootleg live version - great song!
>
>
> been crooning "it taks a lot to laugh - it takes a train to cry" - slowly becomming a fave - especailly the 1975 bootleg live version - great song!
Yeah, fantastic song.
>
> - nice to stumble upon the Bob faithfull debating Sad eyed - a great debate - but it was for Sara at the end of the day!!
> - nice to stumble upon the Bob faithfull debating Sad eyed - a great debate - but it was for Sara at the end of the day!!
Wonder who it might have been for at the start of the day, though!?
>
> cheers
>
> si
> cheers
>
> si
in this room the heat pipes just cough...
In reply to Mikey_07:
Hmm, I meant which of Sandrine's themes. Or you not playing?
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> What most of mine are about brother.
>
> What most of mine are about brother.
Hmm, I meant which of Sandrine's themes. Or you not playing?
In reply to Simon:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>
> ..but theres nothing, nothing really to turn off!!
>
> ha ha! - nite mate!
>
Ain't going to bed, I'm just not doing a post for every line of Visions!
>
>
> ..but theres nothing, nothing really to turn off!!
>
> ha ha! - nite mate!
>
In reply to Mikey_07:
Ah! Good man. What happened to that bloody Sandrine then? She must be working on her epic.
Ah! Good man. What happened to that bloody Sandrine then? She must be working on her epic.
In reply to Steve Parker & Mikey_07:
Rude Steve! Cheeky Mikey! Chatting like old ladies/gits on my thread. Now, now where are your contributions?
To Y:
Thanks for keeping the standards Y!
Next theme: delineate
Rude Steve! Cheeky Mikey! Chatting like old ladies/gits on my thread. Now, now where are your contributions?
To Y:
Thanks for keeping the standards Y!
Next theme: delineate
In reply to Sandrine:
Delineate, huh? Another deeply unpoetic word!
I've got this moment
that I can't get close to:
a door banging in the wind,
a disturbance in the air,
delineating where something
once was - that's all:
just one moment beating down,
and somewhere a kestrel
screaming in the wind's whip.
It just keeps coming
like silence keeps coming,
like...
(Somewhere out there, a wind giant
rolls by, zephyrs and squalls
rocking his shaggy head,
careering into the night.)
And that one great moment in the storm
flows over it all, rubs it up, dresses it down,
drowns it and defines it, grows it skywards
and shrieks itself into all winds.
It's like this sometimes,
like the wind forgets how to speak
without burning houses
without ripping clothes
without tearing birds out of air
and shoving them roughly
into stone mouths.
Delineate, huh? Another deeply unpoetic word!
I've got this moment
that I can't get close to:
a door banging in the wind,
a disturbance in the air,
delineating where something
once was - that's all:
just one moment beating down,
and somewhere a kestrel
screaming in the wind's whip.
It just keeps coming
like silence keeps coming,
like...
(Somewhere out there, a wind giant
rolls by, zephyrs and squalls
rocking his shaggy head,
careering into the night.)
And that one great moment in the storm
flows over it all, rubs it up, dresses it down,
drowns it and defines it, grows it skywards
and shrieks itself into all winds.
It's like this sometimes,
like the wind forgets how to speak
without burning houses
without ripping clothes
without tearing birds out of air
and shoving them roughly
into stone mouths.
In reply to Steve Parker: How about a reserve topic since sandrine hasn't posted yet?
glistening? glisten?
glistening? glisten?
In reply to Steve Parker: Oh no! <Gets ready for imminent attack>
Was suggesting a poem for someone else to write...
Where is Sandrine anyway!?
Was suggesting a poem for someone else to write...
Where is Sandrine anyway!?
In reply to Sandrine:
Oh gentle winds 'neath moonlit skies,
Do not you hear my heartfelt cries?
Below the branches, here about,
Do not you sense my fear and doubt?
Side glistening rivers, sparkling streams,
Do not you hear my woeful screams?
Upon the meadows, touched with dew,
Do not you see my hearts a'skew?
Beneath the thousand twinkling stars,
Do not you feel my jagged scars?
Seek not my mournful heart kind breeze,
For you'll not find it 'mongst these trees.
It's scattered 'cross the moonlit skies,
Accompanied by heartfelt sighs.
It's drifting o're the gentle rain,
A symbol of my silent pain.
It's buried 'neath the meadow fair,
Conjoined with all the sorrow there.
It's lost among the stars this night,
Too far to ease my quiet fright.
No gentle winds, seek not my heart,
For simply ... it has torn apart.
Oh gentle winds 'neath moonlit skies,
Do not you hear my heartfelt cries?
Below the branches, here about,
Do not you sense my fear and doubt?
Side glistening rivers, sparkling streams,
Do not you hear my woeful screams?
Upon the meadows, touched with dew,
Do not you see my hearts a'skew?
Beneath the thousand twinkling stars,
Do not you feel my jagged scars?
Seek not my mournful heart kind breeze,
For you'll not find it 'mongst these trees.
It's scattered 'cross the moonlit skies,
Accompanied by heartfelt sighs.
It's drifting o're the gentle rain,
A symbol of my silent pain.
It's buried 'neath the meadow fair,
Conjoined with all the sorrow there.
It's lost among the stars this night,
Too far to ease my quiet fright.
No gentle winds, seek not my heart,
For simply ... it has torn apart.
In reply to wushu & Steve:
You're talking as if I was some kind of horrible Walkyrie forever incensed!
Glisten.
You're talking as if I was some kind of horrible Walkyrie forever incensed!
Glisten.
> (In reply to wushu & Steve)
Must got to bed soon, hurry up a bit.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Thanks for the promptness Steve!
Just another one and off to my duvet:
Courteous
Thanks for the promptness Steve!
Just another one and off to my duvet:
Courteous
In reply to Sandrine:
A quick google would imply not.
Some doggerel about women
Some men like wimmin
Some wimmin like men
Some wimmin like wimmin
And men like flicks with themin.
A quick google would imply not.
Some doggerel about women
Some men like wimmin
Some wimmin like men
Some wimmin like wimmin
And men like flicks with themin.
Must go, night everyone,
S
S
In reply to Sandrine:
Hi,
No not mine but how I am feeling like I say I enjoy reading! I have felt lost for a while. Thank you for feeling pleased that I am posting you are a very nice person.
Kelly
Hi,
No not mine but how I am feeling like I say I enjoy reading! I have felt lost for a while. Thank you for feeling pleased that I am posting you are a very nice person.
Kelly
In reply to Steve Parker:
Sorry hands up! Juicy Lucy was for a dear friend but I can carry on if you want me to?
Kelly is a much nicer person, sorry Steve!
Sorry hands up! Juicy Lucy was for a dear friend but I can carry on if you want me to?
Kelly is a much nicer person, sorry Steve!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Hi Steve
If I knew how to change my name I would! My name is Kelly not Juicy and definitely not Lucy! Took this name on a year ago (for a laugh) but would like to change to my real name.
Hi Steve
If I knew how to change my name I would! My name is Kelly not Juicy and definitely not Lucy! Took this name on a year ago (for a laugh) but would like to change to my real name.
In reply to Juicy Lucy: Just email the moderators. Or just go through the posting options on your profile: it's easy enough to set up another name and a profile, then stick with that. I'm all for real names, personally.
In reply to Sandrine:
There is a ripple in the rock above my head
If I push here with one hand and stretch
My other fingers, I can curl the edge
Where I hope that soon my foot will tread
But now, off balance, curled up tall
And groping fingers feel the line
Explore the wrinkle that will soon define
And triumphant surge or ignominious fall
> (In reply to Steve Parker & Mikey_07)
>
> Rude Steve! Cheeky Mikey! Chatting like old ladies/gits on m
>
> Next theme: delineate
>
> Rude Steve! Cheeky Mikey! Chatting like old ladies/gits on m
>
> Next theme: delineate
There is a ripple in the rock above my head
If I push here with one hand and stretch
My other fingers, I can curl the edge
Where I hope that soon my foot will tread
But now, off balance, curled up tall
And groping fingers feel the line
Explore the wrinkle that will soon define
And triumphant surge or ignominious fall
In reply to Sandrine:
I watch them lighting across hilltops
and I wonder will I ever
find that much clear intent.
I know how to counterfeit,
but that, with all its gasolene
and fireworks,
is not it:
it's not those high fires in the night.
It's just not.
I watch them lighting across hilltops
and I wonder will I ever
find that much clear intent.
I know how to counterfeit,
but that, with all its gasolene
and fireworks,
is not it:
it's not those high fires in the night.
It's just not.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Delineate was a really good theme in the end. Nice one!
I recognised your style, even without the Y at the ned!
Delineate was a really good theme in the end. Nice one!
I recognised your style, even without the Y at the ned!
In reply to Steve Parker:
<and I wonder will I ever
find that much clear intent.>
You've done so much already and there is so much more to come.
Innocuous
<and I wonder will I ever
find that much clear intent.>
You've done so much already and there is so much more to come.
Innocuous
In reply to Sandrine:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> <and I wonder will I ever
> find that much clear intent.>
>
> You've done so much already and there is so much more to come.
>
Please don't confuse the 'voice' with the writer. If I was all the things I wrote, I'd be a pretty strange fish! This is a poetry thread, not a confession box.
>
> <and I wonder will I ever
> find that much clear intent.>
>
> You've done so much already and there is so much more to come.
>
In reply to Mikey_07:
also doesnt follow a theme. but thought i would make another contribution anyway
NOTHING BUT WORDS
It was with your words
You first captured my heart
But it wasn’t meant to be
This was only the start
Your words echoed around my head
Our feelings grew and grew
At least that’s what you told me
I guess I just believed it was true
But you are nothing but words
How foolish could I be?
Its actions that count
And you made no effort for me
The words have now changed
Now fill me with hurt and pain
Now your words haunt me
Like thunder chasing rain
You try to say you are sorry
For the pain you put me through
But again it’s nothing but words
And I’m left still waiting for you
also doesnt follow a theme. but thought i would make another contribution anyway
NOTHING BUT WORDS
It was with your words
You first captured my heart
But it wasn’t meant to be
This was only the start
Your words echoed around my head
Our feelings grew and grew
At least that’s what you told me
I guess I just believed it was true
But you are nothing but words
How foolish could I be?
Its actions that count
And you made no effort for me
The words have now changed
Now fill me with hurt and pain
Now your words haunt me
Like thunder chasing rain
You try to say you are sorry
For the pain you put me through
But again it’s nothing but words
And I’m left still waiting for you
In reply to Steve Parker:
Even if it's sincere? I mean at 1 in the morning, surely, it is?!
<If I was all the things I wrote, I'd be a pretty strange fish!>
Better than being boring and predictable!
<This is a poetry thread, not a confession box>
Phew, that will teach me to not be considerate anymore!
Now where is your contribution about innocuous?
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> [...]
<Please don't confuse the 'voice' with the writer.>
> [...]
Even if it's sincere? I mean at 1 in the morning, surely, it is?!
<If I was all the things I wrote, I'd be a pretty strange fish!>
Better than being boring and predictable!
<This is a poetry thread, not a confession box>
Phew, that will teach me to not be considerate anymore!
Now where is your contribution about innocuous?
In reply to mm548:
Nothing but words, hmmm, some people are not reliable...
Nice to see your post again!
Nothing but words, hmmm, some people are not reliable...
Nice to see your post again!
In reply to Sandrine:
Innocuous?
What, like puppies?
I can't get with that!!!
Can we have something like ocuous instead?
Something that leaves you washed up dead??
Like poison in a vat???
Like vampire guppies?
Malocuous?
Innocuous?
What, like puppies?
I can't get with that!!!
Can we have something like ocuous instead?
Something that leaves you washed up dead??
Like poison in a vat???
Like vampire guppies?
Malocuous?
Domineering, since no one cares about poisonous.
In reply to Sandrine:
I see lines of domineers
in goretex and duck-down,
strange porters carrying
their gear out of town.
Assault on the domin
by the elite domineers;
some will lose toes
and some will lose ears.
Some to fly prayer flags,
and some just for roamin,
some to knock bastards off,
and p*ss on the domin.
Many apologies to Hilary and Tenzing.
I see lines of domineers
in goretex and duck-down,
strange porters carrying
their gear out of town.
Assault on the domin
by the elite domineers;
some will lose toes
and some will lose ears.
Some to fly prayer flags,
and some just for roamin,
some to knock bastards off,
and p*ss on the domin.
Many apologies to Hilary and Tenzing.
In reply to Sandrine:
thats the point i was mostly getting at
so yay! hehe cant have been that bad if someone else understood it too! :oP
> (In reply to mm548)
>
> Nothing but words, hmmm, some people are not reliable...
>
> Nothing but words, hmmm, some people are not reliable...
thats the point i was mostly getting at
so yay! hehe cant have been that bad if someone else understood it too! :oP
In reply to Sandrine:
Can you innoculate
Against poetry
So that words
become innocuous
No. Its too late.
Y.
>
>
> Innocuous
>
> Innocuous
Can you innoculate
Against poetry
So that words
become innocuous
No. Its too late.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Oh, yeah, poisonous.
That snake venom, love,
eats through my veins,
heading like a dart
tipped with wolfbane
for my fearful heart.
I'm cutting the wound wider
(like they do in the films)
and sucking it out,
slugging on liquor
and drunken with doubt.
Some poisons are old
and weird and clever,
and have no antidote.
They colonise your soul
and scuttle your boat.
Oh, yeah, poisonous.
That snake venom, love,
eats through my veins,
heading like a dart
tipped with wolfbane
for my fearful heart.
I'm cutting the wound wider
(like they do in the films)
and sucking it out,
slugging on liquor
and drunken with doubt.
Some poisons are old
and weird and clever,
and have no antidote.
They colonise your soul
and scuttle your boat.
In reply to Sandrine:
Innocuous it seems, like dreams
on grey days out of windows into rain, into haze,
into dream's gaze, one surpassing the other,
in pain at times, like a mother cradling
while whisking, all hands
and love and whirring, all business,
but not quite, all hands
tending little demands and things to requite,
stirring and caring, enfolding and folding
and still holding, still, through it all,
holding. Like that it is:
this dream, like the folded cream, the little
late scream heard only by the walls, where
the folded falls, the holding beam,
the cruel light's beam, the shores
the purlins, the foundation's creations
of a little world, scarred by age
and rage, age undimmed, knit and purled,
unfurled, light circles
rimmed with hope... that one day, wonder
to be holding, hold now, hold,
it fears not through its tears, no,
running old but quiet into the silence
that a life would reckon as love,
not violence, though that is there
always, in the air, the surrounding air,
the bounding air that is always confounded
there, through the combing of her hair
and the the burden she would bear
and the clothes she would wear, always there,
there there, there there, how a life reckons
its love, that love would reckon as life,
how a wife, finding fixture, mixes her mixture
and offers the bowl, like her soul, for others
to lick, her ball of her whole rolled in sugar
for others to bowl and others to kick. How
in all of these simple moments does a life
reckon itself simple or without love,
without love, without moment?
Innocuous it seems, like dreams
on grey days out of windows into rain, into haze,
into dream's gaze, one surpassing the other,
in pain at times, like a mother cradling
while whisking, all hands
and love and whirring, all business,
but not quite, all hands
tending little demands and things to requite,
stirring and caring, enfolding and folding
and still holding, still, through it all,
holding. Like that it is:
this dream, like the folded cream, the little
late scream heard only by the walls, where
the folded falls, the holding beam,
the cruel light's beam, the shores
the purlins, the foundation's creations
of a little world, scarred by age
and rage, age undimmed, knit and purled,
unfurled, light circles
rimmed with hope... that one day, wonder
to be holding, hold now, hold,
it fears not through its tears, no,
running old but quiet into the silence
that a life would reckon as love,
not violence, though that is there
always, in the air, the surrounding air,
the bounding air that is always confounded
there, through the combing of her hair
and the the burden she would bear
and the clothes she would wear, always there,
there there, there there, how a life reckons
its love, that love would reckon as life,
how a wife, finding fixture, mixes her mixture
and offers the bowl, like her soul, for others
to lick, her ball of her whole rolled in sugar
for others to bowl and others to kick. How
in all of these simple moments does a life
reckon itself simple or without love,
without love, without moment?
In reply to Sandrine:
Innocuous, it seems at first, like dreams
on grey days out of windows into rain, into haze,
into dream's gaze, one surpassing the other,
in pain at times, like a mother cradling
while whisking, all hands and froth
and love and whirring, all business,
but not quite, all hands
tending little demands and things to requite,
stirring and caring, enfolding and folding
and still holding, still, through it all,
holding. Like that it is:
this dream, like the folded cream, the little
late scream heard only by the walls, where
the folded falls, the holding beam,
the cruel light's beam, the shores
the purlins, the foundation's creations
of a little world, scarred by age
and rage, age undimmed, knit and purled,
unfurled, light circles
rimmed with hope... that one day, wonder
to be holding, hold now, hold,
it fears not through its tears, no,
running old but quiet into the silence
that a life would reckon as love,
not violence, though that is there
always, in the air, the surrounding air,
the bounding air that is always confounded
there, through the combing of her hair
and the the burden she would bear,
would cast aside, would bear again,
would dream different next time
with a different other, who would see
her not just as mother, other
she would be, other, though mother,
and the clothes she would wear,
always there, there there, there there,
how a life reckons its love,
that love would reckon as life,
how a wife, finding fixture, mixes her mixture
and offers the bowl, like her soul, for others
to lick, her ball of her whole rolled in sugar
for others to bowl and others to kick. How
in all of these simple moments does a life
reckon itself simple or without love,
without love, without moment?
Innocuous, it seems at first, like dreams
on grey days out of windows into rain, into haze,
into dream's gaze, one surpassing the other,
in pain at times, like a mother cradling
while whisking, all hands and froth
and love and whirring, all business,
but not quite, all hands
tending little demands and things to requite,
stirring and caring, enfolding and folding
and still holding, still, through it all,
holding. Like that it is:
this dream, like the folded cream, the little
late scream heard only by the walls, where
the folded falls, the holding beam,
the cruel light's beam, the shores
the purlins, the foundation's creations
of a little world, scarred by age
and rage, age undimmed, knit and purled,
unfurled, light circles
rimmed with hope... that one day, wonder
to be holding, hold now, hold,
it fears not through its tears, no,
running old but quiet into the silence
that a life would reckon as love,
not violence, though that is there
always, in the air, the surrounding air,
the bounding air that is always confounded
there, through the combing of her hair
and the the burden she would bear,
would cast aside, would bear again,
would dream different next time
with a different other, who would see
her not just as mother, other
she would be, other, though mother,
and the clothes she would wear,
always there, there there, there there,
how a life reckons its love,
that love would reckon as life,
how a wife, finding fixture, mixes her mixture
and offers the bowl, like her soul, for others
to lick, her ball of her whole rolled in sugar
for others to bowl and others to kick. How
in all of these simple moments does a life
reckon itself simple or without love,
without love, without moment?
In reply to Steve Parker:
Nice. Very nice.
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> Innocuous... without moment?
>
> Innocuous... without moment?
Nice. Very nice.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Cheers. Maybe not worth the accidental double posting, though! Thought I'd deleted the first version. Doh!!
Cheers. Maybe not worth the accidental double posting, though! Thought I'd deleted the first version. Doh!!
In reply to Steve Parker: So any topics tonight!?
In reply to Sandrine:
I guess song lyrics are cheating; if so don´t look:
http://www.ukclimbing.com/forums/t.php?n=188607
Pete
I guess song lyrics are cheating; if so don´t look:
http://www.ukclimbing.com/forums/t.php?n=188607
Pete
In reply to Pete W:
They ain't cheating if they are about the latest theme chosen by our Theme-mistress. Anyway, I already looked. Good man for doing a solo poem thread. The more people stick their necks out a bit, the more I like it.
They ain't cheating if they are about the latest theme chosen by our Theme-mistress. Anyway, I already looked. Good man for doing a solo poem thread. The more people stick their necks out a bit, the more I like it.
In reply to Steve Parker:
I agree with Y, innocuous was really nice. And you were complaining about the thme!
I agree with Y, innocuous was really nice. And you were complaining about the thme!
In reply to Pete W:
Although I give a theme, anyone is free to contribute to this thread about anything. Love being a favourite recurring theme, you are all the more welcome!
Although I give a theme, anyone is free to contribute to this thread about anything. Love being a favourite recurring theme, you are all the more welcome!
Knackered
In reply to Sandrine:
When you fall asleep,
YOUR KNACKERED,
When you start to nod off,
YOUR KNACKERED,
After a long days climbing,
YOUR KNACKERED,
After a long days walking,
YOUR KNACKERED,
After reading through all these poetry threads,
You generally become KNACKERED!
Evening.
When you fall asleep,
YOUR KNACKERED,
When you start to nod off,
YOUR KNACKERED,
After a long days climbing,
YOUR KNACKERED,
After a long days walking,
YOUR KNACKERED,
After reading through all these poetry threads,
You generally become KNACKERED!
Evening.
In reply to Sandrine:
Best, I like old racehorses
the ones half knackered
from too many long courses
the ones a gipsy would ignite
with mustard to the derriere
his buyers to excite
they put up rather little fuss
the tired ones, the knackered,
just a little gasp and a cuss
please bring em in half done
already halfway there
it's really far more fun
I kill hosses with electric bolts
and I'd rather shoot nags
than kickass colts
Best, I like old racehorses
the ones half knackered
from too many long courses
the ones a gipsy would ignite
with mustard to the derriere
his buyers to excite
they put up rather little fuss
the tired ones, the knackered,
just a little gasp and a cuss
please bring em in half done
already halfway there
it's really far more fun
I kill hosses with electric bolts
and I'd rather shoot nags
than kickass colts
In reply to Sandrine:
somewhere in there
knackered by clackers
between the woof
and the weft
is a weaving story
nestled soft
in its cleft
weaving is knit
in the blood
around here
held dear
as delfs
overrun with
wool and woolly aelfs
we are fabric
of saxoned stuff
baggage of vaccaries
lowing at those low
moons wondering
what holds us together
through the wyc ollers
through which
we moonstrick hollers
bereft wit weft
all untethered
through deep's deep truck
asking in woolness
eek to bring lime
and eek to fullness
for growing rime
no gods here
but sheep's creep
and cattle's fattle
hitching moorstones
together for battle
of heatcloth, heathered
in weather's hitch
windover Cowling
bitchhowling
all grit. All of it
gritting knackered teeth
across the heath.
somewhere in there
knackered by clackers
between the woof
and the weft
is a weaving story
nestled soft
in its cleft
weaving is knit
in the blood
around here
held dear
as delfs
overrun with
wool and woolly aelfs
we are fabric
of saxoned stuff
baggage of vaccaries
lowing at those low
moons wondering
what holds us together
through the wyc ollers
through which
we moonstrick hollers
bereft wit weft
all untethered
through deep's deep truck
asking in woolness
eek to bring lime
and eek to fullness
for growing rime
no gods here
but sheep's creep
and cattle's fattle
hitching moorstones
together for battle
of heatcloth, heathered
in weather's hitch
windover Cowling
bitchhowling
all grit. All of it
gritting knackered teeth
across the heath.
No one for synchronous?
Sabbatical
Essential perhaps?
<all stuck in front of the TV...>
In reply to Sandrine:
A delf is a quarry or a mine, somewhere where people have delved.
Aelf is an early spelling of elf.
Vaccary is dairy (vache etc).
Wyc or Wyke is a Yorkshire Saxon dialect word meaning dairy (related to vache etc).
Oller is an early version of alder, as in the tree.
Wycoller is an early farming settlement a few miles from where I live.
That 'poem' was about the dream-history of this area of Yorkshire and its landscape.
Weaving was the main industry for a long time.
I'll try and get something about synchronous before bedtime!
A delf is a quarry or a mine, somewhere where people have delved.
Aelf is an early spelling of elf.
Vaccary is dairy (vache etc).
Wyc or Wyke is a Yorkshire Saxon dialect word meaning dairy (related to vache etc).
Oller is an early version of alder, as in the tree.
Wycoller is an early farming settlement a few miles from where I live.
That 'poem' was about the dream-history of this area of Yorkshire and its landscape.
Weaving was the main industry for a long time.
I'll try and get something about synchronous before bedtime!
In reply to Sandrine:
Fifteen middle aged bats
took a long sabbatical
as their fondness for flies
had become rather fanatical
and they felt that their zeal
for an insectivorous meal
had become most ungentbattical.
Many apologies!
Fifteen middle aged bats
took a long sabbatical
as their fondness for flies
had become rather fanatical
and they felt that their zeal
for an insectivorous meal
had become most ungentbattical.
Many apologies!
In reply to Sandrine:
The original spelling of Alfred (as in my son's name) is Aelfred (aelf red), which means taught or counselled by elves. Just got to find him some elves now!
The original spelling of Alfred (as in my son's name) is Aelfred (aelf red), which means taught or counselled by elves. Just got to find him some elves now!
In reply to Sandrine:
He gets called Alfie. Didn't want to pull a Geldof stunt on him! But he was born one day after the 1000th anniversary of King Alfred's death (total coincidence, which I didn't learn about till later). Just fancied an old Saxon name rather than anything either French or Biblical - nothing wrong with either, just liked the idea of a traditional old English name.
He gets called Alfie. Didn't want to pull a Geldof stunt on him! But he was born one day after the 1000th anniversary of King Alfred's death (total coincidence, which I didn't learn about till later). Just fancied an old Saxon name rather than anything either French or Biblical - nothing wrong with either, just liked the idea of a traditional old English name.
In reply to Sandrine: From what i can see there isn't a topic!? or am i just being unbelievably lazy again? lol
In reply to Steve Parker:
Sorry, I do not understand what you are alluding to?
< Just fancied an old Saxon name rather than anything either French or Biblical - nothing wrong with either, just liked the idea of a traditional old English name.>
The name is also used in France, where it is old-fashioned. Apparently also a German bishop, experienced martyrdom in the 9th century. And the name would mean etymologically, the pacifist?
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> He gets called Alfie. Didn't want to pull a Geldof stunt on him!
>
> He gets called Alfie. Didn't want to pull a Geldof stunt on him!
Sorry, I do not understand what you are alluding to?
< Just fancied an old Saxon name rather than anything either French or Biblical - nothing wrong with either, just liked the idea of a traditional old English name.>
The name is also used in France, where it is old-fashioned. Apparently also a German bishop, experienced martyrdom in the 9th century. And the name would mean etymologically, the pacifist?
In reply to wushu:
there are something like 3 or 4 of them tonight, you lazy teenagers.
Youngsters these days...
And hurry up I am about to get some rest.
there are something like 3 or 4 of them tonight, you lazy teenagers.
Youngsters these days...
And hurry up I am about to get some rest.
In reply to Sandrine:
Synchronous
At the same moment
these things happen:
a flag blows off a passing car;
a sheep calls from the field
across the night,
its voice twisted by the wind;
someone on the TV cries out;
there is a gunshot,
a scream of tyres,
a bang as a car hits the level crossing;
my son coughs in his sleep;
a neighbour shouts, just audibly;
I think suddenly of a face
I haven't seen in sixteen years.
All these things coalesce
within me,
into one word
that I hear quite clearly.
Who just spoke that word
that started me weeping
in front of the TV?
Synchronous
At the same moment
these things happen:
a flag blows off a passing car;
a sheep calls from the field
across the night,
its voice twisted by the wind;
someone on the TV cries out;
there is a gunshot,
a scream of tyres,
a bang as a car hits the level crossing;
my son coughs in his sleep;
a neighbour shouts, just audibly;
I think suddenly of a face
I haven't seen in sixteen years.
All these things coalesce
within me,
into one word
that I hear quite clearly.
Who just spoke that word
that started me weeping
in front of the TV?
In reply to Sandrine:
Sandrine is tired of that 'lazy teenager',
She and Steve parker have a quite a big wager,
If wushu can write a detailed poem
About sabattical and not a random story about rowing,
Then big bucks will be won,
Steve Parker will be done
and Sandrine will go to sleep laughing.
< hmm bad poetry tonight>
Sandrine is tired of that 'lazy teenager',
She and Steve parker have a quite a big wager,
If wushu can write a detailed poem
About sabattical and not a random story about rowing,
Then big bucks will be won,
Steve Parker will be done
and Sandrine will go to sleep laughing.
< hmm bad poetry tonight>
In reply to Sandrine:
Bob Geldof gave his kids ridiculous names, guaranteed to make their lives rather more complicated than they needed to be. One of them now campaigns against parents doing stupid naming.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> [...]
>
> Sorry, I do not understand what you are alluding to?
> [...]
>
> Sorry, I do not understand what you are alluding to?
Bob Geldof gave his kids ridiculous names, guaranteed to make their lives rather more complicated than they needed to be. One of them now campaigns against parents doing stupid naming.
In reply to Sandrine: listening to 80's music and I like this - Chris Issac
The world was on fire no-one could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you
I never dreamed that I'd loose somebody like you
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
With you
What a wicked game to play to make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you
What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way
What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
No I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
With you
The world was on fire no-one could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you
I never dreamed that I'd loose somebody like you
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
With you
Nobody loves no-one
The world was on fire no-one could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you
I never dreamed that I'd loose somebody like you
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
With you
What a wicked game to play to make me feel this way
What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you
What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way
What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
No I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
With you
The world was on fire no-one could save me but you
Strange what desire will make foolish people do
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you
I never dreamed that I'd loose somebody like you
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)
With you
Nobody loves no-one
In reply to Glyn Jones:
That's a fave romantic track of mine.
Sandrine: course I'm okay, it was a flippin contribution to the poetry game!!!
Geldof's daughters are called things like Fifi Trixibelle. Can't remember the others, but they get worse.
That's a fave romantic track of mine.
Sandrine: course I'm okay, it was a flippin contribution to the poetry game!!!
Geldof's daughters are called things like Fifi Trixibelle. Can't remember the others, but they get worse.
In reply to Glyn Jones:
Woohooo, hoooo. Sorry, I felt like singing along!
I knew it from the start!
Was clearly written in your heart!
Lalala, lalala
Woohooo, hoooo. Sorry, I felt like singing along!
I knew it from the start!
Was clearly written in your heart!
Lalala, lalala
In reply to Steve Parker:
Oh! Good, mixed the voice with the person again! Oops!
There is another one called Tiger Lily I think. It's pretty though, but over the top, I like Lily though
Oh! Good, mixed the voice with the person again! Oops!
There is another one called Tiger Lily I think. It's pretty though, but over the top, I like Lily though
In reply to Sandrine: So have you been out climbing lately!?
In reply to wushu:
Sat, Sun, although not a lot each time (first time bouldering, first time seconding, all on gritstone, how about that?!) and Mo evening (and my climbing partner said I had more confidence, which was nice to hear) and again on Thur, at the wall this time.
Sat, Sun, although not a lot each time (first time bouldering, first time seconding, all on gritstone, how about that?!) and Mo evening (and my climbing partner said I had more confidence, which was nice to hear) and again on Thur, at the wall this time.
In reply to Sandrine & Steve: I've fallen hook, line and sinker.
Forgetting the don't want to fall in love bit and the song hits the nail
Forgetting the don't want to fall in love bit and the song hits the nail
In reply to Sandrine:
Cool dudette
> (In reply to wushu)
>
> Sat, Sun, although not a lot each time (first time bouldering, first time seconding, all on gritstone, how about that?!) and Mo evening (and my climbing partner said I had more confidence, which was nice to hear) and again on Thur, at the wall this time.
>
> Sat, Sun, although not a lot each time (first time bouldering, first time seconding, all on gritstone, how about that?!) and Mo evening (and my climbing partner said I had more confidence, which was nice to hear) and again on Thur, at the wall this time.
Cool dudette
In reply to Glyn Jones:
Don't worry so much, just enjoy every minute of it.
> (In reply to Sandrine & Steve) I've fallen hook, line and sinker.
>
> Forgetting the don't want to fall in love bit and the song hits the nail
>
> Forgetting the don't want to fall in love bit and the song hits the nail
Don't worry so much, just enjoy every minute of it.
In reply to Sandrine: Cool! so how do you like it!? Wait til you try multi-pitching! That is great!
Sounds like a busy weekend then! Hopefully i should be out this weekend :-D, I no longer like indoors but what can you do without transport!?
Sounds like a busy weekend then! Hopefully i should be out this weekend :-D, I no longer like indoors but what can you do without transport!?
In reply to Sandrine:
She's actually called Heavenly Hirani Tiger Lily.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> Oh! Good, mixed the voice with the person again! Oops!
>
> There is another one called Tiger Lily I think. It's pretty though, but over the top, I like Lily though
> Oh! Good, mixed the voice with the person again! Oops!
>
> There is another one called Tiger Lily I think. It's pretty though, but over the top, I like Lily though
She's actually called Heavenly Hirani Tiger Lily.
In reply to wushu:
I liked the bouldering bit a lot more than the trad bit. But then, it was really busy with noisy teenagers girls (yes, they were pretty. ) during trad. And I did so little of it anyway, it's too early to tell.
I liked the bouldering bit a lot more than the trad bit. But then, it was really busy with noisy teenagers girls (yes, they were pretty. ) during trad. And I did so little of it anyway, it's too early to tell.
In reply to Glyn Jones:
That just expresses the fear and reluctance being overpowered by love. It's a very old way of making the love seem irresistable.
> (In reply to Sandrine & Steve) I've fallen hook, line and sinker.
>
> Forgetting the don't want to fall in love bit
>
> Forgetting the don't want to fall in love bit
That just expresses the fear and reluctance being overpowered by love. It's a very old way of making the love seem irresistable.
In reply to Steve Parker:
very true
Rose tinted Glyn
> (In reply to Glyn Jones)
> [...]
>
> That just expresses the fear and reluctance being overpowered by love. It's a very old way of making the love seem irresistable.
> [...]
>
> That just expresses the fear and reluctance being overpowered by love. It's a very old way of making the love seem irresistable.
very true
Rose tinted Glyn
In reply to Sandrine: Really where is this place!?
I like to have a balance of both to be honest, bouldering
provides you with more strength and technique but trad also
incorporates alot more stamina, well thats my opinion
anyway!
Anyway im happy i did a v6 again today and got half way up
a v8- indoor like but hey!
I like to have a balance of both to be honest, bouldering
provides you with more strength and technique but trad also
incorporates alot more stamina, well thats my opinion
anyway!
Anyway im happy i did a v6 again today and got half way up
a v8- indoor like but hey!
In reply to Steve Parker:
I was brought up near Morley (and my folks have moved to Addingham) my dad used to cycle to work in the Addingham mill during the war
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
>
> That 'poem' was about the dream-history of this area of Yorkshire and its landscape.
>
>
> That 'poem' was about the dream-history of this area of Yorkshire and its landscape.
I was brought up near Morley (and my folks have moved to Addingham) my dad used to cycle to work in the Addingham mill during the war
Y.
In reply to Sandrine: lightning seeds
night time slows, raindrops splash rainbows
perhaps someone you know, could sparkle and shine
as daydreams slide to colour from shadow
picture the moonglow, that dazzles my eyes
and i love you
just lying smiling in the dark
shooting stars around your heart
dreams come bouncing in your head
pure and simple everytime
now you're crying in your sleep
i wish you'd never learnt to weep
don't sell the dreams you should be keeping
pure and simple everytime
dreams of sights, of sleigh rides in seasons
where feelings not reasons, can make you decide
as leaves pour down, splash autumn on gardens
as colder nights harden, their moonlit delights
and i love you
just lying smiling in the dark
shooting stars around your heart
dreams come bouncing in your head
pure and simple everytime
now you're crying in your sleep
i wish you'd never learnt to weep
don't sell the dreams you should be keeping
pure and simple everytime
look at me with starry eyes
push me up to starry skies
there's stardust in my head
pure and simple everytime
fresh and deep as oceans new
shiver at the sight of you
i'll sing a softer tune
pure and simple over you
if love's the truth then look no lies
and let me swin around your eyes
i've found a place i'll never leave
shut my mouth and just believe
love is the truth i relize
not a stream of pretty lies
to use us up and waste our time
lying smiling in the dark
shooting stars around your heart
dreams come bouncing in your head
pure and simple everytime
now you're crying in your sleep
i wish you'd never learnt to weep
don't sell the dreams you should be keeping
pure and simple everytime
look at me with starry eyes
push me up to starry skies
there's stardust in my head
pure and simple everytime
fresh and deep as oceans new
shiver at the sight of you
i'll sing a softer tune
pure and simple over you
pure and simple just for you
night time slows, raindrops splash rainbows
perhaps someone you know, could sparkle and shine
as daydreams slide to colour from shadow
picture the moonglow, that dazzles my eyes
and i love you
just lying smiling in the dark
shooting stars around your heart
dreams come bouncing in your head
pure and simple everytime
now you're crying in your sleep
i wish you'd never learnt to weep
don't sell the dreams you should be keeping
pure and simple everytime
dreams of sights, of sleigh rides in seasons
where feelings not reasons, can make you decide
as leaves pour down, splash autumn on gardens
as colder nights harden, their moonlit delights
and i love you
just lying smiling in the dark
shooting stars around your heart
dreams come bouncing in your head
pure and simple everytime
now you're crying in your sleep
i wish you'd never learnt to weep
don't sell the dreams you should be keeping
pure and simple everytime
look at me with starry eyes
push me up to starry skies
there's stardust in my head
pure and simple everytime
fresh and deep as oceans new
shiver at the sight of you
i'll sing a softer tune
pure and simple over you
if love's the truth then look no lies
and let me swin around your eyes
i've found a place i'll never leave
shut my mouth and just believe
love is the truth i relize
not a stream of pretty lies
to use us up and waste our time
lying smiling in the dark
shooting stars around your heart
dreams come bouncing in your head
pure and simple everytime
now you're crying in your sleep
i wish you'd never learnt to weep
don't sell the dreams you should be keeping
pure and simple everytime
look at me with starry eyes
push me up to starry skies
there's stardust in my head
pure and simple everytime
fresh and deep as oceans new
shiver at the sight of you
i'll sing a softer tune
pure and simple over you
pure and simple just for you
In reply to Sandrine:
Sorry, hit the wrong reply button - meant to address that to Glyn who said he had fallen hook line and sinker above. Oops!
Glyn?
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> What?
>
> What?
Sorry, hit the wrong reply button - meant to address that to Glyn who said he had fallen hook line and sinker above. Oops!
Glyn?
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> [...]
>
> I was brought up near Morley (and my folks have moved to Addingham) my dad used to cycle to work in the Addingham mill during the war
>
Interesting! It's now a refurbished luxury apartment block, but I guess it's better than knocking it down.
> [...]
>
> I was brought up near Morley (and my folks have moved to Addingham) my dad used to cycle to work in the Addingham mill during the war
>
In reply to Steve Parker: someone wonderful - and she isn't a sheep!!!!!
In reply to Sandrine:
A designer of steam engines
A warty crone
A letter near the end of the alphabet
An owl-hoot alone
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> What?
>
> What?
A designer of steam engines
A warty crone
A letter near the end of the alphabet
An owl-hoot alone
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Yes. We walked past it together in the spring: he had never really opened up about his youth before.
Y.
Yes. We walked past it together in the spring: he had never really opened up about his youth before.
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Damn, found out!
> (In reply to Glyn Jones)
>
> Oh no, you haven't got hot for the gwartheg have you?
>
> Oh no, you haven't got hot for the gwartheg have you?
Damn, found out!
In reply to wushu:
Ewe and me both
<<takes coat off wushu and heads for door>>
> (In reply to Glyn Jones) She could be pulling the wool over your eyes!?
>
> <gets coat>
>
> <gets coat>
Ewe and me both
<<takes coat off wushu and heads for door>>
In reply to Glyn Jones: Were having a right baa-rrel of laugh's here!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Words, smells
Photographs of faces
Sounds, tastes
Memories of places
Unexpectedly shatter
The plaster cast
To reveal the softness
Of our past
Y.
Words, smells
Photographs of faces
Sounds, tastes
Memories of places
Unexpectedly shatter
The plaster cast
To reveal the softness
Of our past
Y.
In reply to wushu: Argh!!!!!!!!!
In reply to Glyn Jones: Lol!! For some reason i always thought you were scottish! :-s
In reply to wushu:
Oy, you shouldn't be using language like that at your age!
> (In reply to Glyn Jones) Lol!! For some reason i always thought you were scottish! :-s
Oy, you shouldn't be using language like that at your age!
In reply to Glyn Jones: Ha Ha! Just checked your pictures, so when did you do Jean Jeanie?
In reply to wushu: 1993 - big up to Al for creating the route
In reply to Glyn Jones: Aye it's a great route! Only done it this year and that was seconding. Makes me wonder what the main wall would of been like before it was blasted.
In reply to wushu: True - it was the biggest runout I've ever done - just under half the height of the route.
Sandrine
Sorry for the hijack
Sandrine
Sorry for the hijack
In reply to Glyn Jones:
Never been to Trowbarrow. Slowly working my way around the Lancs quarries. Did some good stuff at Denham last year. Worth a visit.
Never been to Trowbarrow. Slowly working my way around the Lancs quarries. Did some good stuff at Denham last year. Worth a visit.
In reply to Glyn Jones: Have you ever tried multi-pitching?
Went to castle rock a few weeks ago and did mayday cracks, one of the pitches on that was 37metres!
Went to castle rock a few weeks ago and did mayday cracks, one of the pitches on that was 37metres!
In reply to Steve Parker: The overhanging wall opposite is worth playing on - abet this coming from someone that thought heading the shot was good.
p.s. someone has spliced tat around the bolts
p.s. someone has spliced tat around the bolts
In reply to wushu: I have - multipitching in Scotland this weekend - fingers crossed with the weather
In reply to wushu:
well done mate
> (In reply to Glyn Jones) Have you ever tried multi-pitching?
>
> Went to castle rock a few weeks ago and did mayday cracks, one of the pitches on that was 37metres!
>
> Went to castle rock a few weeks ago and did mayday cracks, one of the pitches on that was 37metres!
well done mate
In reply to Glyn Jones: Aye, should be clearing up though! Never thought i would enjoy trad but its great!
In reply to Glyn Jones: Cheers!
In reply to wushu:
Damn right there! Good on ya!!!
> (In reply to Glyn Jones) Aye, should be clearing up though! Never thought i would enjoy trad but its great!
Damn right there! Good on ya!!!
In reply to Steve Parker: :-D The reason i didn't think i
would enjoy it was because i bouldered for about 2years and
didn't rope climb at all, even though i could!
But have now started getting back into it, and indoor
climbing just doesn't do it anymore!
would enjoy it was because i bouldered for about 2years and
didn't rope climb at all, even though i could!
But have now started getting back into it, and indoor
climbing just doesn't do it anymore!
In reply to wushu: Im off, night!
In reply to Sandrine: Actually, no I haven't (naughty me!)
In reply to Steve Parker:
Oh that's good. Very good indeed. Written on the spur of Sandrine's suggestion or worked on for longer?
> somewhere in there
> knackered by clackers
> ...
> gritting knackered teeth
> across the heath.
> knackered by clackers
> ...
> gritting knackered teeth
> across the heath.
Oh that's good. Very good indeed. Written on the spur of Sandrine's suggestion or worked on for longer?
Please poets, could you have a go at "essential"?
In reply to Sandrine:
And if I am blind,
How will I see,
The beauty and love you hold for me,
And if I am deaf,
How will I hear,
The words "I Love You" echoing near.
And if I can't feel,
How will I touch,
Your hair, your skin, your tenderness and love,
And if I can't taste,
How will I taste,
Your kiss, your lips and your sweetness,
And if there's no scent,
How would I smell,
Honestly, after not showering for 3 days, bloody terrible.
Weyhey...adn you thought it was another soppy love poem.
And if I am blind,
How will I see,
The beauty and love you hold for me,
And if I am deaf,
How will I hear,
The words "I Love You" echoing near.
And if I can't feel,
How will I touch,
Your hair, your skin, your tenderness and love,
And if I can't taste,
How will I taste,
Your kiss, your lips and your sweetness,
And if there's no scent,
How would I smell,
Honestly, after not showering for 3 days, bloody terrible.
Weyhey...adn you thought it was another soppy love poem.
In reply to Sandrine:
It's essential the way you speak to me,
It makes me feel good,
It's essential the way you look at me,
With the love that nobody else would,
It's essential the way you pick me up,
When this world knocks me down,
It's essential the way you help me float,
When otherwise I might drown,
But the most essential thing about you is you,
The way you are and the things you do,
But what's even more is the way you make me free,
You are without a doubt, essential to me.
That better?
It's essential the way you speak to me,
It makes me feel good,
It's essential the way you look at me,
With the love that nobody else would,
It's essential the way you pick me up,
When this world knocks me down,
It's essential the way you help me float,
When otherwise I might drown,
But the most essential thing about you is you,
The way you are and the things you do,
But what's even more is the way you make me free,
You are without a doubt, essential to me.
That better?
In reply to Sandrine:
I count some things essential:
breath, heartbeat, and flames
reflected in eyes.
The sudden zoom
that evaporates
a million miles
into the warmth
of the breath
of another human;
the sudden awareness
that I am now beating
in time, with the pulse
of another heart;
and the bright flare
that says that nothing
outside of this little pool
of light
matters in this moment
or the next,
or those to follow
I count some things essential:
breath, heartbeat, and flames
reflected in eyes.
The sudden zoom
that evaporates
a million miles
into the warmth
of the breath
of another human;
the sudden awareness
that I am now beating
in time, with the pulse
of another heart;
and the bright flare
that says that nothing
outside of this little pool
of light
matters in this moment
or the next,
or those to follow
I should probably have added a big Schlock after that!
In reply to Logan_21:
A female prophet.
A female prophet.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Liked that. A bit of focus on essential things is needed at times.
What's shlock?
Liked that. A bit of focus on essential things is needed at times.
What's shlock?
In reply to Sandrine:
It's a basic warning to all sentient organisms that an animate and sickly pile of goo is nearby.
It's a basic warning to all sentient organisms that an animate and sickly pile of goo is nearby.
In reply to Steve Parker:
I disagree, it wasn't sickly or goo, not even falling into easy sentimentalism. You are harsh on yourself every time you're a bit "fluffier".
I disagree, it wasn't sickly or goo, not even falling into easy sentimentalism. You are harsh on yourself every time you're a bit "fluffier".
In reply to Sandrine:
Like Cassandra, with her eyes full of yearning,
I warned you all of the vengeance, the burning,
the descent into war's ancient dream.
If I were female, I'd fit the theme.
Like Cassandra, with her eyes full of yearning,
I warned you all of the vengeance, the burning,
the descent into war's ancient dream.
If I were female, I'd fit the theme.
In reply to Sandrine:
Ahhhh...then in such a case, how about a goddess?
God's of power,
God's of might,
Who needs Gods,
Cause men are shite,
If you want something,
And you want it doing right,
It's a GODDESS you want,
Cause in shadow they bring light.
Ahhhh...then in such a case, how about a goddess?
God's of power,
God's of might,
Who needs Gods,
Cause men are shite,
If you want something,
And you want it doing right,
It's a GODDESS you want,
Cause in shadow they bring light.
In reply to Sandrine:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> I disagree, it wasn't sickly or goo, not even falling into easy sentimentalism. You are harsh on yourself every time you're a bit "fluffier".
>
Well, you can't write a poem like that in 2 minutes without it being a little gooey. Yuck, I need a shower.
>
> I disagree, it wasn't sickly or goo, not even falling into easy sentimentalism. You are harsh on yourself every time you're a bit "fluffier".
>
In reply to Sandrine:
Eh up, Sandrine lass, they're real men in Yorkshire, tha' knows!
Mick
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> You are harsh on yourself every time you're a bit "fluffier".
Eh up, Sandrine lass, they're real men in Yorkshire, tha' knows!
Mick
In reply to Sandrine:
I almost told you I loved,
You almost had my heart,
But just as I almost said it,
You almost tore it apart,
Cause you almost told me,
That you were leaving for good,
And I almost cried,
The way I almost should,
And I almost moved on,
Forgot about you,
But you almost came to haunt me,
And almost broke my heart in two.
I almost told you I loved,
You almost had my heart,
But just as I almost said it,
You almost tore it apart,
Cause you almost told me,
That you were leaving for good,
And I almost cried,
The way I almost should,
And I almost moved on,
Forgot about you,
But you almost came to haunt me,
And almost broke my heart in two.
In reply to Sandrine:
There were matchsticks for my feet
and it was hot.
My feet were already sliding around
inside my boots,
and my fingers were just stroking
nothing but roughness, hopefully,
and it was too steep for any of that nonsense.
I was looking down at my two belayers,
each ready to jump
and take in the slack,
to give me a chance
of not breaking my back.
There was a groove
just one move away
that I could have just sunk into
and wedged there forever
if I was so clever.
But I just knew that groove
was way out of reach
and without any doubt
I was bound for the beach.
My fingers did nothing
other than transmit panic
and my feet slid and slud
ever more manic.
The little crowd gasped
as I began my descent;
my belayers motionless
my spanning long spent.
I hit the rock, but not quite the ground,
busted my knee, and battered my boasts.
Didn't quite make it up, didn't quite
make it down. Almosts, both of them, almosts.
Who Needs Friends, Brimham, 1995. Bah!
There were matchsticks for my feet
and it was hot.
My feet were already sliding around
inside my boots,
and my fingers were just stroking
nothing but roughness, hopefully,
and it was too steep for any of that nonsense.
I was looking down at my two belayers,
each ready to jump
and take in the slack,
to give me a chance
of not breaking my back.
There was a groove
just one move away
that I could have just sunk into
and wedged there forever
if I was so clever.
But I just knew that groove
was way out of reach
and without any doubt
I was bound for the beach.
My fingers did nothing
other than transmit panic
and my feet slid and slud
ever more manic.
The little crowd gasped
as I began my descent;
my belayers motionless
my spanning long spent.
I hit the rock, but not quite the ground,
busted my knee, and battered my boasts.
Didn't quite make it up, didn't quite
make it down. Almosts, both of them, almosts.
Who Needs Friends, Brimham, 1995. Bah!
In reply to The Crow:
Nah, that would have been cheating! The best thing about these poetry threads is that you do it fast and expose yourself to public ridicule (sometimes expressed). Occasionally, you hit the spot.
Nah, that would have been cheating! The best thing about these poetry threads is that you do it fast and expose yourself to public ridicule (sometimes expressed). Occasionally, you hit the spot.
In reply to Sandrine:
One line in the big story:
Is Anna, daughter of Phanual.
One line, for the agéd woman
Who had counted many passing years
From the tears of widowhood
And the joys,
The pain of childbirth.
And who had seen
Beyond her eyes.
Y.
> (In reply to Logan_21)
>
> prophetess
>
> prophetess
One line in the big story:
Is Anna, daughter of Phanual.
One line, for the agéd woman
Who had counted many passing years
From the tears of widowhood
And the joys,
The pain of childbirth.
And who had seen
Beyond her eyes.
Y.
In reply to Mick Ward:
Real men in Yorkshire? Really? I bet if you probe the rugged skin a bit, sooner or later you find the entrance, to the insides, where somewhere deep within, lies a soft, sensitive, hurtable spot.
Real men in Yorkshire? Really? I bet if you probe the rugged skin a bit, sooner or later you find the entrance, to the insides, where somewhere deep within, lies a soft, sensitive, hurtable spot.
In reply to Mick Ward:
Sandrine, ouch, stop that probing!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Oh no!!!
>
Yeah, easy bloody route too!!
>
> Oh no!!!
>
Sandrine, ouch, stop that probing!
In reply to Sandrine:
Contact
from my trench
I can see the top
of your stupid helmet
bobbing around
I can't see much else
not your eyes
or tongue
or heart
or anything
that I once loved
(any of which
would make a good target).
Between us is mud
filled with the corpses
and crawling craters
of our previous
engagements.
You want me to get out
and play football,
it will have to be Christmas,
and I will have to be
pretty pissed
on stolen cognac
and cigars.
Don't expect much over there
in your wet trench.
After the game,
I'm turning the mortars
towards the narrow enclave
that you will be drinking in,
having watched you carefully
going home with the burst ball.
I know you better now,
enemy. You are mine.
Contact
from my trench
I can see the top
of your stupid helmet
bobbing around
I can't see much else
not your eyes
or tongue
or heart
or anything
that I once loved
(any of which
would make a good target).
Between us is mud
filled with the corpses
and crawling craters
of our previous
engagements.
You want me to get out
and play football,
it will have to be Christmas,
and I will have to be
pretty pissed
on stolen cognac
and cigars.
Don't expect much over there
in your wet trench.
After the game,
I'm turning the mortars
towards the narrow enclave
that you will be drinking in,
having watched you carefully
going home with the burst ball.
I know you better now,
enemy. You are mine.
In reply to Steve Parker:
You're asking a French woman "to stop" probing?! An invite to dig further surely.
Throat
> Sandrine, ouch, stop that probing!
You're asking a French woman "to stop" probing?! An invite to dig further surely.
Throat
In reply to Sandrine:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> [...]
>
> You're asking a French woman "to stop" probing?! An invite to dig further surely.
>
You're welcome. > [...]
>
> You're asking a French woman "to stop" probing?! An invite to dig further surely.
>
In reply to Sandrine:
Where does all the food go
Jimmy asked one day,
It goes down ya throat
and through your stomach on the way,
Jimmy was having none of this and pulled out the endoscope,
The doctor suddenly fainted,
But no he did not croak!
Jimmy knows where the food goes and now he understands,
The poor doctor is still walking without his feet- but hands!!!
< funny one again>
Where does all the food go
Jimmy asked one day,
It goes down ya throat
and through your stomach on the way,
Jimmy was having none of this and pulled out the endoscope,
The doctor suddenly fainted,
But no he did not croak!
Jimmy knows where the food goes and now he understands,
The poor doctor is still walking without his feet- but hands!!!
< funny one again>
In reply to wushu and Steve:
OOhh! There are still poets about! And I have seen that Y was still around a min ago. French kisses on your cheeks everyone.
Wushu, took me 2 readings to get the last line!
OOhh! There are still poets about! And I have seen that Y was still around a min ago. French kisses on your cheeks everyone.
Wushu, took me 2 readings to get the last line!
In reply to Sandrine: Ha! yeah i thought i could of re-phrased it better lol!
What you doing on this late anyway!!!?
What you doing on this late anyway!!!?
In reply to wushu:
Went climbing, then had a chat & drink with my climbing partner. I am not working tomorrow.
Went climbing, then had a chat & drink with my climbing partner. I am not working tomorrow.
In reply to Sandrine: Ah right! Have a lie in then! I'm quite lucky i have 2 and a half months left of them!!!
In reply to Sandrine:
I am! I ought to go to bed. But I didn't get to eat before I went for a climb (see Saph's Durham Drinks part II thread - she is as bad as you), then I had to have a drink, walk the dogs & get something to eat. Now I am just letting my stomach settle a bit.
Y.
I am! I ought to go to bed. But I didn't get to eat before I went for a climb (see Saph's Durham Drinks part II thread - she is as bad as you), then I had to have a drink, walk the dogs & get something to eat. Now I am just letting my stomach settle a bit.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Soup
Smooth and Silky
Sooths
The throat
And Induces
Wakefulness
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> [...]
> [...]
> Throat
Soup
Smooth and Silky
Sooths
The throat
And Induces
Wakefulness
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Interesting, maybe we should have some food related themes.
Will be away from the computer for a little while.
Harmony
Interesting, maybe we should have some food related themes.
Will be away from the computer for a little while.
Harmony
The theme tonight is: saudade (no real translation, it means nostalgia, melancholy...)
In reply to Sandrine:
Is Heat, a better theme, poets?
Is Heat, a better theme, poets?
In reply to Sandrine:
There are too many words, and you can't use most of them. Some of them will just have to go, usually the ones you have fooled yourself into loving. Build a big pyre in the yard, and pile them up like sacrificial victims - some of them deserve no better. I'm throwing some prevarication on to start with, followed by words like victim and problem and why. Then I'm standing back like a fat barbecue host, and squirting the fluid. I'm keeping the word 'whoosh', for that's what happens next. Then I'm digging into the attic, rooting for old words, guilt words like rely, could-have-been, and if-only - I'm throwing all those if-onlys into the fire, standing back and eating steak with blood running down my chin, laughing. I'm wearing a T shirt with Led Zeppelin stretched over my fat sweaty stomach, I'm slugging beer with the boys, and the sun is beating down on my bald head that's got sweat beads all over it. And those words are burning wildly. After a few more beers, I'll start on some more that I haven't remembered yet. For now, I'm the host of the party of burning words, and I'm laughing at the redhaired neighbour with his shiny f*cking shoes in two minds about calling the fire service. There are white clouds blowing like seabirds over the whole scene, and I care about nothing. Just as long as all those words keep burning. I ain't digging through the ash in the morning. They can stay dead.
There are too many words, and you can't use most of them. Some of them will just have to go, usually the ones you have fooled yourself into loving. Build a big pyre in the yard, and pile them up like sacrificial victims - some of them deserve no better. I'm throwing some prevarication on to start with, followed by words like victim and problem and why. Then I'm standing back like a fat barbecue host, and squirting the fluid. I'm keeping the word 'whoosh', for that's what happens next. Then I'm digging into the attic, rooting for old words, guilt words like rely, could-have-been, and if-only - I'm throwing all those if-onlys into the fire, standing back and eating steak with blood running down my chin, laughing. I'm wearing a T shirt with Led Zeppelin stretched over my fat sweaty stomach, I'm slugging beer with the boys, and the sun is beating down on my bald head that's got sweat beads all over it. And those words are burning wildly. After a few more beers, I'll start on some more that I haven't remembered yet. For now, I'm the host of the party of burning words, and I'm laughing at the redhaired neighbour with his shiny f*cking shoes in two minds about calling the fire service. There are white clouds blowing like seabirds over the whole scene, and I care about nothing. Just as long as all those words keep burning. I ain't digging through the ash in the morning. They can stay dead.
In reply to Sandrine: No poetry but hello!
Steve, I always imagine you were tall and skinny for some reason.
Steve, I always imagine you were tall and skinny for some reason.
In reply to rock waif:
No, I'm hugely fat with a great big ass and a bald head. And I sweat a great deal and generally stink. Oh, did I mention the halitosis and uncontrollable flatulence?
No, I'm hugely fat with a great big ass and a bald head. And I sweat a great deal and generally stink. Oh, did I mention the halitosis and uncontrollable flatulence?
In reply to Sandrine:
Il brilgue: les toves lubricilleux
Se gyrant en vrillant dans le guave.
Enmimes sont les gougebosqueux
Et le momerade horsgrave
"Garde-toi du Jaseroque, mon fils!
La gueule qui mord: la griffe qui prend!
Garde-toi de l'oiseau Jube évite
Le frumieux Band-a-prend!"
Son glaive vorpal en main, il va-
T-a la recherche du fauve manscant:
Puis arrive a l'arbe Te-te,
Il y reste reflechissant.
Pendant qu'il pense, tout uffuse
Le Jaseroque, a l'oeil flambant
Vient siblant par le bois tullegeais
Et burbule en venant
Un deux, un deux par le milieu
La glaive vorpal fait pat-a-pan
Le bete deaite, avec sa tete
Il rentre gallomphant
"As-tu tué le Jaseroque?
Viens a mon coeur, fils rayonnais!
O jour frabbejais, Calleau, Callai!
Il cortule dans sa joi."
Il brilgue: les toves luricilleux
Se gyrrent en vrillant dans le guave
Enmimes sont les gougebosqueux
Et le momerade horsgrave
(Lewis Carrol, trans Frank L. Warrin)
Y.
(I don't know how to do all the fancy accents, and any typos are doubtless mine)
> The theme tonight is: saudade (no real translation, it means nostalgia, melancholy...)
Il brilgue: les toves lubricilleux
Se gyrant en vrillant dans le guave.
Enmimes sont les gougebosqueux
Et le momerade horsgrave
"Garde-toi du Jaseroque, mon fils!
La gueule qui mord: la griffe qui prend!
Garde-toi de l'oiseau Jube évite
Le frumieux Band-a-prend!"
Son glaive vorpal en main, il va-
T-a la recherche du fauve manscant:
Puis arrive a l'arbe Te-te,
Il y reste reflechissant.
Pendant qu'il pense, tout uffuse
Le Jaseroque, a l'oeil flambant
Vient siblant par le bois tullegeais
Et burbule en venant
Un deux, un deux par le milieu
La glaive vorpal fait pat-a-pan
Le bete deaite, avec sa tete
Il rentre gallomphant
"As-tu tué le Jaseroque?
Viens a mon coeur, fils rayonnais!
O jour frabbejais, Calleau, Callai!
Il cortule dans sa joi."
Il brilgue: les toves luricilleux
Se gyrrent en vrillant dans le guave
Enmimes sont les gougebosqueux
Et le momerade horsgrave
(Lewis Carrol, trans Frank L. Warrin)
Y.
(I don't know how to do all the fancy accents, and any typos are doubtless mine)
In reply to Steve Parker:
In the sun,
or in the rain,
he sweats;
Like a giant sweaty thing.
With big bald sunburnt head,
he sweats.
He sweats, therefoe he stinks.
He stinks, therefore he is avoided.
Poor Steve.
To sweat or not to sweat,
that is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the nostril,
to suffer the wafts of outrageous body odour
or to take deoderant against a sea of underarm troubles,
and by spraying end them?
To smell; to faint; no more; and by a sniff to say we end,
the stinkage and the thousand natural shocks.
Poor Steve.
It's simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis,
even though the smell of it is something quite atrocious
if he comes near you enough,
you'll also see his mucus,
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis!!!
m diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Because I was afraid to speak
When i was just a lad,
My father gave me polo sweets
And told me I was bad
But then one day I learned I had a completely awful thing
The biggest disease I ever heard
And this is how it goes:
Oh, simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis!
Even though the smell of it
Is something quite atrocious
If he comes near you enough
You'll also see his mucus,
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis!
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis
I'm sorry Steve. I couldn;t help that.
In the sun,
or in the rain,
he sweats;
Like a giant sweaty thing.
With big bald sunburnt head,
he sweats.
He sweats, therefoe he stinks.
He stinks, therefore he is avoided.
Poor Steve.
To sweat or not to sweat,
that is the question.
Whether tis nobler in the nostril,
to suffer the wafts of outrageous body odour
or to take deoderant against a sea of underarm troubles,
and by spraying end them?
To smell; to faint; no more; and by a sniff to say we end,
the stinkage and the thousand natural shocks.
Poor Steve.
It's simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis,
even though the smell of it is something quite atrocious
if he comes near you enough,
you'll also see his mucus,
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis!!!
m diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Because I was afraid to speak
When i was just a lad,
My father gave me polo sweets
And told me I was bad
But then one day I learned I had a completely awful thing
The biggest disease I ever heard
And this is how it goes:
Oh, simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis!
Even though the smell of it
Is something quite atrocious
If he comes near you enough
You'll also see his mucus,
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis!
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
Um diddle diddle diddle um diddle ay
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis
simplyuncontrollablethatstevehashalitosis
I'm sorry Steve. I couldn;t help that.
In reply to Sandrine:
To me you are a C-major seventh
With a flattened fifth
I wish I knew how to resolve you
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
>
> Harmony
>
>
> Harmony
To me you are a C-major seventh
With a flattened fifth
I wish I knew how to resolve you
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Hair blonde eyes blue
green when near water
nose and chin small curving
white brow wide summer
smile last seen wearing
sand shoes holding shells holding
the wind last seen by the river growing.
Hair blonde eyes blue
green when near water
nose and chin small curving
white brow wide summer
smile last seen wearing
sand shoes holding shells holding
the wind last seen by the river growing.
In reply to Steve Parker:
The heat must have gone to your head. Extinguish this word bonefire, I love them all, what is this sacrilege all about? Words don't burn well anyway.
Did you know that poetry was a cure against halitosis and flatulence?
Eating more delicious veg should help to reduce your beer belly and even bad breath!
The heat must have gone to your head. Extinguish this word bonefire, I love them all, what is this sacrilege all about? Words don't burn well anyway.
Did you know that poetry was a cure against halitosis and flatulence?
Eating more delicious veg should help to reduce your beer belly and even bad breath!
In reply to Castleman:
That was hilarious Castleman!
A good thing we only encounter him on the internet!
That was hilarious Castleman!
A good thing we only encounter him on the internet!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Where did you get it from? Really cool!
How was the festival Y? Any chance to see some pics?
Where did you get it from? Really cool!
How was the festival Y? Any chance to see some pics?
In reply to rock waif:
Hello, how are you keeping?!
Hello, how are you keeping?!
In reply to Sandrine:
The Jabberwock is a well known nearly-nonsense English poem from "Alice Through the Looking Glass"
http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html
I came across the French translation: even though I don't have any French, it is fun!
(I also have it in German)
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
> Where did you get it from? Really cool!
>
> Where did you get it from? Really cool!
>
The Jabberwock is a well known nearly-nonsense English poem from "Alice Through the Looking Glass"
http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html
I came across the French translation: even though I don't have any French, it is fun!
(I also have it in German)
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
The festival was a bit of a damp squib. Previous years we had been on Palace Green - right between the Cathedral and the Castle, in the City Centre. This year they decided to put us on the Sands, a mile out of town.
So we got hardly any public, and the two "Godric" songs I'd been practicing remained unperformed
I will try and find some pictures for you, and email.
Y.
The festival was a bit of a damp squib. Previous years we had been on Palace Green - right between the Cathedral and the Castle, in the City Centre. This year they decided to put us on the Sands, a mile out of town.
So we got hardly any public, and the two "Godric" songs I'd been practicing remained unperformed
I will try and find some pictures for you, and email.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Thanks for the info on The Jabberwock!
Who decided about the fesival location? Hopefully we will meet one day and you will have the opportunity to play these songs for us.
Simon played the guitar at a meet I went to: Dylan and Manu Chao around a fire, it was nice!
Fishbone
Thanks for the info on The Jabberwock!
Who decided about the fesival location? Hopefully we will meet one day and you will have the opportunity to play these songs for us.
Simon played the guitar at a meet I went to: Dylan and Manu Chao around a fire, it was nice!
Fishbone
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> [...]
>
> To me you are a C-major seventh
> With a flattened fifth
> I wish I knew how to resolve you
>
Nice, I love flattened fifths. King Crimson territory!
> [...]
>
> To me you are a C-major seventh
> With a flattened fifth
> I wish I knew how to resolve you
>
In reply to Sandrine:
Hmm, can it be a rotten fishbone left out in the sun so I can get my own back on Castleman?
Hmm, can it be a rotten fishbone left out in the sun so I can get my own back on Castleman?
In reply to Steve Parker:
It can be anything you want as long as it does not turn into a petty bickering slagging game.
Although I would prefer a fish poetry so good and perfumed you would feel the need to munch the flesh all the way to the fishbones, and lick your fingers afterwards.
It can be anything you want as long as it does not turn into a petty bickering slagging game.
Although I would prefer a fish poetry so good and perfumed you would feel the need to munch the flesh all the way to the fishbones, and lick your fingers afterwards.
In reply to Sandrine:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> It can be anything you want as long as it does not turn into a petty bickering slagging game.
>
Don't do them, or try not to! >
> It can be anything you want as long as it does not turn into a petty bickering slagging game.
>
In reply to Steve Parker:
Nor I! The last time we had something similar I enjoyed it too much (wonder how Nigel is now anyway?)!
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> [...]
> Don't do them, or try not to!
> [...]
> Don't do them, or try not to!
Nor I! The last time we had something similar I enjoyed it too much (wonder how Nigel is now anyway?)!
In reply to Sandrine:
I'm a dried out fishbone
that fell out of the bin
that the people who ate me
once put me in
Some young entrepreneurs
aged five and two
took me to the factory
where their dad makes glue
He melted me down
and spread me quite thin
I now live in furniture
but that's better than a bin
I fear I'll no more
hear the sea's lonely moan
but it still haunts the soul
of this lonely fishbone
Maybe one far off day
a recycler will craft
my glued up jointing
into a seafaring raft
Until that day
I'll dream sea dreams
and hear in the wood
my silent seabird screams
I'm a dried out fishbone
that fell out of the bin
that the people who ate me
once put me in
Some young entrepreneurs
aged five and two
took me to the factory
where their dad makes glue
He melted me down
and spread me quite thin
I now live in furniture
but that's better than a bin
I fear I'll no more
hear the sea's lonely moan
but it still haunts the soul
of this lonely fishbone
Maybe one far off day
a recycler will craft
my glued up jointing
into a seafaring raft
Until that day
I'll dream sea dreams
and hear in the wood
my silent seabird screams
In reply to Steve Parker:
I liked it too.
Y - shame that you've been moved from Palace Green. That must have been a good venue (I missed you every year, as didn't stick around after term).
I liked it too.
Y - shame that you've been moved from Palace Green. That must have been a good venue (I missed you every year, as didn't stick around after term).
In reply to Sandrine:
It's my father's face
between me and the sky,
and it's a windy day by a lake,
or some body of water.
I don't remember it all,
but there are birds blowing everywhere,
like words coming apart in the air.
I don't quite know where to look.
There are shapes moving
beneath the skin
of my father's face:
black-purple shapes
that I remember like demons
or anger, or trapped birds
welling up under the skin,
trying to push their way through.
'Just wait there, son,' he says
several times.
'Just wait there.'
And I watch him walking away
into the wind
with birds panicking above him.
'How long for?' I try to ask,
but the words are ripped away
across the lake,
as he gets into the car.
> The theme tonight is: saudade (no real translation, it means nostalgia, melancholy...)
It's my father's face
between me and the sky,
and it's a windy day by a lake,
or some body of water.
I don't remember it all,
but there are birds blowing everywhere,
like words coming apart in the air.
I don't quite know where to look.
There are shapes moving
beneath the skin
of my father's face:
black-purple shapes
that I remember like demons
or anger, or trapped birds
welling up under the skin,
trying to push their way through.
'Just wait there, son,' he says
several times.
'Just wait there.'
And I watch him walking away
into the wind
with birds panicking above him.
'How long for?' I try to ask,
but the words are ripped away
across the lake,
as he gets into the car.
In reply to Steve Parker:
I really like this word, saudade.
I followed the game on the BBC website but UKC is quicker to let me know of the goals! Will watch the highlights on video when they are available.
Not sure I will venture in a pub for the 2d semi-final: I would for a rugby game, but for a football one...
To castleman: you've been lucky, SP has spared you! Will you write some more poems?
The theme is: pressure.
I really like this word, saudade.
I followed the game on the BBC website but UKC is quicker to let me know of the goals! Will watch the highlights on video when they are available.
Not sure I will venture in a pub for the 2d semi-final: I would for a rugby game, but for a football one...
To castleman: you've been lucky, SP has spared you! Will you write some more poems?
The theme is: pressure.
Steve, Y, Lucy, Castleman and the others, the game is finished, let's have some poetry!
Theme is : pressure or coarse
Theme is : pressure or coarse
In reply to Sandrine:
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
A whole world is watching,
but it is only one man between you and
eternal glory.
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
The atmposphere is tense,
and it is just one shot for you before
eternal glory.
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
The ground falls silent,
no-one else can help you to now reach
eternal glory.
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
The pressure is high,
the ball is kicked and scored and therein lies
...
eternal glory.
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
A whole world is watching,
but it is only one man between you and
eternal glory.
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
The atmposphere is tense,
and it is just one shot for you before
eternal glory.
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
The ground falls silent,
no-one else can help you to now reach
eternal glory.
Spot kick.
Into which spot to kick?
The pressure is high,
the ball is kicked and scored and therein lies
...
eternal glory.
In reply to Castleman:
Fingers crossed! (need to get myself into a pub for the final, hmmm...)
Will you have ago at "coarse" or "zeal"
Fingers crossed! (need to get myself into a pub for the final, hmmm...)
Will you have ago at "coarse" or "zeal"
In reply to Sandrine:
Loki's speaker, loosed then,
laughing, giving heed,
uncalled, grasping, grasper
he, gird-grater, greater of deed
in his own hall, hallowed o'er Odin
by those there assembled,
fretted now with torque's season,
flicking fireward his flametalk,
trickster, fearless of flame
and hammer, soon bearing,
beating, foreswearing tongues,
tasting, beating new metalled dread
into those young warriors there,
yet unwearied, withies winding,
weathering new storm,
staunching future wounds with fire,
firm-standing, fierce-crying,
dread of aspect, none dumb at the meaded hour,
swearing now pressure beyond
man's mean measure.
The morrow to set sails
like winged birds warring on oceans,
wighted warriors stooping as kestrels
on a slumbering coast
to fulfil night's fell boast.
Loki's speaker, loosed then,
laughing, giving heed,
uncalled, grasping, grasper
he, gird-grater, greater of deed
in his own hall, hallowed o'er Odin
by those there assembled,
fretted now with torque's season,
flicking fireward his flametalk,
trickster, fearless of flame
and hammer, soon bearing,
beating, foreswearing tongues,
tasting, beating new metalled dread
into those young warriors there,
yet unwearied, withies winding,
weathering new storm,
staunching future wounds with fire,
firm-standing, fierce-crying,
dread of aspect, none dumb at the meaded hour,
swearing now pressure beyond
man's mean measure.
The morrow to set sails
like winged birds warring on oceans,
wighted warriors stooping as kestrels
on a slumbering coast
to fulfil night's fell boast.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Must come back to it tonight, it's as rich as a dark chocolate cake, must be savoured slowly.
China cup.
Must come back to it tonight, it's as rich as a dark chocolate cake, must be savoured slowly.
China cup.
In reply to Sandrine:
What, you mean sickly and gooey?>
Round about now
I'd rather watch a china cup
falling to the floor
than hear about that other bloody cup
any more
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Must come back to it tonight, it's as rich as a dark chocolate cake, must be savoured slowly.
>
> Must come back to it tonight, it's as rich as a dark chocolate cake, must be savoured slowly.
What, you mean sickly and gooey?>
>
> China cup.
> China cup.
Round about now
I'd rather watch a china cup
falling to the floor
than hear about that other bloody cup
any more
In reply to Sandrine:
A north-bound bonxie was on his bloody business
the gliding fulmars, pristine kittiwakes wait,
now the hot blue sky above the cold green water
is split to salt ... by the Iris o' Faith.
The diver plunged, I watched as he blended deeper
into the waiting sea, the sun still shone
as he left, seeming so gentle like
no rocking wake .... he was just gone.
I try to recall now how the darkness beckons
black silence in the softly-liquid dark
it cradles with slow lulling, gentle moving,
waiting ... for an adventurer's heart.
Dark wrapped around the sky when we stopped waiting,
the sea and sky were welded by the sun,
wordless our wind-whipped faces, set with knowing,
the night was hopeless .... it was done.
The white-spear gannets dive
in the place where he slipped from view,
going deep in the waters of life
be-calmed by the world he knew.
A north-bound bonxie was on his bloody business
the gliding fulmars, pristine kittiwakes wait,
now the hot blue sky above the cold green water
is split to salt ... by the Iris o' Faith.
The diver plunged, I watched as he blended deeper
into the waiting sea, the sun still shone
as he left, seeming so gentle like
no rocking wake .... he was just gone.
I try to recall now how the darkness beckons
black silence in the softly-liquid dark
it cradles with slow lulling, gentle moving,
waiting ... for an adventurer's heart.
Dark wrapped around the sky when we stopped waiting,
the sea and sky were welded by the sun,
wordless our wind-whipped faces, set with knowing,
the night was hopeless .... it was done.
The white-spear gannets dive
in the place where he slipped from view,
going deep in the waters of life
be-calmed by the world he knew.
In reply to Fawksey:
I like that use of the word 'blended'. And the bit where he submerges is great. Some good stuff in there, Fawksey. You might get something out of posting on a critical site like www.criticalpoet.com if you're interested in advice and taking it further. Just a thought.
I like that use of the word 'blended'. And the bit where he submerges is great. Some good stuff in there, Fawksey. You might get something out of posting on a critical site like www.criticalpoet.com if you're interested in advice and taking it further. Just a thought.
In reply to Fawksey:
http://www.criticalpoet.com/forum/portal.php?sid=c90ebc377e933d3f0cd1f770a1...
Good site, with a lot of published people who know a lot about how to sharpen up poetry. Might not be your thing, but it's worth a look if you're interested in writing poetry and getting feedback.
http://www.criticalpoet.com/forum/portal.php?sid=c90ebc377e933d3f0cd1f770a1...
Good site, with a lot of published people who know a lot about how to sharpen up poetry. Might not be your thing, but it's worth a look if you're interested in writing poetry and getting feedback.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Of course not! I meant rich, full of things that I cannot grasp at 7h20 in the morning with a 20'' reading. I must take a small bite at a time and take the time to read slowly to undertsand it better if not fully.
(sickly and gooey, what sort of chocolate cake do you eat?!)
But the final should be exciting! Someone has agreed to go with me to the pub to see it!
Indomitable
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> [...]
>
> What, you mean sickly and gooey?>
> [...]
>
> What, you mean sickly and gooey?>
Of course not! I meant rich, full of things that I cannot grasp at 7h20 in the morning with a 20'' reading. I must take a small bite at a time and take the time to read slowly to undertsand it better if not fully.
(sickly and gooey, what sort of chocolate cake do you eat?!)
> Round about now
> I'd rather watch a china cup
> falling to the floor
> than hear about that other bloody cup
> any more
> I'd rather watch a china cup
> falling to the floor
> than hear about that other bloody cup
> any more
But the final should be exciting! Someone has agreed to go with me to the pub to see it!
Indomitable
In reply to Sandrine:
I have enjoyed all of the contributions this evening, but it is too late to add my own.
Which is a shame, I went to see Twelfth Night in Barny last night, and feel full of words.
I will be out Friday night as well, but should have time on Saturday evening.
Y.
I have enjoyed all of the contributions this evening, but it is too late to add my own.
Which is a shame, I went to see Twelfth Night in Barny last night, and feel full of words.
I will be out Friday night as well, but should have time on Saturday evening.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Someone once tried me
with all that sub/dom stuff
but after the cream and the handcuffs
I'd kinda had enough
The face mask was pretty sweaty
and the rivets began to pinch
and the flogging put me right off
though I hoped for a later clinch
The leather was better than the rubber
though all of it was crap
especially the Germanic run up
and the rather embarrasing slap
By now my ardour was quite softened
and I hoped for an early reprieve
but my black-clad mistress kept beating
with only herself to relieve
I found the whole ordeal
more than a little vomitable
so I extricated like Houdini
and declared myself indomitable.
Someone once tried me
with all that sub/dom stuff
but after the cream and the handcuffs
I'd kinda had enough
The face mask was pretty sweaty
and the rivets began to pinch
and the flogging put me right off
though I hoped for a later clinch
The leather was better than the rubber
though all of it was crap
especially the Germanic run up
and the rather embarrasing slap
By now my ardour was quite softened
and I hoped for an early reprieve
but my black-clad mistress kept beating
with only herself to relieve
I found the whole ordeal
more than a little vomitable
so I extricated like Houdini
and declared myself indomitable.
In reply to Steve Parker:
And gullible me, will believe all of that, and go to bed with all kinds of amusing images of someone tied up to a bed!
If you fancy another theme:
Baccarat
Ha, Y, we will be expecting all these words with impatient anticipation on Sat evening!
Night everyone!
And gullible me, will believe all of that, and go to bed with all kinds of amusing images of someone tied up to a bed!
If you fancy another theme:
Baccarat
Ha, Y, we will be expecting all these words with impatient anticipation on Sat evening!
Night everyone!
In reply to Sandrine:
Oh, go on then....
Can I succeede Inpooltable?
Can I win Inshoveha'pennytable
No no no. No, not I
But I will clean up indominotable!
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>
> Indomitable
>
>
> Indomitable
Oh, go on then....
Can I succeede Inpooltable?
Can I win Inshoveha'pennytable
No no no. No, not I
But I will clean up indominotable!
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Given the current form
of my favourite jockey
I suspect he should
really be playing hockey
I'm not a metting ban
and I don't hold with that
but on recent performance
I'd rather baccarat.
Given the current form
of my favourite jockey
I suspect he should
really be playing hockey
I'm not a metting ban
and I don't hold with that
but on recent performance
I'd rather baccarat.
Insatiable
In reply to Steve Parker:
Press Notice No: 225/01
Sunday, July 1, 2001
CONCERN GROWING FOR MISSING DIVER HOLYHEAD COASTGUARD MOUNT SEARCH
An air and sea search is currently on-going after a diver was reported as missing to Holyhead Coastguard at 5.15 pm this afternoon.
The man was reported as missing by his dive boat, ‘Iris O’Faith’, when he failed to return to the surface after a deep dive. He had been diving with a ‘buddy’, his buddy returned but he did not. He had been diving, probably on a wreck, 15 miles off South Stack Lighthouse near Holyhead.
Holyhead Coastguard requested Rescue Helicopter 122 from RAF Valley to scramble and begin a search, as well as the Holyhead All Weather Lifeboat. Shortly after, the Trearddur Bay Inshore Lifeboat joined the search. The Coastguard also requested the Stena ferry, ‘Stena Explorer’ to change its course and pass north of the search area in order to reduce wash from the ferry. The ferry was asked to keep a sharp look out for the missing diver.
Bungy Williamson, Holyhead Watch Manager said:
"This was a particularly deep dive to 120 metres and we are extremely concerned for the safety of this man. Conditions for searching are good with a calm sea, good visibility and sunshine, with sunset at around 9.50 pm this evening."
Press Notice No: 225/01
Sunday, July 1, 2001
CONCERN GROWING FOR MISSING DIVER HOLYHEAD COASTGUARD MOUNT SEARCH
An air and sea search is currently on-going after a diver was reported as missing to Holyhead Coastguard at 5.15 pm this afternoon.
The man was reported as missing by his dive boat, ‘Iris O’Faith’, when he failed to return to the surface after a deep dive. He had been diving with a ‘buddy’, his buddy returned but he did not. He had been diving, probably on a wreck, 15 miles off South Stack Lighthouse near Holyhead.
Holyhead Coastguard requested Rescue Helicopter 122 from RAF Valley to scramble and begin a search, as well as the Holyhead All Weather Lifeboat. Shortly after, the Trearddur Bay Inshore Lifeboat joined the search. The Coastguard also requested the Stena ferry, ‘Stena Explorer’ to change its course and pass north of the search area in order to reduce wash from the ferry. The ferry was asked to keep a sharp look out for the missing diver.
Bungy Williamson, Holyhead Watch Manager said:
"This was a particularly deep dive to 120 metres and we are extremely concerned for the safety of this man. Conditions for searching are good with a calm sea, good visibility and sunshine, with sunset at around 9.50 pm this evening."
In reply to Fawksey and Steve:
Lovely stuff again, now that I have read it properly.
Are you still around poets?
Bounce
Lovely stuff again, now that I have read it properly.
Are you still around poets?
Bounce
In reply to Fawksey:
"This was a particularly deep dive to 120 metres and we are extremely concerned for the safety of this man. Conditions for searching are good with a calm sea, good visibility and sunshine, with sunset at around 9.50 pm this evening."
What an horrible way to die.
"This was a particularly deep dive to 120 metres and we are extremely concerned for the safety of this man. Conditions for searching are good with a calm sea, good visibility and sunshine, with sunset at around 9.50 pm this evening."
What an horrible way to die.
In reply to Sandrine:
Wow, up V late tonight. This is vaguely about 'bounce':
It starts with looking at the night sky
over Keighley Moor: up to the North East
the black bulk of Ingleborough
with its gritty head flat-capping
a Jurassic bed full of fossils,
thrust into the geological night
of fractious limestone. These are words
and silhouettes that I love: sky, night, limestone...
I can taste their shapes in my mouth.
Their bodies are lighted by the
circling dead moons of uncountable
history, and I feel them out there.
I can't help it, it's just who I am
that I feel them and their falling
deadness of the ancient deeps.
That's just who I...
Rivers ran here, leaving red sand
and scars over the Pacific. I say
some of this, and that is how it starts:
with exuberance from me.
Then it moves.
There are still stars,
but they are quickly dying around us.
He asks me about how I like the Asians
who are f*cking up the area.
He tries to be tactful, but he winks
like I will know what he means.
Shut up, he's saying, we don't see
this stuff that you're dreaming.
Shut up, or talk sense.
But a dinosaur once stood on your chimney pot,
I think. Isn't that something at least?
She says 'Would you like another drink?'
cutting me off neatly before I get to talking
about the packhorse roads
that channelled lime across the moors
to neutralise the acidic soils
left after the deforestation.
I want to tell them.
I want to share it all.
I want to channel the genius loci
of this dark place.
I want to use these words:
'Royd' and 'intak' and 'wyc',
Viking words about the loving
of incomers in this hard, wide land.
I know this place
with its yammering, trickling night
from the seventeenth century,
its stigmatic forest from the far twilight.
'I feel weird around your parents,' I say
later. 'I feel like half of what I am
has to be discarded at the door.'
'You talked over them when they were showing
you the new fence,' she says.
'Yes, but the sun was going down,' I say,
'and there wasn't much time.'
Then she puts her hands on her head
and yawns, and doesn't reply. She stretches out
and closes her eyes.
Leaving me suddenly hating all women
and their silences, leaving me
looking for love in heather
and the shadows of clouds
on the moor.
Wow, up V late tonight. This is vaguely about 'bounce':
It starts with looking at the night sky
over Keighley Moor: up to the North East
the black bulk of Ingleborough
with its gritty head flat-capping
a Jurassic bed full of fossils,
thrust into the geological night
of fractious limestone. These are words
and silhouettes that I love: sky, night, limestone...
I can taste their shapes in my mouth.
Their bodies are lighted by the
circling dead moons of uncountable
history, and I feel them out there.
I can't help it, it's just who I am
that I feel them and their falling
deadness of the ancient deeps.
That's just who I...
Rivers ran here, leaving red sand
and scars over the Pacific. I say
some of this, and that is how it starts:
with exuberance from me.
Then it moves.
There are still stars,
but they are quickly dying around us.
He asks me about how I like the Asians
who are f*cking up the area.
He tries to be tactful, but he winks
like I will know what he means.
Shut up, he's saying, we don't see
this stuff that you're dreaming.
Shut up, or talk sense.
But a dinosaur once stood on your chimney pot,
I think. Isn't that something at least?
She says 'Would you like another drink?'
cutting me off neatly before I get to talking
about the packhorse roads
that channelled lime across the moors
to neutralise the acidic soils
left after the deforestation.
I want to tell them.
I want to share it all.
I want to channel the genius loci
of this dark place.
I want to use these words:
'Royd' and 'intak' and 'wyc',
Viking words about the loving
of incomers in this hard, wide land.
I know this place
with its yammering, trickling night
from the seventeenth century,
its stigmatic forest from the far twilight.
'I feel weird around your parents,' I say
later. 'I feel like half of what I am
has to be discarded at the door.'
'You talked over them when they were showing
you the new fence,' she says.
'Yes, but the sun was going down,' I say,
'and there wasn't much time.'
Then she puts her hands on her head
and yawns, and doesn't reply. She stretches out
and closes her eyes.
Leaving me suddenly hating all women
and their silences, leaving me
looking for love in heather
and the shadows of clouds
on the moor.
In reply to Sandrine:
I went bouncing last spring
to see what this bouncing
was really all about
I quite liked the rhythm
and the boing and the zing
till the air all fell out
I felt a little flat
after that
I went bouncing last spring
to see what this bouncing
was really all about
I quite liked the rhythm
and the boing and the zing
till the air all fell out
I felt a little flat
after that
In reply to Steve Parker:
Are you keen about geology or is it me reading things that are not there again? Really liked that poem.
I used to love geology when studying it. And this classic image that if geological times could be shrunk to the scale of a year, we humans would be appearing around New years eve or something in that vein.
I was abroad for the day yesterday, left very early and came back very late.
Are you keen about geology or is it me reading things that are not there again? Really liked that poem.
I used to love geology when studying it. And this classic image that if geological times could be shrunk to the scale of a year, we humans would be appearing around New years eve or something in that vein.
I was abroad for the day yesterday, left very early and came back very late.
And the new theme is:
iceberg
iceberg
In reply to Sandrine:
I must godown to the seas again
To the lonely sea and the sky
And allI ask is a tall ship
And a star to steer her by
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
And a white sail shaking
And a grey mist on the sea's face
And a grey dawn breaking
I must go down to the seas again
for the call of the running tide
Is wild call and a clear call
That cannot be denied
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying
and the flung spray
and the blown spume
and the seagulls crying
I must go down to the seas again
to the vagrant gypsy life
to the whale'sway
and the gull's way
where the wind's like a whetted knife
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow rover
and a quiet sleep
and a sweet dream
when the long trick's over
Typed this from memory.
I'm away sailing for the next few weeks.
D.
I must godown to the seas again
To the lonely sea and the sky
And allI ask is a tall ship
And a star to steer her by
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
And a white sail shaking
And a grey mist on the sea's face
And a grey dawn breaking
I must go down to the seas again
for the call of the running tide
Is wild call and a clear call
That cannot be denied
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying
and the flung spray
and the blown spume
and the seagulls crying
I must go down to the seas again
to the vagrant gypsy life
to the whale'sway
and the gull's way
where the wind's like a whetted knife
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow rover
and a quiet sleep
and a sweet dream
when the long trick's over
Typed this from memory.
I'm away sailing for the next few weeks.
D.
In reply to Sandrine:
A team of mixed race mountaineers,
went climbing in land unexplored.
Their equipment new,
their supplies few,
They very soon grew bored.
Monotonous was the land they trod,
flat and free from hills,
started they a new game,
with rules very tame,
That came from Feders and Quills,
Simple the rules and easy to play,
sentances of different tongue,
so all did play,
and all were gay,
Especially when out Jeff sung...
I SEE BERG!
A team of mixed race mountaineers,
went climbing in land unexplored.
Their equipment new,
their supplies few,
They very soon grew bored.
Monotonous was the land they trod,
flat and free from hills,
started they a new game,
with rules very tame,
That came from Feders and Quills,
Simple the rules and easy to play,
sentances of different tongue,
so all did play,
and all were gay,
Especially when out Jeff sung...
I SEE BERG!
In reply to Castleman:
Sorry, that is awful. Thought of the idea, but couldn't be bothered to develop it, back to packing.
Sorry, that is awful. Thought of the idea, but couldn't be bothered to develop it, back to packing.
In reply to Sandrine:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Are you keen about geology or is it me reading things that are not there again? Really liked that poem.
>
> I used to love geology when studying it. And this classic image that if geological times could be shrunk to the scale of a year, we humans would be appearing around New years eve or something in that vein.
>
Yes, I really like the sense of deep, deep history that you get from geology. Richard Dawkins (Eek!!!) had a good example of geological time: if you place a piece of A4 paper on the floo by your feet for every year, counting back from 2006, 2005, 2004... by the time you get to the time of Christ the stack of paper will reach about up to your knees. By the time you count back to the age of the trilobites, the stack of paper will be 28 kilometres high. >
> Are you keen about geology or is it me reading things that are not there again? Really liked that poem.
>
> I used to love geology when studying it. And this classic image that if geological times could be shrunk to the scale of a year, we humans would be appearing around New years eve or something in that vein.
>
In reply to David Rainsbury:
That's a favourite of mine. Lucky you, wish I was going sailing for a few weeks!
That's a favourite of mine. Lucky you, wish I was going sailing for a few weeks!
In reply to Steve Parker:
It's the only poem I know off by heart. I often start my lectures/after dinner talks with it. I says it all so well.
I'm off up the Firth of Clyde for starters, got a series to write on the area for a mag. Calling at harbours in Morecambe Bay on way up for some research for a book.
It's work, I don't have to enjoy it.........
But I will.
D
It's the only poem I know off by heart. I often start my lectures/after dinner talks with it. I says it all so well.
I'm off up the Firth of Clyde for starters, got a series to write on the area for a mag. Calling at harbours in Morecambe Bay on way up for some research for a book.
It's work, I don't have to enjoy it.........
But I will.
D
In reply to Sandrine:
It's called Sea Fever, and it's by John Masefield. Except it actually doesn't say 'I must go down to the seas again,' it says 'I must down to the seas again...' Just about everyone who ever quotes it makes the same mistake.
It's called Sea Fever, and it's by John Masefield. Except it actually doesn't say 'I must go down to the seas again,' it says 'I must down to the seas again...' Just about everyone who ever quotes it makes the same mistake.
In reply to Sandrine: John Masefield was poet laureate but as a young lad, about 14, he ran away to sea from his job in a grocery business. He was taken ill in South America and was sent home by steamer but the experience obviously made a lasting impression.
And yes Steve, you're right. Most people say "I must GO down to the SEA again" rather than the original.
D
And yes Steve, you're right. Most people say "I must GO down to the SEA again" rather than the original.
D
In reply to David Rainsbury:
Sounds like a good trip anyway, all the best with it. I used to sail quite a lot, so I'm jealous!
Sounds like a good trip anyway, all the best with it. I used to sail quite a lot, so I'm jealous!
In reply to Sandrine: very slow response time here... i am good thanks.
In reply to rock waif:
Off topic, I know, but thinking about the Jabberwock (which in turn came from a different thread, and Sandrine offering a word that said was untranslateable), and I remembered about this.
It is by Claude E Benson, originally published in Fell & Rock Journal, adn anthologised in "The Games Climbers Play"
The Trippercrock
'Twas dammot! and the flicksy sails
Did fly and flimmer o'er the wave;
All toorisd were the borrodails,
And the beercasks outgave.
"Beware the Trippercrock, my son,
The glass that flies, the stones that crash.
Beware the Pop-pop bird, and shun
The frumious Bottleshmash.
He bound his clinknale sole on foot;
Long time the lantic foe he sought;
Then rested well by the Pinkaknell,
And groused a while in thought.
And as in thought he humpied there,
The trippercrock, with lingo blue,
Hurled piffling through the scorfle air
And hurtled as it threw.
One-two! Click-CLick! and sharp and quick
The clinknale foot went clitter clack;
Til, when it swore to chuck no more;
He went jodumphling back.
And hast thou smit the trippercrock?
Come into my arms, my plucksome boy!
A safious time, kerloo, kerlimb
He kaykwalked in his joy
'Twas dammot! and the flicksy sails
Did fly and flimmer o'er the wave
All toorisd were the borrodails
And the beercasks outgave
Y.
Off topic, I know, but thinking about the Jabberwock (which in turn came from a different thread, and Sandrine offering a word that said was untranslateable), and I remembered about this.
It is by Claude E Benson, originally published in Fell & Rock Journal, adn anthologised in "The Games Climbers Play"
The Trippercrock
'Twas dammot! and the flicksy sails
Did fly and flimmer o'er the wave;
All toorisd were the borrodails,
And the beercasks outgave.
"Beware the Trippercrock, my son,
The glass that flies, the stones that crash.
Beware the Pop-pop bird, and shun
The frumious Bottleshmash.
He bound his clinknale sole on foot;
Long time the lantic foe he sought;
Then rested well by the Pinkaknell,
And groused a while in thought.
And as in thought he humpied there,
The trippercrock, with lingo blue,
Hurled piffling through the scorfle air
And hurtled as it threw.
One-two! Click-CLick! and sharp and quick
The clinknale foot went clitter clack;
Til, when it swore to chuck no more;
He went jodumphling back.
And hast thou smit the trippercrock?
Come into my arms, my plucksome boy!
A safious time, kerloo, kerlimb
He kaykwalked in his joy
'Twas dammot! and the flicksy sails
Did fly and flimmer o'er the wave
All toorisd were the borrodails
And the beercasks outgave
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Mick's body was recovered by his freinds from the sea a month later. His ashes are now scattered on the moors not far from Widdop rocks. It is fortunate that the nature of his death meant that he would have been completely unaware of his predicament.
For myself I can not forget seeing his mobile ringing on his bunk aboard the Iris and the call being from his wife. There were twenty missed calls, or when we eventually arrived in Holyhead seeing his wife and children waiting on the quayside.
The Iris O Faith was an ex lifeboat that had seen service in the Shetlands and had been at the centre of many a rescue. In 1967 A Silver Medal was awarded to Coxswain John Nicholson and Thanks of the Institution Inscribed on Vellum were awarded to seven lifeboat crew members for rescuing the crew of 12 from the trawler Juniper, which had gone aground in Lyra Sound. In 1968 Coxswain Nicholson received the Maud Smith Award for the bravest act of life-saving carried out by any member of a lifeboat crew in 1967 for the above service.
The "Bonxie" described at the beginning of the poem is a Great Skua, a large predatory sea bird more often see around Shetland.
Mick's body was recovered by his freinds from the sea a month later. His ashes are now scattered on the moors not far from Widdop rocks. It is fortunate that the nature of his death meant that he would have been completely unaware of his predicament.
For myself I can not forget seeing his mobile ringing on his bunk aboard the Iris and the call being from his wife. There were twenty missed calls, or when we eventually arrived in Holyhead seeing his wife and children waiting on the quayside.
The Iris O Faith was an ex lifeboat that had seen service in the Shetlands and had been at the centre of many a rescue. In 1967 A Silver Medal was awarded to Coxswain John Nicholson and Thanks of the Institution Inscribed on Vellum were awarded to seven lifeboat crew members for rescuing the crew of 12 from the trawler Juniper, which had gone aground in Lyra Sound. In 1968 Coxswain Nicholson received the Maud Smith Award for the bravest act of life-saving carried out by any member of a lifeboat crew in 1967 for the above service.
The "Bonxie" described at the beginning of the poem is a Great Skua, a large predatory sea bird more often see around Shetland.
In reply to Sandrine: as you started this thread, i would like to read some contributions from your mother tongue
In reply to prana:
Something I read recently, to keep fairly close with the theme:
La mer et l'amour
Et la mer et l'amour ont la mer pour partage
Et la mer est amère, et l'amour est amer.
L'on s'abîme en la mer aussi bien qu'en l'amour,
Car l'amour et la mer ne sont point sans orage.
Celui qui craint les eaux, qu'il demeure au rivage.
Celui qui craint les maux qu'on souffre pour aimer
qu'il ne se laisse pas par l'amour emporter
Car tous deux ils seraient sans hasard de naufrage
La mer de l'amour eut la mer pour berceau,
Le feu sort de l'amour, sa mère sort de l'eau.
Mais l'eau contre ce feu ne peut fournir des armes.
Si l'eau pouvait éteindre un brasier amoureux,
Ton amour qui me brûle est si fort douloureux,
Que j'eusse éteint son feu de la mer de mes larmes...
Pierre de Marbeuf
Something I read recently, to keep fairly close with the theme:
La mer et l'amour
Et la mer et l'amour ont la mer pour partage
Et la mer est amère, et l'amour est amer.
L'on s'abîme en la mer aussi bien qu'en l'amour,
Car l'amour et la mer ne sont point sans orage.
Celui qui craint les eaux, qu'il demeure au rivage.
Celui qui craint les maux qu'on souffre pour aimer
qu'il ne se laisse pas par l'amour emporter
Car tous deux ils seraient sans hasard de naufrage
La mer de l'amour eut la mer pour berceau,
Le feu sort de l'amour, sa mère sort de l'eau.
Mais l'eau contre ce feu ne peut fournir des armes.
Si l'eau pouvait éteindre un brasier amoureux,
Ton amour qui me brûle est si fort douloureux,
Que j'eusse éteint son feu de la mer de mes larmes...
Pierre de Marbeuf
In reply to Sandrine:
I am a vast insect
a nocturnal butterfly
with a thousand wings
shimmering in starlight
I haunt the high roads
of the Kuiper Belt
and the Oort Cloud
feeding on silent collision
Sated with gas and carbon
I fix my obsidian eyes
on pinpoints of fire
and begin my infinite turning
I shudder my filaments
I draw energy from vacuum
to inflate my crystal sails
and await the next star-tide home
I am a vast insect
a nocturnal butterfly
with a thousand wings
shimmering in starlight
I haunt the high roads
of the Kuiper Belt
and the Oort Cloud
feeding on silent collision
Sated with gas and carbon
I fix my obsidian eyes
on pinpoints of fire
and begin my infinite turning
I shudder my filaments
I draw energy from vacuum
to inflate my crystal sails
and await the next star-tide home
In reply to Sandrine: So topic!? Evening all , how are you!?
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I like that word, plucksome!
Pluck your brain of all the words from the other evening, Y, please!
I like that word, plucksome!
Pluck your brain of all the words from the other evening, Y, please!
In reply to wushu:
Hi Wushu! I am fine, although guilty of doing not much at all all day...
Topic, hmm, let me see, you're old enough: erotic.
Hi Wushu! I am fine, although guilty of doing not much at all all day...
Topic, hmm, let me see, you're old enough: erotic.
In reply to Sandrine: Thats good, i haven't done anything for the past few days but i pulled a muscle in me back, so i sort of have an excuse..
Sandrine had gone neurotic,
She was asking the poets to think erotic,
The writing would become exotic,
Can't think of much more so i'll think i'll just stop it.
Sandrine had gone neurotic,
She was asking the poets to think erotic,
The writing would become exotic,
Can't think of much more so i'll think i'll just stop it.
In reply to Sandrine:
Yeah, I thought it was crap too! Got me a tick, though.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> That's very nice.
>
> That's very nice.
Yeah, I thought it was crap too! Got me a tick, though.
In reply to Sandrine:
our wet hair standing on end
warm rain running like tears
down our faces into our open mouths
warm with each other's breath
we stood on Ponden Kirk
at midnight in our wet clothes
wrapped in the steam of our mouths
clutching the moment
your hands in the small of my back
pulling me closer into one kiss
that gathered in all the night around
and made it shimmer
> (In reply to wushu)
>
> erotic.
>
> erotic.
our wet hair standing on end
warm rain running like tears
down our faces into our open mouths
warm with each other's breath
we stood on Ponden Kirk
at midnight in our wet clothes
wrapped in the steam of our mouths
clutching the moment
your hands in the small of my back
pulling me closer into one kiss
that gathered in all the night around
and made it shimmer
In reply to Sandrine: so what is he? i think he's a comet
In reply to Sandrine:
When I was a child of tender year
I sailed the ocean in the local lake
From twigs and string a yacht I'd make
And plodge beside it in the muddy mere
And as a youth, the seas I would steer
Were novels. For adventure's sake
With Crusoe and Ballentyne as my mate
I'd journey long, with ending clear.
And as a man I see wonderful things;
The iridescence of a starling's wings
A highland sunset, or a sudden storm
Or a knock-knee'd lamb that's just been born
Yet neither in ocean deep or mountain high
Can match the beauty of my lover's eye.
Y.
> (In reply to David Rainsbury and Steve Parker)
>
>
> Next theme: sail
>
>
> Next theme: sail
When I was a child of tender year
I sailed the ocean in the local lake
From twigs and string a yacht I'd make
And plodge beside it in the muddy mere
And as a youth, the seas I would steer
Were novels. For adventure's sake
With Crusoe and Ballentyne as my mate
I'd journey long, with ending clear.
And as a man I see wonderful things;
The iridescence of a starling's wings
A highland sunset, or a sudden storm
Or a knock-knee'd lamb that's just been born
Yet neither in ocean deep or mountain high
Can match the beauty of my lover's eye.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Coriander pomander lys
ander over the aga
naga burning meander
turning morphic
turns strophe sis
ander left hander
Oh Rhian der flamme
flim flam neander
thal coriander
to dal and, er,
Buganda, Buganda
wherefore art Uganda?
Sauce for the moose
is goose for the gander
and coriander really
added nearly too early
fairly grow blander.
Nowt better than Corrie
and a curry, eh?
Coriander pomander lys
ander over the aga
naga burning meander
turning morphic
turns strophe sis
ander left hander
Oh Rhian der flamme
flim flam neander
thal coriander
to dal and, er,
Buganda, Buganda
wherefore art Uganda?
Sauce for the moose
is goose for the gander
and coriander really
added nearly too early
fairly grow blander.
Nowt better than Corrie
and a curry, eh?
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I assume you're on about R.M. Ballantyne. Wow, they were boys' books par excellence, were they not! Think I read all of them. I'll pass them on to Alfie when he's ready and see if they've aged or are still readable for the next generation.
I assume you're on about R.M. Ballantyne. Wow, they were boys' books par excellence, were they not! Think I read all of them. I'll pass them on to Alfie when he's ready and see if they've aged or are still readable for the next generation.
In reply to Steve Parker:
That is really good, Steve (or should I say, it exceeds even your high standards)
I feel like telling you that not all women are like that: which I am sure you know.
And it would be churlish to point out that there is (unless my geology is sadly wrong) no Jurrasic on Ingleborough! Can you really see it from Keighley? It is a beautiful, distinctive shape, whatever.
(I can still remember seeing it over the mist from Wild Boar Fell earlier this year)
Y.
>
> It starts with looking at the night sky
....
> It starts with looking at the night sky
> on the moor.
That is really good, Steve (or should I say, it exceeds even your high standards)
I feel like telling you that not all women are like that: which I am sure you know.
And it would be churlish to point out that there is (unless my geology is sadly wrong) no Jurrasic on Ingleborough! Can you really see it from Keighley? It is a beautiful, distinctive shape, whatever.
(I can still remember seeing it over the mist from Wild Boar Fell earlier this year)
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Coral Island: is that RM?
We had to read Lord of the Flies at school, which rather spoiled Coral Island for me!
Y.
Coral Island: is that RM?
We had to read Lord of the Flies at school, which rather spoiled Coral Island for me!
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Great fun. What are you on?
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> Coriander pomander lys
> ...
> and a curry, eh?
>
> Coriander pomander lys
> ...
> and a curry, eh?
Great fun. What are you on?
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
well done about coriander!
well done about coriander!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Coral Island is my fav book of all time (and by RM). Another classic(not sure who by) was The Midnight Folk. My Dad loved them, as did I!
Coral Island is my fav book of all time (and by RM). Another classic(not sure who by) was The Midnight Folk. My Dad loved them, as did I!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Cheers for compliments.
I not on nothing, honest!
Well, maybe a couple of beers.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Coral Island: is that RM?
>
Sure is, but many other great books too. Still worth reading as an adult if you liked his stuff as a kid.
>
> Coral Island: is that RM?
>
Cheers for compliments.
I not on nothing, honest!
Well, maybe a couple of beers.
Rapture
In reply to Sandrine:
Some say that when
Jesus comes aghen
He will snatch us up to heaven
So, just to reassure
I am going out through the dure
And am going up to bed.
Y.
(sorry, I couldn't make heaven and bed rhyme)
>
> Rapture
> Rapture
Some say that when
Jesus comes aghen
He will snatch us up to heaven
So, just to reassure
I am going out through the dure
And am going up to bed.
Y.
(sorry, I couldn't make heaven and bed rhyme)
In reply to Sandrine:
Me too. Have enjoyed reading them tonight. Triathlon in the morning, so this is the earliest I've been to bed for months!
Me too. Have enjoyed reading them tonight. Triathlon in the morning, so this is the earliest I've been to bed for months!
In reply to Sandrine:
Oh, rapture: that old thing
that hangs on the faces of statues
of Saint Theresa, and those stone
saints melting in the rain.
Dead rock eyes looking skyward
at their own sado-masochism,
what rapture is that
that demands such pain and virginity?
I walked through an inner court
at Karnak, and sunbeams shone
off black granite dragged from
the quarries of Aswan, dusted
with Natron salt, but not death,
no death in this. Lion faced
goddesses gleamed across years
of dust and desecration.
Mister, want to look here?
Mister, 5 pounds to look.
I looked into shadow
behind the heavy door.
There was nothing,
just a shaft of light
from a tiny hole
in the stone roof.
Then something formed from darkness,
features, then a face, then
a vast being with the dark
countenance of a lion.
In dark and polished granite
and chiarascuro of camera obscura
I saw rapture in shadows,
in a place where the lions
were thrown to the Christians,
where the shallow relief phalluses
hacked by angry puritans
became ever more clear
and defined.
Saint Theresa, for all her
long, agonised moan
is not Sekhmet,
whose ancient rapture
is not yet stilled in my heart.
Oh, rapture: that old thing
that hangs on the faces of statues
of Saint Theresa, and those stone
saints melting in the rain.
Dead rock eyes looking skyward
at their own sado-masochism,
what rapture is that
that demands such pain and virginity?
I walked through an inner court
at Karnak, and sunbeams shone
off black granite dragged from
the quarries of Aswan, dusted
with Natron salt, but not death,
no death in this. Lion faced
goddesses gleamed across years
of dust and desecration.
Mister, want to look here?
Mister, 5 pounds to look.
I looked into shadow
behind the heavy door.
There was nothing,
just a shaft of light
from a tiny hole
in the stone roof.
Then something formed from darkness,
features, then a face, then
a vast being with the dark
countenance of a lion.
In dark and polished granite
and chiarascuro of camera obscura
I saw rapture in shadows,
in a place where the lions
were thrown to the Christians,
where the shallow relief phalluses
hacked by angry puritans
became ever more clear
and defined.
Saint Theresa, for all her
long, agonised moan
is not Sekhmet,
whose ancient rapture
is not yet stilled in my heart.
In reply to Sandrine:
That's a parody of Clark Ashton Smith, btw, Sandrine, lest you take me seriously again!
That's a parody of Clark Ashton Smith, btw, Sandrine, lest you take me seriously again!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Parody or not, it's good! I always take everyone seriously, a matter of respect, something I have been brought up with, unless I mock of course, but then I mock people I like anyway.
"5 pounds to see, mister,
10 pounds for your own pleasure?"
bundle
Parody or not, it's good! I always take everyone seriously, a matter of respect, something I have been brought up with, unless I mock of course, but then I mock people I like anyway.
"5 pounds to see, mister,
10 pounds for your own pleasure?"
bundle
In reply to Sandrine:
me bundle of joy
brindled in windles
basket don't ask it
don't task it
nor cask it
just be ready
with the casket
nor fundle nor mundle
me brand new bundle
sundle day wimbled
on
someone there gonna
bundle a big packet
with his swingin racket
me bundle of joy
brindled in windles
basket don't ask it
don't task it
nor cask it
just be ready
with the casket
nor fundle nor mundle
me brand new bundle
sundle day wimbled
on
someone there gonna
bundle a big packet
with his swingin racket
In reply to Sandrine:
Shouts ring across Europe
in Rome and Venice
Naples and Florence
nothing is audible
above the one great shout
that lifts from every bar
and every city square
and the drumming of fifty million feet
on the ancient stones
the echoes waking Roman gods
and Emperors from their shadow
Across France a great quiet
settles like a cold blanket
Zinedine Zidane, the wizard, the dragonfly
dancing his mad blue dance
cannot dream up a time machine
to undo what has been done.
Not this time.
His magic has failed at the last,
his flurry has burned itself out
into cinders and ash, forever.
Allons, le bleu, notre vieux capitaine,
il est temps.
Levons l'ancre.
Shouts ring across Europe
in Rome and Venice
Naples and Florence
nothing is audible
above the one great shout
that lifts from every bar
and every city square
and the drumming of fifty million feet
on the ancient stones
the echoes waking Roman gods
and Emperors from their shadow
Across France a great quiet
settles like a cold blanket
Zinedine Zidane, the wizard, the dragonfly
dancing his mad blue dance
cannot dream up a time machine
to undo what has been done.
Not this time.
His magic has failed at the last,
his flurry has burned itself out
into cinders and ash, forever.
Allons, le bleu, notre vieux capitaine,
il est temps.
Levons l'ancre.
In reply to Steve Parker:
My god, that was hot off the press, Steve, and right on the button. Superb.
My god, that was hot off the press, Steve, and right on the button. Superb.
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
Should have added that the ending is a play on Baudelaire (Les Sept Vieillards). I wonder how many French journalists will spot the connection and use it, if they haven't already. Pretty perfect little parallel crying out to be used, I thought.
Should have added that the ending is a play on Baudelaire (Les Sept Vieillards). I wonder how many French journalists will spot the connection and use it, if they haven't already. Pretty perfect little parallel crying out to be used, I thought.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Monsieur Parker,
Ce soir encore,
Vous avez mis le doigt
Sue le coté douloureux de
Mon coeur.
Ce soir sur de la musique cubaine
J'ai dansé,
Au souvenir de ces amours lointaines
Et sur celles,
qui ne seront pas.
Je reve de cette saudade brésilienne,
de cette mélancolie qui envahie mon pays,
de ces opportunités,
de réconciliations
nationales,
entre beurs,
entre blancs et noirs,
qui ne seront pas.
Je danse, mon corps se délie,
dans la liesse,
qui n'existe pas,
Je songe aux lundis
Serieux et quand bien meme,
Il n'y aurait pas,
d'amours lointaines
Je sais qu'un jour, peut-etre
Saudade,
Deviendra,
un éclat de rire,
On se souviendra,
de cette nuit ou deux
amants, se sont aimés
lors d'une nuit anglaise
douce et tiede,
malgré la défaite.
Theme: defeat
Monsieur Parker,
Ce soir encore,
Vous avez mis le doigt
Sue le coté douloureux de
Mon coeur.
Ce soir sur de la musique cubaine
J'ai dansé,
Au souvenir de ces amours lointaines
Et sur celles,
qui ne seront pas.
Je reve de cette saudade brésilienne,
de cette mélancolie qui envahie mon pays,
de ces opportunités,
de réconciliations
nationales,
entre beurs,
entre blancs et noirs,
qui ne seront pas.
Je danse, mon corps se délie,
dans la liesse,
qui n'existe pas,
Je songe aux lundis
Serieux et quand bien meme,
Il n'y aurait pas,
d'amours lointaines
Je sais qu'un jour, peut-etre
Saudade,
Deviendra,
un éclat de rire,
On se souviendra,
de cette nuit ou deux
amants, se sont aimés
lors d'une nuit anglaise
douce et tiede,
malgré la défaite.
Theme: defeat
In reply to Sandrine:
Some of all that eluded me, but I liked it. I'll have to look a few bits up. Don't translate it, though, that would spoil it, and I got enough of it. Nice to get a poem from Sandrine.
Some of all that eluded me, but I liked it. I'll have to look a few bits up. Don't translate it, though, that would spoil it, and I got enough of it. Nice to get a poem from Sandrine.
In reply to Sandrine:
And thanks for this:
'Monsieur Parker,
Ce soir encore,
Vous avez mis le doigt
Sue le coté douloureux de
Mon coeur.'
I think Zinedine Zidane just broke my heart.
And thanks for this:
'Monsieur Parker,
Ce soir encore,
Vous avez mis le doigt
Sue le coté douloureux de
Mon coeur.'
I think Zinedine Zidane just broke my heart.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Beside, I am rather tipsy and deny any responsibilty about what I meant to say!
Beside, I am rather tipsy and deny any responsibilty about what I meant to say!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Yes, my climbing partner convinced me to drink a delicious white whilst we watched the game ( a favour I asked as I do not own a TV). She put some cuban music on, I danced, I ate, she disappeared with a mate of hers, I danced, and danced and more, I had not danced like that for a long time, until I was fit enough to go home.
The Cuban music is on in my house, and I do not want to go to bed, and be reasonable, and all that.
Yes, my climbing partner convinced me to drink a delicious white whilst we watched the game ( a favour I asked as I do not own a TV). She put some cuban music on, I danced, I ate, she disappeared with a mate of hers, I danced, and danced and more, I had not danced like that for a long time, until I was fit enough to go home.
The Cuban music is on in my house, and I do not want to go to bed, and be reasonable, and all that.
In reply to Sandrine:
.
Ooh, you're such a Hell's Angel! You'll be getting the biscuits out next.
.
>
> The Cuban music is on in my house, and I do not want to go to bed, and be reasonable, and all that.
> The Cuban music is on in my house, and I do not want to go to bed, and be reasonable, and all that.
Ooh, you're such a Hell's Angel! You'll be getting the biscuits out next.
In reply to Sandrine:
Sorry, just a little joke about being a rock and roll night-time person. Only kidding!
Sorry, just a little joke about being a rock and roll night-time person. Only kidding!
Right, I'm off to my poetry site for half an hour. A bientot!
Penates (as in home)
In reply to Sandrine:
Oh! la la! Dire!
Oh! la la! Dire!
Isn't it poetry time?
In reply to Sandrine:
My penates cluster in corners
in cobwebs and clutter and dust
I light my incense and incant
and they answer my call as they must
They're tricky and wayward
and difficult to please
they show little sympathy
though I'm on my knees
Genii loci,
I cry in the night
bring me fortune and fame
and my love requite
I'll burn you some candles
as my priestess once taught
if you'll only remove
this embarrassing wart
take away my bad breath
and my huge fat belly
make me slim and fragrant
like the dudes on the telly
make me all clever
attractive and wise
and I'll offer up
some delicious fly pies
I said they were wayward
and cold to my plea
I woke in the morning
to find this was me:
http://www.goma.demon.co.uk/food/fat-man-food.gif
My penates cluster in corners
in cobwebs and clutter and dust
I light my incense and incant
and they answer my call as they must
They're tricky and wayward
and difficult to please
they show little sympathy
though I'm on my knees
Genii loci,
I cry in the night
bring me fortune and fame
and my love requite
I'll burn you some candles
as my priestess once taught
if you'll only remove
this embarrassing wart
take away my bad breath
and my huge fat belly
make me slim and fragrant
like the dudes on the telly
make me all clever
attractive and wise
and I'll offer up
some delicious fly pies
I said they were wayward
and cold to my plea
I woke in the morning
to find this was me:
http://www.goma.demon.co.uk/food/fat-man-food.gif
In reply to Steve Parker: are you testing your poems for a publication? i hope so
In reply to Steve Parker:
Made me laugh!
I do not believe this pic of you, Steve, I know for sure you're slim. Either that or you must pay tributes to your Penates more often!
Edge
Made me laugh!
I do not believe this pic of you, Steve, I know for sure you're slim. Either that or you must pay tributes to your Penates more often!
Edge
In reply to Sandrine:
one tiny edge
4 millimetres wide
50 millimetres long
has now become my whole world
erasing every other thing
I have ever thought of
and I just don't know
if it will work
I just don't know
at this angle
clouds are whirling above me
and nations are going to war
and the only thing
that means anything to me
is that tiny sliver
and the possibility
that it will work
this is a kind of madness, surely,
my thing with this edge?
one tiny edge
4 millimetres wide
50 millimetres long
has now become my whole world
erasing every other thing
I have ever thought of
and I just don't know
if it will work
I just don't know
at this angle
clouds are whirling above me
and nations are going to war
and the only thing
that means anything to me
is that tiny sliver
and the possibility
that it will work
this is a kind of madness, surely,
my thing with this edge?
In reply to Sandrine:
A shallow diagonal
Across the hillside
A band of grey
Between the steep tussock grass
And the purple heather moor
There will I do battle.
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> Edge
A shallow diagonal
Across the hillside
A band of grey
Between the steep tussock grass
And the purple heather moor
There will I do battle.
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
(I assume you refer to a current pastie)
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
fly pies
>
>
I thought I was the only person that called them fly pies!
(I assume you refer to a current pastie)
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Indeed! We called them fly pies when I was 6 years old in Liverpool. So more currant than current!!
Indeed! We called them fly pies when I was 6 years old in Liverpool. So more currant than current!!
In reply to Steve Parker: is garibaldi squashed fly pie?
In reply to Steve Parker:
I shall go to bed, before I tell bad jokes about people being drowned in a bowl of muesli
Y.
I shall go to bed, before I tell bad jokes about people being drowned in a bowl of muesli
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> I shall go to bed, before I tell bad jokes about people being drowned in a bowl of muesli
>
I look forward to that one then.
>
> I shall go to bed, before I tell bad jokes about people being drowned in a bowl of muesli
>
In reply to Sandrine:
homoousios
he runs mad around the garden
sliding like a wild slider
burning his little heart
in the sunbeams
like watching myself
jump out of my chest
and become three years old
falling into the sky
in a sudden shaft
of sunlight
homoousios
he runs mad around the garden
sliding like a wild slider
burning his little heart
in the sunbeams
like watching myself
jump out of my chest
and become three years old
falling into the sky
in a sudden shaft
of sunlight
In reply to Steve Parker: steady on parker, don't give nao ideas
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Men and their meanly ways!...
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> [...]
> There will I do battle.
>
> Y.
> There will I do battle.
>
> Y.
Men and their meanly ways!...
In reply to Sandrine:
My mother used to make them (and call them currAnt pasties). They had currants in (obviously, hence the flies), and, I think, mint.
I could try and extract a recipie
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> Fly pies do exist then?! Any chance to find one at my local bakery?!
>
> Fly pies do exist then?! Any chance to find one at my local bakery?!
My mother used to make them (and call them currAnt pasties). They had currants in (obviously, hence the flies), and, I think, mint.
I could try and extract a recipie
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
We used to call Eccles cakes fly pies because the currants look a bit like lots of dead flies. Bit of an ugly image, really. Yes, you can get them from bakeries etc.
We used to call Eccles cakes fly pies because the currants look a bit like lots of dead flies. Bit of an ugly image, really. Yes, you can get them from bakeries etc.
Woohoo, it works! Cheers, Rosie.
New theme: mislay
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Looks like it doesn't it?! Yes, we have done osmosis before, but I like this word. Nothing on mislay?
What about: hustle
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> Is this the John Cage school of poetry?
>
> Y.
>
> Is this the John Cage school of poetry?
>
> Y.
Looks like it doesn't it?! Yes, we have done osmosis before, but I like this word. Nothing on mislay?
What about: hustle
In reply to Sandrine:
Apples,
Oranges,
Banana's
and pairs,
The fruitiest fruits that the tree's can bare(sp?)!
Apples,
Oranges,
Banana's
and pairs,
The fruitiest fruits that the tree's can bare(sp?)!
In reply to wushu:
Pears, the fruit I guess and bear.
Pair = 2 of a kind, bare = naked, empty...
Unless it's a poetry trick!
Phonetic
Pears, the fruit I guess and bear.
Pair = 2 of a kind, bare = naked, empty...
Unless it's a poetry trick!
Phonetic
In reply to Sandrine: Yeah only just realised my spelling was crap on that! sorry.
In reply to Sandrine:
Long time since I heard from my old mate, Etic.
I liked him a lot, though he was slightly pathetic.
Maybe I should phone him.
He might be all alone, him.
Long time since I heard from my old mate, Etic.
I liked him a lot, though he was slightly pathetic.
Maybe I should phone him.
He might be all alone, him.
In reply to Sandrine:
Phonetic,
Cat,
Spell it without using capitals,
Cat say it,
A phonetic word,
In an infants world.
<hmm this was erm not too good!>
Phonetic,
Cat,
Spell it without using capitals,
Cat say it,
A phonetic word,
In an infants world.
<hmm this was erm not too good!>
In reply to Steve Parker:
Not as good as your usual standards Steve!
Plethora (it means abundance, Wushu!)
Not as good as your usual standards Steve!
Plethora (it means abundance, Wushu!)
In reply to Sandrine:
Loads of,
plentiful(sp?),
abundant,
You could say infinite,
But i'll just stick with having an abundance of climbing time.
Loads of,
plentiful(sp?),
abundant,
You could say infinite,
But i'll just stick with having an abundance of climbing time.
In reply to Sandrine: Night!
In reply to Sandrine:
I thought plethora was something like an excess of red blood cells in a part of the circulatory system?
Anyway, no time just now, but I'll try a plethora if I get time later.
I thought plethora was something like an excess of red blood cells in a part of the circulatory system?
Anyway, no time just now, but I'll try a plethora if I get time later.
In reply to Sandrine:
The Rhombic Block
with the big undercling
and the fingercurling jug
half way up
V-Diff
The Rhombic Block
Miss the big Undercling
Pad the slab and stretch
To the jug
Severe
The Rhombic Block
Miss the big undercling
Strongwilled, now
Ignore the jug
Still only Severe
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>
> Plethora (it means abundance, Wushu!)
The Rhombic Block
with the big undercling
and the fingercurling jug
half way up
V-Diff
The Rhombic Block
Miss the big Undercling
Pad the slab and stretch
To the jug
Severe
The Rhombic Block
Miss the big undercling
Strongwilled, now
Ignore the jug
Still only Severe
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Off to bed - just a quick plethora of Langur monkeys:
stalk broken walls
and shout quietly
lest the future hear you,
unmade monkey, deserted by females,
still your teeth
still your chatter,
you walk these parapets
alone, watched by the unwanted
females, who have no other hindparts
to fixate them now.
This falling temple is not yours,
and its loudest shouts
are not those that cry
from your longing,
but those that issue
from the bright birds
that fly past,
full of the night sky's scream.
Off to bed - just a quick plethora of Langur monkeys:
stalk broken walls
and shout quietly
lest the future hear you,
unmade monkey, deserted by females,
still your teeth
still your chatter,
you walk these parapets
alone, watched by the unwanted
females, who have no other hindparts
to fixate them now.
This falling temple is not yours,
and its loudest shouts
are not those that cry
from your longing,
but those that issue
from the bright birds
that fly past,
full of the night sky's scream.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Quickly searched this site for Rhombic block and no luck?
Anyway, I liked the poem.
Quickly searched this site for Rhombic block and no luck?
Anyway, I liked the poem.
In reply to Sandrine:
In the centre of her mind
Looms a reminder
Of the way that time can wind
Its tendrils through and find her
Weakest defences. They
Crack to let in sorrow
And regrets; remind her of the day
And that the morrow
Will see another mark upon
The scoresheet of her life.
And all the hopes she's given up on
Press sharply as the stab of knife
That slice on slice will make
Of sugar-icinged birthday cake.
A poor effort especially compared with some of the above, but nonetheless heartfelt...
> Next theme: birthday.
In the centre of her mind
Looms a reminder
Of the way that time can wind
Its tendrils through and find her
Weakest defences. They
Crack to let in sorrow
And regrets; remind her of the day
And that the morrow
Will see another mark upon
The scoresheet of her life.
And all the hopes she's given up on
Press sharply as the stab of knife
That slice on slice will make
Of sugar-icinged birthday cake.
A poor effort especially compared with some of the above, but nonetheless heartfelt...
Sulk
In reply to Sandrine:
http://www.climbonline.co.uk/crag_willas.htm
goes up the Rhombic Block
I sometimes to warm-up by climbing it repeatedly, gradually missing out holds.
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> Quickly searched this site for Rhombic block and no luck?
>
The first route here:
>
> Quickly searched this site for Rhombic block and no luck?
>
http://www.climbonline.co.uk/crag_willas.htm
goes up the Rhombic Block
I sometimes to warm-up by climbing it repeatedly, gradually missing out holds.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Thanks for the link.
What is it with climber-poets these past 48h?
Busy oiling they racks?
For a WE out on the crags?
Getting some fresh-air in their lungs?
Packing sandwiches and bean mungs?
Ambition
Thanks for the link.
What is it with climber-poets these past 48h?
Busy oiling they racks?
For a WE out on the crags?
Getting some fresh-air in their lungs?
Packing sandwiches and bean mungs?
Ambition
In reply to Sandrine:
Thanks
Now in too good a mood to sulk,and my only ambition this evening is to get out of the office into the sunshine!
But will come back some time soon, since the natives are so friendly.
Thanks
Now in too good a mood to sulk,and my only ambition this evening is to get out of the office into the sunshine!
But will come back some time soon, since the natives are so friendly.
In reply to Sandrine:
I like it, but it'll take me a while.
I'll take my paper and pencil out with me tomorrow so I can think about it while I bask by the lake.
P.S. This is a great thread, it's making me think and I'm very impressed by what other folk have been writing.
I like it, but it'll take me a while.
I'll take my paper and pencil out with me tomorrow so I can think about it while I bask by the lake.
P.S. This is a great thread, it's making me think and I'm very impressed by what other folk have been writing.
In reply to kamala:
I know, it is a great thread! It started back (with Simon I think) early this year, thus the number. This forum seems to have a long history of such poetry threads anyway.
And god speed for your poetising basking!
I know, it is a great thread! It started back (with Simon I think) early this year, thus the number. This forum seems to have a long history of such poetry threads anyway.
And god speed for your poetising basking!
In reply to kamala:
(not mine)
In Yrmenlafingham, birthday celebrations start with fresh made croissants for breakfast, with hot chocolate or fresh ground coffee to taste.
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> I like it, but it'll take me a while.
> I'll take my paper and pencil out with me tomorrow so I can think about it while I bask by the lake.
>
I will think of you basking by the lake whilst I officiate at a thirteenth birthday party
>
> I like it, but it'll take me a while.
> I'll take my paper and pencil out with me tomorrow so I can think about it while I bask by the lake.
>
(not mine)
In Yrmenlafingham, birthday celebrations start with fresh made croissants for breakfast, with hot chocolate or fresh ground coffee to taste.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Freshly made croissants! Is that made from these canned rolls?
Freshly made croissants: ooh! I am salivating!
Freshly made croissants! Is that made from these canned rolls?
Freshly made croissants: ooh! I am salivating!
In reply to Sandrine:
I really love you and I mean you
the star above you, crystal blue
Well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
I wouldn't see you and I love to
I fly above you, yes I do
well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
Floating, bumping, noses dodge a tooth
the fins a luminous
fangs all 'round the clown
is dark below the boulders hiding all
the sunlight's good for us
'Cause we're the fishes and all we do
the move about is all we do
well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
Floating, bumping, noses dodge a tooth
the fins a luminous
fangs all 'round the clown
is dark below the boulders hiding all
the sunlight's good for us
'Cause we're the fishes and all we do
the move about is all we do
well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
I really love you and I mean you
the star above you, crystal blue
Well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you..
I really love you and I mean you
the star above you, crystal blue
Well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
I wouldn't see you and I love to
I fly above you, yes I do
well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
Floating, bumping, noses dodge a tooth
the fins a luminous
fangs all 'round the clown
is dark below the boulders hiding all
the sunlight's good for us
'Cause we're the fishes and all we do
the move about is all we do
well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
Floating, bumping, noses dodge a tooth
the fins a luminous
fangs all 'round the clown
is dark below the boulders hiding all
the sunlight's good for us
'Cause we're the fishes and all we do
the move about is all we do
well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you...
I really love you and I mean you
the star above you, crystal blue
Well, oh baby, my hairs on end about you..
In reply to Sandrine: no, syd barrett wrote it and i would like you to analyse it as a poet
In reply to Sandrine: i'm sure you're aware from this forum that syd has recently gone to the great gig in the sky
he is in my mind, and on my stereo atm
he is in my mind, and on my stereo atm
In reply to prana:
Yes, I am aware. I have read an article about his life and wondered if he was ever happy.
Yes, I am aware. I have read an article about his life and wondered if he was ever happy.
In reply to Sandrine:
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
>
> Freshly made croissants! Is that made from these canned rolls?
>
No, made from flour, butter, eggs, milk and elbow grease.
>
>
> Freshly made croissants! Is that made from these canned rolls?
>
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
You're making them yourself!!!
Please Y, write us a poem about croissant making.
You're making them yourself!!!
Please Y, write us a poem about croissant making.
In reply to Sandrine:
I thought of conundrum:
As I walked the dogs
The yows called
Their adolescent lambs
The crows cawed
The air on bare arms blew cold
The sky turned a distant green
The clouds red-gold
There was no conundrum
RangerDog saw no conundrum
But their were lots of rabbits
Ra-Ra, Ra Ra AR'r'r'RABBITS,
He is fed now,
And lies on the rug
Twitching at the memory.
AmberDog saw conundra
Things to prickle her hackles
But they are solved now,
In her dogfood.
Y.
Amberdog saw a
I thought of conundrum:
As I walked the dogs
The yows called
Their adolescent lambs
The crows cawed
The air on bare arms blew cold
The sky turned a distant green
The clouds red-gold
There was no conundrum
RangerDog saw no conundrum
But their were lots of rabbits
Ra-Ra, Ra Ra AR'r'r'RABBITS,
He is fed now,
And lies on the rug
Twitching at the memory.
AmberDog saw conundra
Things to prickle her hackles
But they are solved now,
In her dogfood.
Y.
Amberdog saw a
In reply to Sandrine:
Now this conundrum begins with a man called Jim,
His croissant's were the finest of all the land,
Now glyn had lots of money and even a pool to swim,
But poor old glyn was never happy with this
He quite prefered a plate of smoked haddock or any other fish,
Now Tim's icon was a dish that could beat all the fishermans creations,
He would sweat and swear to perfect his dish with care
Until one day poor old Tim dropped dead while cooking,
At least they thought it was tim..
Maybe jim or glyn?
< hmm i confused myself with this!>
Now this conundrum begins with a man called Jim,
His croissant's were the finest of all the land,
Now glyn had lots of money and even a pool to swim,
But poor old glyn was never happy with this
He quite prefered a plate of smoked haddock or any other fish,
Now Tim's icon was a dish that could beat all the fishermans creations,
He would sweat and swear to perfect his dish with care
Until one day poor old Tim dropped dead while cooking,
At least they thought it was tim..
Maybe jim or glyn?
< hmm i confused myself with this!>
In reply to wushu: I'm allergic to fish!
In reply to Glyn Jones: Ahh but was it about you or tim or jim!..?
In reply to wushu: you are a bit lost there aren't you!
In reply to Glyn Jones: Yes.. lol.
In reply to Sandrine:
How can Yrmenlaf
Write about croissant
To a French woman
How could the monk, Bede
Write a learnéd book
On the Song of Songs?
Y.
How can Yrmenlaf
Write about croissant
To a French woman
How could the monk, Bede
Write a learnéd book
On the Song of Songs?
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
It's always interesting to have a foreigner's view on a national staple!
Trump
It's always interesting to have a foreigner's view on a national staple!
Trump
Talisman
In reply to Sandrine:
No poets about, or perhaps they need the night to fall to come out of their dens.
No poets about, or perhaps they need the night to fall to come out of their dens.
In reply to Sandrine:
Bit late on this theme, been out on the water most of the weekend. But here's today's offering:
Croissants curl,
Blissfully buttered,
On the morning plate.
Coffee coils
Sensuous steam
In the morning air.
Wakefully warm,
Breakfast beckons
Me into the morning.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Liked the dogs' conundrum
Bit late on this theme, been out on the water most of the weekend. But here's today's offering:
Croissants curl,
Blissfully buttered,
On the morning plate.
Coffee coils
Sensuous steam
In the morning air.
Wakefully warm,
Breakfast beckons
Me into the morning.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Liked the dogs' conundrum
In reply to kamala:
Agree with Sandrine: better than I could have done, anyway
I was going to send you, Sandrine, a photo of the breakfast. Unfortunately the gadget that reads the card in the camera has gone AWOL. I blame the fifteen year old, he denies all knowledge.
Anyway, dinner nearly ready, might be back with a Talisman later.....
Y.
Agree with Sandrine: better than I could have done, anyway
I was going to send you, Sandrine, a photo of the breakfast. Unfortunately the gadget that reads the card in the camera has gone AWOL. I blame the fifteen year old, he denies all knowledge.
Anyway, dinner nearly ready, might be back with a Talisman later.....
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
When they brought Billy off The Schill
Down Rush Syke, and into the church,
Under the steep grey roof at Sourhope
They put a tuft of wool on the coffin
So that the True Shepherd
-Who knows the silly ways of sheep -
Will understand why Billy,
Who followed the blackfaced ewes,
Through moor and burn
Had not been through that door before.
And when the time comes to dispose of me
I will ask that my rock-boots
Be placed on the urn or the coffin
So that he that created the gritstone
Will understand.
Y.
>
>
> Talisman
>
> Talisman
When they brought Billy off The Schill
Down Rush Syke, and into the church,
Under the steep grey roof at Sourhope
They put a tuft of wool on the coffin
So that the True Shepherd
-Who knows the silly ways of sheep -
Will understand why Billy,
Who followed the blackfaced ewes,
Through moor and burn
Had not been through that door before.
And when the time comes to dispose of me
I will ask that my rock-boots
Be placed on the urn or the coffin
So that he that created the gritstone
Will understand.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
That's great Y!
PS: I think this 15 year old needs a punishment: no more computer for a week!
That's great Y!
PS: I think this 15 year old needs a punishment: no more computer for a week!
In reply to Sandrine:
He would become insufferable - more insufferable, if such a thing is possible - within an hour
Anyway, cooler now. Dogwalking.
Might log on later
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> That's great Y!
>
> PS: I think this 15 year old needs a punishment: no more computer for a week!
>
> That's great Y!
>
> PS: I think this 15 year old needs a punishment: no more computer for a week!
He would become insufferable - more insufferable, if such a thing is possible - within an hour
Anyway, cooler now. Dogwalking.
Might log on later
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
The sanctimonious Saint Hood
thought himself rather too good;
he antagonised colleagues
with tables and leagues,
now he's saint of ash and charred wood.
The sanctimonious Saint Hood
thought himself rather too good;
he antagonised colleagues
with tables and leagues,
now he's saint of ash and charred wood.
In reply to Sandrine:
That overly chatty Saint Catherine,
she always spat while a-blatherin'.
She hacked off the locals,
who wiped their bifocals,
and left her fiery pace quite a-gatherin'.
That overly chatty Saint Catherine,
she always spat while a-blatherin'.
She hacked off the locals,
who wiped their bifocals,
and left her fiery pace quite a-gatherin'.
In reply to Sandrine:
And Saint Stayup Overlylatus
with the dark and the night to deflate us
he drank up his wine
and shrank from the whine
and quietly sank to quietus.
And Saint Stayup Overlylatus
with the dark and the night to deflate us
he drank up his wine
and shrank from the whine
and quietly sank to quietus.
In reply to Sandrine:
Saint Terra Nova walked into his therapist's office and said, 'I'm having awful fantasies: I keep imagining I'm a wigwam and a marquee, both at the same time. It's horrible.'
The therapist took a drag on his cigar, leaned back in his leather chair and looked closely.
'I know exactly what your problem is,' he said, 'you're too tense.'
Saint Terra Nova walked into his therapist's office and said, 'I'm having awful fantasies: I keep imagining I'm a wigwam and a marquee, both at the same time. It's horrible.'
The therapist took a drag on his cigar, leaned back in his leather chair and looked closely.
'I know exactly what your problem is,' he said, 'you're too tense.'
In reply to Steve Parker:
Welcome back! Sainthood was meant to inspire Y, but there you go, 3 in a row from Steve!
Lightness
Welcome back! Sainthood was meant to inspire Y, but there you go, 3 in a row from Steve!
Lightness
Heaviness instead?
In reply to Steve Parker:
There was once a young man called Steve
Who said to Sandrine "By your leave
I'll show you old tricks
And write limericks"
That sly old devil called Steve
Y.
There was once a young man called Steve
Who said to Sandrine "By your leave
I'll show you old tricks
And write limericks"
That sly old devil called Steve
Y.
In reply to Sandrine: Evening! Thought it was a bit quiet!
In reply to wushu:
hello, been climbing, then meal, knackered, off to bed in 5' sharp: challenge for you.
hello, been climbing, then meal, knackered, off to bed in 5' sharp: challenge for you.
In reply to Sandrine: ok then erm heaviness is it?
Sandrine was growing tired,
Simon was now AWOL or did he just get fired,
Her eye-lids grew heavy,
It was probably that bevvy,
Some useful posting could get Si re-hired.
Bevvy = beverage (in case you don't know..)
Sandrine was growing tired,
Simon was now AWOL or did he just get fired,
Her eye-lids grew heavy,
It was probably that bevvy,
Some useful posting could get Si re-hired.
Bevvy = beverage (in case you don't know..)
In reply to Sandrine:
This is tenth century Irish (by a monk, I think), and therefore not orignal
(I don't know who translated it from the Gaelic. It is from a book by Norah Chadwick, so it might be her translation)
Shame to my thoughts, how they stray from me.
I fear great danger from them at the day of eternal doom.
During the psalms they wander on a path that is not right;
They fash, they fret, they misbehave before the eyes of the Great God.
Through eager crowds, through companies of wanton women,
Through woods, through cities: swifter they are than the wind.
Now through paths of loveliness, anon of riotous shame.
Without ferry, or ever missing a step, they go across every sea:
Swiftly, they leap in one bound from earth to heaven.
They run a race with folly, anear and afar:
After a course of giddiness they return to their home.
Though one should try to bind them or put shackles on their feet,
They are neither constant nor mindful to take a spell of rest.
Neither sword edge nor crack of whip will keep them down strongly:
As slippery as an eel's tail they glide out of my grasp....
Y.
(can I have a tick against lightness as well, please?)
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
>
> Sainthood
>
>
> Sainthood
This is tenth century Irish (by a monk, I think), and therefore not orignal
(I don't know who translated it from the Gaelic. It is from a book by Norah Chadwick, so it might be her translation)
Shame to my thoughts, how they stray from me.
I fear great danger from them at the day of eternal doom.
During the psalms they wander on a path that is not right;
They fash, they fret, they misbehave before the eyes of the Great God.
Through eager crowds, through companies of wanton women,
Through woods, through cities: swifter they are than the wind.
Now through paths of loveliness, anon of riotous shame.
Without ferry, or ever missing a step, they go across every sea:
Swiftly, they leap in one bound from earth to heaven.
They run a race with folly, anear and afar:
After a course of giddiness they return to their home.
Though one should try to bind them or put shackles on their feet,
They are neither constant nor mindful to take a spell of rest.
Neither sword edge nor crack of whip will keep them down strongly:
As slippery as an eel's tail they glide out of my grasp....
Y.
(can I have a tick against lightness as well, please?)
In reply to wushu:
Well done! I knew about Bevvy, see I am progressing in English! Probably learnt here actually! I am drinking water you cheek!
I have asked Si to just leave us a little poem, hijacking another thread, but in vain. Perhaps he is not in the mood or perhaps he hasn't seen the hijack?
Well done! I knew about Bevvy, see I am progressing in English! Probably learnt here actually! I am drinking water you cheek!
I have asked Si to just leave us a little poem, hijacking another thread, but in vain. Perhaps he is not in the mood or perhaps he hasn't seen the hijack?
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Sandrine: Too late? You gone?
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> There was once a young man called Steve
> Who said to Sandrine "By your leave
> I'll show you old tricks
> And write limericks"
> That sly old devil called Steve
>
Blimey, I'm young and old at the same time. Sounds about right, actually!
>
> There was once a young man called Steve
> Who said to Sandrine "By your leave
> I'll show you old tricks
> And write limericks"
> That sly old devil called Steve
>
Sandrine: Too late? You gone?
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Must read it again tomorrow to get it fully (and tick you for lightness or perhaps not . Lovely!
Must read it again tomorrow to get it fully (and tick you for lightness or perhaps not . Lovely!
In reply to Steve Parker:
"Middle aged" wouldn't scan in either location
Besides, like me, you are old enough to take "young" as a compliment
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
> [...]
> Blimey, I'm young and old at the same time. Sounds about right, actually!
> [...]
> Blimey, I'm young and old at the same time. Sounds about right, actually!
"Middle aged" wouldn't scan in either location
Besides, like me, you are old enough to take "young" as a compliment
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
(a contribution from my youngest - again, not original
There once was a young man from Crewe
Whose limericks stopped at line two)
Y.
(a contribution from my youngest - again, not original
There once was a young man from Crewe
Whose limericks stopped at line two)
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
My situation is this:
I'm one mile North of Haworth
three miles West of Keighley
nine miles North North West of Bradford
in a room near a radio
near a can of Stella Artois
as the crow flies
as the owl calls
as the night fixes itself around the window
as Sandrine prepares to leave
as Wushu thinks about it
as a sheep coughs in the night outside
as it all goes on, undisturbed
by the soft taps on my keyboard
far from the dawn.
My situation is this:
I'm one mile North of Haworth
three miles West of Keighley
nine miles North North West of Bradford
in a room near a radio
near a can of Stella Artois
as the crow flies
as the owl calls
as the night fixes itself around the window
as Sandrine prepares to leave
as Wushu thinks about it
as a sheep coughs in the night outside
as it all goes on, undisturbed
by the soft taps on my keyboard
far from the dawn.
Must go now.
Good night my favourite poets!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> [...]
>
> "Middle aged" wouldn't scan in either location
>
> Besides, like me, you are old enough to take "young" as a compliment
>
Old enough and mellow enough to take most things as compliments these days!
> [...]
>
> "Middle aged" wouldn't scan in either location
>
> Besides, like me, you are old enough to take "young" as a compliment
>
In reply to Sandrine:
The situation had grown desperate,
Sandrine had left steve without more topics,
The time had come for the poets to drum
short tunes on their desks to stop it.
The situation had grown desperate,
Sandrine had left steve without more topics,
The time had come for the poets to drum
short tunes on their desks to stop it.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Beneath you lie her bones of gritstone
The Briganties knitted a body:
A kingdom, a Boudicca, over the baring hills
The Romans, they passed her by
But the men of Elmet
- Caradog ApGwalog and Madog
Sheltered here from the Deirans
- Eadwine, son of Aelle.
And gave her muscle and sinew.
Vikings came, possesed her,
Named the places they farmed.
Then traders from the monasteries
Wove veins and arteries between the hills
Wool, coal, then king cotton
shifted like shuttles in the new mills.
Today, she wears her orange sari
And invites you to dine
On sensuous spices
From the East.
Beneath you lie her bones of gritstone
The Briganties knitted a body:
A kingdom, a Boudicca, over the baring hills
The Romans, they passed her by
But the men of Elmet
- Caradog ApGwalog and Madog
Sheltered here from the Deirans
- Eadwine, son of Aelle.
And gave her muscle and sinew.
Vikings came, possesed her,
Named the places they farmed.
Then traders from the monasteries
Wove veins and arteries between the hills
Wool, coal, then king cotton
shifted like shuttles in the new mills.
Today, she wears her orange sari
And invites you to dine
On sensuous spices
From the East.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Nice one, I'm very into the poetical, historical dreams of places. More to do on this one. More poems to come. Cheers.
Nice one, I'm very into the poetical, historical dreams of places. More to do on this one. More poems to come. Cheers.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Thanks: I had wanted to try and nick some elements of one of your styles. I hope I did you credit!
I suspect I would write a better poem about Durham, even though I grew up in Morley
Y.
Thanks: I had wanted to try and nick some elements of one of your styles. I hope I did you credit!
I suspect I would write a better poem about Durham, even though I grew up in Morley
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Ceredig, not Caradog!
It has some of the same letters!
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>Caradog ApGwalog
>
Ceredig, not Caradog!
It has some of the same letters!
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I try and let style come from the thing itself. I'm not sure I believe in style. Although on this thread we probably all have limited styles because of the circumstances!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Thanks: I had wanted to try and nick some elements of one of your styles. I hope I did you credit!
>
> Thanks: I had wanted to try and nick some elements of one of your styles. I hope I did you credit!
I try and let style come from the thing itself. I'm not sure I believe in style. Although on this thread we probably all have limited styles because of the circumstances!
>
> I suspect I would write a better poem about Durham, even though I grew up in Morley
>
You're probably closer to it now, and it probably pushes more. And I bet you could dream up some great stuff about Durham and the North East. There is some fantastic history to delve into, obviously. I might even have a shallow attempt at the North East, but you really need to do it justice with a learned skim over the geology, biology, history etc, and their interaction. That would be my approach to that kind of paian anyway. Interested to read it, if you get around to it.
> I suspect I would write a better poem about Durham, even though I grew up in Morley
>
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Anyway, where you getting these Caradogs and Ceredigs from? Where is this local to? Did they shelter in Yorkshire?
Anyway, where you getting these Caradogs and Ceredigs from? Where is this local to? Did they shelter in Yorkshire?
A good vintage last night!
When
When
In reply to Steve Parker:
Local lads!
You know Barwick in Elmet and Sherburn in Elmet? Elmet was an independent kingdom, between the end of Roman rule in Yorkshire until Ceredig Ap Gwallog was expelled by Eadwine of Deira in about 615 ish.
One wonders if the Walshaw to the North East of Hebden Bridge derives from Wælas - Haw (forigner's hill), and if that is where the men from Elmet ended up.
I will tell a fuller story if time permits later
Y.
Local lads!
You know Barwick in Elmet and Sherburn in Elmet? Elmet was an independent kingdom, between the end of Roman rule in Yorkshire until Ceredig Ap Gwallog was expelled by Eadwine of Deira in about 615 ish.
One wonders if the Walshaw to the North East of Hebden Bridge derives from Wælas - Haw (forigner's hill), and if that is where the men from Elmet ended up.
I will tell a fuller story if time permits later
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
When inspiration comes to me,
It always comes too late.
The witty piece of repartee
Is past its sell-by date.
This poems thread is good for me -
It makes me think at speed.
But things can go so horribly
Wrong ... when I spend ages and ages thinking and still can't find exactly the word I need...
grrr...would have been more (and hopefully better) on the theme but then it would have been too late to post it!
> When
When inspiration comes to me,
It always comes too late.
The witty piece of repartee
Is past its sell-by date.
This poems thread is good for me -
It makes me think at speed.
But things can go so horribly
Wrong ... when I spend ages and ages thinking and still can't find exactly the word I need...
grrr...would have been more (and hopefully better) on the theme but then it would have been too late to post it!
In reply to Sandrine:
When do you want it by?
I'm frying fish on the roof
of my old tin shack
with a breeze in my hair
and the sun on my back.
If you happen to call by,
I might even give you a trout to fry.
Sizzle my summery mizzle,
and Oh for some nice cold drizzle!
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
>
> Where are the poets in this heat?>
>
> The theme is still: when.
>
>
> Where are the poets in this heat?>
>
> The theme is still: when.
When do you want it by?
I'm frying fish on the roof
of my old tin shack
with a breeze in my hair
and the sun on my back.
If you happen to call by,
I might even give you a trout to fry.
Sizzle my summery mizzle,
and Oh for some nice cold drizzle!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Might call by,
Around 22 hours,
Will you still be frying
A trout or two?
Might come along,
A bottle or a few
More if you want
to quench the party's thirst
How many of you?
Might call by,
Around 22 hours,
Will you still be frying
A trout or two?
Might come along,
A bottle or a few
More if you want
to quench the party's thirst
How many of you?
What
In reply to Sandrine:
What? What? What?
What you wot?
That all you got?
Can we do When
again?
Seriously, What
is really just NOT
inspiring
to a man
what's perspiring
and close to expiring.
What indeed!
What plants no seed
and gets no prisoners
freed.
Free your mind and your ass will follow!
As Mr Clinton wot.
What? What? What?
What you wot?
That all you got?
Can we do When
again?
Seriously, What
is really just NOT
inspiring
to a man
what's perspiring
and close to expiring.
What indeed!
What plants no seed
and gets no prisoners
freed.
Free your mind and your ass will follow!
As Mr Clinton wot.
In reply to Steve Parker:
What, rebelling again,
Poet,
Can do when again
if you want to,
Or even how if that's better
Or perhaps whose if you lost it
Or where if your prefer.
Just keep them coming
I need double dose
Of poetry
On a warm night.
What, rebelling again,
Poet,
Can do when again
if you want to,
Or even how if that's better
Or perhaps whose if you lost it
Or where if your prefer.
Just keep them coming
I need double dose
Of poetry
On a warm night.
Solace
In reply to Sandrine:
So lace my worn out shoes
and dispel my heat up blues
beat my soul with beat itude
and stem my steamed up attitude
I'll wait by the western wall
and count cobwebs
drifting in sunbeams
with the stamp of the future
beating its feet hard
on the cracked slabs
putting little prayers
into the cracks
and bowing before a lost giant
who has turned its eye elsewhere
seeking a new race to solace.
I will wait there
when the summer turns to wind
and rain fills the hollows.
I will wait for three hundred days
and sixteen hours
with my feet rooting in the rock
and bright birds nesting
in my ears.
Then I will gather my ankle bones
from the dust
and begin walking South
following some pulse
that was implanted in my heart
long before words.
So lace my worn out shoes
and dispel my heat up blues
beat my soul with beat itude
and stem my steamed up attitude
I'll wait by the western wall
and count cobwebs
drifting in sunbeams
with the stamp of the future
beating its feet hard
on the cracked slabs
putting little prayers
into the cracks
and bowing before a lost giant
who has turned its eye elsewhere
seeking a new race to solace.
I will wait there
when the summer turns to wind
and rain fills the hollows.
I will wait for three hundred days
and sixteen hours
with my feet rooting in the rock
and bright birds nesting
in my ears.
Then I will gather my ankle bones
from the dust
and begin walking South
following some pulse
that was implanted in my heart
long before words.
In reply to Sandrine:
Click click goes the keys of keyboard
as the poets type away,
poems about everything
with any theme is the way,
click goes the computer the poets are all in bed,
the poetry thread is left for one more night
yet still in the poets heads.
Click click goes the keys of keyboard
as the poets type away,
poems about everything
with any theme is the way,
click goes the computer the poets are all in bed,
the poetry thread is left for one more night
yet still in the poets heads.
In reply to Sandrine: Was going to put 'minds', but it wouldn't work and yes my English is not very good at this time of night!
In reply to Sandrine:
Not with a click, but a whimper,
my five sacral vertebrae detached
themselves from the lumbar and cauda,
slicked out of my lower back,
and flopped onto the carpet.
In a flurry of shapeshifting
too fast to really observe,
they put on flesh, accreting
muscle and skin until they
were able to slither off
under the sofa like some kind of worm.
I watched all this,
a little disturbed,
and decided I needed a drink.
'Make me one too!' squeaked
that thing under the sofa.
'Most certainly not!' I replied,
summoning as much gravitas as I could manage.
'I said make me a drink,
you spineless git!' shouted the thing.
'Oh, for God's sake,' I muttered,
and made him a Manhattan
with vermouth, Canadian Club, crushed ice
and a Glace cherry, wondering just what
exactly we were going to talk about.
Not with a click, but a whimper,
my five sacral vertebrae detached
themselves from the lumbar and cauda,
slicked out of my lower back,
and flopped onto the carpet.
In a flurry of shapeshifting
too fast to really observe,
they put on flesh, accreting
muscle and skin until they
were able to slither off
under the sofa like some kind of worm.
I watched all this,
a little disturbed,
and decided I needed a drink.
'Make me one too!' squeaked
that thing under the sofa.
'Most certainly not!' I replied,
summoning as much gravitas as I could manage.
'I said make me a drink,
you spineless git!' shouted the thing.
'Oh, for God's sake,' I muttered,
and made him a Manhattan
with vermouth, Canadian Club, crushed ice
and a Glace cherry, wondering just what
exactly we were going to talk about.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Local lads!
>
> You know Barwick in Elmet and Sherburn in Elmet? Elmet was an independent kingdom, between the end of Roman rule in Yorkshire until Ceredig Ap Gwallog was expelled by Eadwine of Deira in about 615 ish.
>
> One wonders if the Walshaw to the North East of Hebden Bridge derives from Wælas - Haw (forigner's hill), and if that is where the men from Elmet ended up.
>
> I will tell a fuller story if time permits later
>
Sorry, missed this earlier, Y. That's all good information that I only had a few sketchy bits of. That Wælas is obviously the same Wælas that we've discussed before, meaning foreigners or slaves. The Elmet stuff is all new to me. Look forward to the 'fuller story'!
>
> Local lads!
>
> You know Barwick in Elmet and Sherburn in Elmet? Elmet was an independent kingdom, between the end of Roman rule in Yorkshire until Ceredig Ap Gwallog was expelled by Eadwine of Deira in about 615 ish.
>
> One wonders if the Walshaw to the North East of Hebden Bridge derives from Wælas - Haw (forigner's hill), and if that is where the men from Elmet ended up.
>
> I will tell a fuller story if time permits later
>
In reply to Sandrine:
A sheep's gut
Stretched, twisted
Strung across a soundboard
Will sing sweeter
Than any skylark
Y.
A sheep's gut
Stretched, twisted
Strung across a soundboard
Will sing sweeter
Than any skylark
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
This is distilled from Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People.
"There was war, always war between the two Northumbrian kingdoms, until at last the Bernicans won a great victory over the Deirans, and killed King Aelle and drove his family into exile.
"Hereric fled to Elmet, thinking he would be safe amongst the Wælas. Their king, Ceredig, was a wise man who kept a peaceful country between the might of the Northumbrians and the power of the Southumbrians. Hereric even married, a Wælas woman he called her Breguswith, and settled down to make a new life for himself, to raise children, and to wait for the opportunity to return home.
"Meanwhile, Eadwine, son of Aelle, earned the support of Rædwald Wuffing. They advanced north together, and met the Bernican army just where the Great North Road crosses the River Idle. Eadwine and Rædwald defeated the Bernicians, and so Eadwine became king of all Northumberland.
"Hereric became ill, and died. Breguswith dreamed that she was searching for her husband, and couldn't find him. As she searched, she became aware of a valuable jewel under her skirts. As she held it up, it gave out a great light that illuminated the whole of the English nations. Eight months later, she gave birth to a girl, known as Hild (which, in modern English means "Battle"
"Eadwine heard of his kinsman's illness, and supposed that Ceredig had poisoned Hereric. So he invaded Elmet, and expelled the king. He brought the Hild away with him: later she became famous as Abbess of Whitby."
I really like that story: you could weave it into the Arthurian cycles (it is about the same age), and it would not seem out of place. I do not have the skill to tell it well!
Breguswith is an intersting name - not least because it is the name that Mrs. Y. adopts. The "Bregu" bit is from the celtic language, the "With" bit is clearly Anglo Saxon.
Rædwald is (probably) the bloke buried in the ship burial at Sutton Hoo
<end of hijack>
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> I will tell a fuller story if time permits later
>
<hijack alert>
>
> I will tell a fuller story if time permits later
>
This is distilled from Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People.
"There was war, always war between the two Northumbrian kingdoms, until at last the Bernicans won a great victory over the Deirans, and killed King Aelle and drove his family into exile.
"Hereric fled to Elmet, thinking he would be safe amongst the Wælas. Their king, Ceredig, was a wise man who kept a peaceful country between the might of the Northumbrians and the power of the Southumbrians. Hereric even married, a Wælas woman he called her Breguswith, and settled down to make a new life for himself, to raise children, and to wait for the opportunity to return home.
"Meanwhile, Eadwine, son of Aelle, earned the support of Rædwald Wuffing. They advanced north together, and met the Bernican army just where the Great North Road crosses the River Idle. Eadwine and Rædwald defeated the Bernicians, and so Eadwine became king of all Northumberland.
"Hereric became ill, and died. Breguswith dreamed that she was searching for her husband, and couldn't find him. As she searched, she became aware of a valuable jewel under her skirts. As she held it up, it gave out a great light that illuminated the whole of the English nations. Eight months later, she gave birth to a girl, known as Hild (which, in modern English means "Battle"
"Eadwine heard of his kinsman's illness, and supposed that Ceredig had poisoned Hereric. So he invaded Elmet, and expelled the king. He brought the Hild away with him: later she became famous as Abbess of Whitby."
I really like that story: you could weave it into the Arthurian cycles (it is about the same age), and it would not seem out of place. I do not have the skill to tell it well!
Breguswith is an intersting name - not least because it is the name that Mrs. Y. adopts. The "Bregu" bit is from the celtic language, the "With" bit is clearly Anglo Saxon.
Rædwald is (probably) the bloke buried in the ship burial at Sutton Hoo
<end of hijack>
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
You got a parasol? Ace!
We will walk together
Shoulder to shoulder, so lace
Our parasols tightly
And from this heat find solace.
Y.
> (In reply to wushu)
>
> What about solace?
>
> What about solace?
You got a parasol? Ace!
We will walk together
Shoulder to shoulder, so lace
Our parasols tightly
And from this heat find solace.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
That's it. Off to the bookshop tomorrow (today). Only read bits of Bede, and clearly I need more. I'll be a better educated Steve soon!
Thanks for that. Most inspiring.
That's it. Off to the bookshop tomorrow (today). Only read bits of Bede, and clearly I need more. I'll be a better educated Steve soon!
Thanks for that. Most inspiring.
In reply to Steve Parker:
(just to clarify: the words in the Ceredig story are all mine. I put them in speach marks to signify where the story was, and not to say I'd copied them from Bede.)
Y.
(just to clarify: the words in the Ceredig story are all mine. I put them in speach marks to signify where the story was, and not to say I'd copied them from Bede.)
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Gotcha. But yes, probably no poems or other daftness from me for a bit, as I'm going to be pretty busy, and not just reading Bede, though I look forward to that.
Gotcha. But yes, probably no poems or other daftness from me for a bit, as I'm going to be pretty busy, and not just reading Bede, though I look forward to that.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Nice contributions Y! I liked the story too. Do you think I could read that book or is it going to be too much for me (old spelling and all that)?
Nice contributions Y! I liked the story too. Do you think I could read that book or is it going to be too much for me (old spelling and all that)?
In reply to Steve Parker:
No more poems?! I thought it was part of your job to write them anyway?
<very upset, might be grumpy for a few days as a result>
No more poems?! I thought it was part of your job to write them anyway?
<very upset, might be grumpy for a few days as a result>
In reply to Sandrine:
He died in 735AD, so the problem is more like another foreign language than old spelling!
In any case, he wrote in Latin (although he wrote at least one poem in Anglo-Aaxon, translated the Lord's Prayer & Creed into Anglo Saxon, and was working on John's Gospel when he died)
His main works (Ecclesiastical History) is readily available in several modern English translations.
If you are going to read Bede, his Life of Cuthbert is excellent. It is available in a penguin volume called "The Age of Bede"
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
Do you think I could read that book or is it going to be too much for me (old spelling and all that)?
He died in 735AD, so the problem is more like another foreign language than old spelling!
In any case, he wrote in Latin (although he wrote at least one poem in Anglo-Aaxon, translated the Lord's Prayer & Creed into Anglo Saxon, and was working on John's Gospel when he died)
His main works (Ecclesiastical History) is readily available in several modern English translations.
If you are going to read Bede, his Life of Cuthbert is excellent. It is available in a penguin volume called "The Age of Bede"
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf: Thanks Y, it's on my list of things to read. Which tends to get longer and longer. I should stop posting here so often really.
In reply to Sandrine:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> No more poems?! I thought it was part of your job to write them anyway?
>
That would be a pretty good job!. Anyway, I might find time for another uninspired chunk of word in a while. It's too damn hot to do anything else! >
> No more poems?! I thought it was part of your job to write them anyway?
>
Hello poets! The temperature has cooled down to 28C, which is perfectly reasonable temperature for poetry writing. Are you ready?
Theme: resistance
In reply to Sandrine:
I'm dripping into my keyboard
little steam clouds rising
between the letters
to direct my fingers
like a panicked tourist dodging geysers
and searching for his lost dog.
If this keeps up,
I'm really gonna have to get
a sweat-resistant laptop.
I'd hate to have the night end
in a big crackle and a choke
just when I was writing
my favourite poetic joke.
I'm dripping into my keyboard
little steam clouds rising
between the letters
to direct my fingers
like a panicked tourist dodging geysers
and searching for his lost dog.
If this keeps up,
I'm really gonna have to get
a sweat-resistant laptop.
I'd hate to have the night end
in a big crackle and a choke
just when I was writing
my favourite poetic joke.
In reply to Sandrine:
To resist the heat,
take off your socks and free you feet,
go to the beach or the pool,
It's too hot for the dog he's starting to drool,
meet the lobstered people at the beach,
Applying suncream is a thing you just cant teach,
Now the laptops melted and the plastics hot,
Yet i have a cold,
who would of thought heated snot!
Lol! evening
To resist the heat,
take off your socks and free you feet,
go to the beach or the pool,
It's too hot for the dog he's starting to drool,
meet the lobstered people at the beach,
Applying suncream is a thing you just cant teach,
Now the laptops melted and the plastics hot,
Yet i have a cold,
who would of thought heated snot!
Lol! evening
Hello poets?
No one for filtration?
Stamina
No one for filtration?
Stamina
Poets?
<They are really too hot the poor things. Beside, I should be in bed...>
In reply to Sandrine: Back just went to the shops!
In reply to Sandrine:
I got enough stamina
to get to the fridge a few times
and probably not enough
to think up any rhymes
I got just enough
to tap a few keys
and nothing to spare
for no poetries
I got stamina
to read a few lines
turn into mush
and secrete some brines
I have now become
a liquefied sludge
creeping around a keyboard
but bearing no grudge
I got enough stamina
to get to the fridge a few times
and probably not enough
to think up any rhymes
I got just enough
to tap a few keys
and nothing to spare
for no poetries
I got stamina
to read a few lines
turn into mush
and secrete some brines
I have now become
a liquefied sludge
creeping around a keyboard
but bearing no grudge
In reply to Steve Parker:
It took you at least 5 more minutes than usual to get that one done. So, enough for tonight, cheers, it was fun to read. I am off to bed.
Just in case: skid
It took you at least 5 more minutes than usual to get that one done. So, enough for tonight, cheers, it was fun to read. I am off to bed.
Just in case: skid
In reply to Sandrine:
Bring on the winter,
and its lovely cool air,
the slippery roads where you skid,
ice driving its a dare.
Bring on the winter,
and its lovely cool air,
the slippery roads where you skid,
ice driving its a dare.
In reply to Sandrine:
I was at Beer Sheva bus station, Israel, August 1987, stuffed with falaffel and chilli, and carrying rugs from the Bedouin market, heading for my bus terminal with my redhaired girlfriend, when a young soldier jumped out in front of me with a machine gun. The usual gaffer tape was off, and his magazine was in. I knew all about M16s and Uzis by now, and this M16 was aimed straight at my head and in the hands of an 18 year old guy who looked pretty twitchy. I looked around, wondering what the, and he said, 'There is a bomb.' Funny how they always pronounce that second 'b' in bomb.
So a circle formed around the bomb, at a safe distance of around 30 metres, all of us watching closely to see what happened next. There were about fifty young soldiers aiming themselves and their weapons at that little bag under a bench, guys running around the edges of the crowd, shouting, the crowd pushing forward like it was more concerned to be part of the event than about its own safety. Somewhere a woman was shouting in Hebrew that her little boy was lost somewhere. We all got tense and waited for something big to happen.
Then a young English guy appeared from one of the falaffel bars. He looked about ready to have a heart attack, and he went up to one of the young soldiers and said something. The weapons all suddenly twitched and changed direction, and focussed on him. A twenty year old Israeli lieutenant shouted out across the hot tarmac. Something like 'approach the bag slowly and empty it'. It took twenty minutes for this quivering holidaymaker to get to his bag with fifty M16s aimed at his centre of mass to get to his bag and dump the contents across the floor. There were condoms and underclothes, and light stuff suitable for the climate. A couple of books. We all looked on. We got on our buses, suddenly bored by it all, and wanting to go home.
Two days later, I got to the Golden Gate at the Old City in Jerusalem twenty minutes before a bomb killed a bunch of people. No soldiers, no ring of onlookers, just bits of people all across the floor, like big brown skids.
Dates are approximate, unlike figs.
I was at Beer Sheva bus station, Israel, August 1987, stuffed with falaffel and chilli, and carrying rugs from the Bedouin market, heading for my bus terminal with my redhaired girlfriend, when a young soldier jumped out in front of me with a machine gun. The usual gaffer tape was off, and his magazine was in. I knew all about M16s and Uzis by now, and this M16 was aimed straight at my head and in the hands of an 18 year old guy who looked pretty twitchy. I looked around, wondering what the, and he said, 'There is a bomb.' Funny how they always pronounce that second 'b' in bomb.
So a circle formed around the bomb, at a safe distance of around 30 metres, all of us watching closely to see what happened next. There were about fifty young soldiers aiming themselves and their weapons at that little bag under a bench, guys running around the edges of the crowd, shouting, the crowd pushing forward like it was more concerned to be part of the event than about its own safety. Somewhere a woman was shouting in Hebrew that her little boy was lost somewhere. We all got tense and waited for something big to happen.
Then a young English guy appeared from one of the falaffel bars. He looked about ready to have a heart attack, and he went up to one of the young soldiers and said something. The weapons all suddenly twitched and changed direction, and focussed on him. A twenty year old Israeli lieutenant shouted out across the hot tarmac. Something like 'approach the bag slowly and empty it'. It took twenty minutes for this quivering holidaymaker to get to his bag with fifty M16s aimed at his centre of mass to get to his bag and dump the contents across the floor. There were condoms and underclothes, and light stuff suitable for the climate. A couple of books. We all looked on. We got on our buses, suddenly bored by it all, and wanting to go home.
Two days later, I got to the Golden Gate at the Old City in Jerusalem twenty minutes before a bomb killed a bunch of people. No soldiers, no ring of onlookers, just bits of people all across the floor, like big brown skids.
Dates are approximate, unlike figs.
In reply to Sandrine:
Filtration
Me and my mate John headed out into the desert with bottles of vodka. We bent ourselves in the wadi and drank mud. We imagined the river that must come through here washing us away with songs from the mountains. A big white torrent out of nowhere muddling our heads and carrying us off to places we only knew of from myths. Aqaba, maybe, or the Nefud, the Devil's beat hammering around Wadi Rhum, maybe a long drift North to Babylon to read the insignia in mudbricks. There were big deep cracks in the baked mud, and we peered in, thinking maybe frogs were hiding there. We laughed quite a lot with the looking, and slugged that vodka. At nightfall we crawled into a cave with porcupine quills scattered around the entrance, and we wondered how fast a quill shoots out into the eye of a creeping predator. Pretty fast, surely? What eats porcupines? We didn't really know, apart from minefields and drunken men eating sunlight with bludgeons. So we thought f*ck that and went further in to see the ten thousand bats.
I woke with my arm excavating six feet of guano and my mouth full of batshit. It was around 5 am, and the sun was crawling around the cave entrance, whacking off empty vodka bottles. I lay outside in the spot where a mystic predator had ripped up a porcupine, looking into the history of the desert world and its dry river bed, flowing like a long ghost into the past. I saw Saladin and Mohammed and Shi atu Ali and the Mahdi rush past shouting urgent rivers of history.
Bees came and danced around, dazzled by our colour, fooled into death by counterfeit flowers. We stuck porcupine quills in our wet hair as we walked back in, painted our faces with red mud, and whooped like badguys halfnaked with whoop and bateyed with desert f*ck.
Filtration
Me and my mate John headed out into the desert with bottles of vodka. We bent ourselves in the wadi and drank mud. We imagined the river that must come through here washing us away with songs from the mountains. A big white torrent out of nowhere muddling our heads and carrying us off to places we only knew of from myths. Aqaba, maybe, or the Nefud, the Devil's beat hammering around Wadi Rhum, maybe a long drift North to Babylon to read the insignia in mudbricks. There were big deep cracks in the baked mud, and we peered in, thinking maybe frogs were hiding there. We laughed quite a lot with the looking, and slugged that vodka. At nightfall we crawled into a cave with porcupine quills scattered around the entrance, and we wondered how fast a quill shoots out into the eye of a creeping predator. Pretty fast, surely? What eats porcupines? We didn't really know, apart from minefields and drunken men eating sunlight with bludgeons. So we thought f*ck that and went further in to see the ten thousand bats.
I woke with my arm excavating six feet of guano and my mouth full of batshit. It was around 5 am, and the sun was crawling around the cave entrance, whacking off empty vodka bottles. I lay outside in the spot where a mystic predator had ripped up a porcupine, looking into the history of the desert world and its dry river bed, flowing like a long ghost into the past. I saw Saladin and Mohammed and Shi atu Ali and the Mahdi rush past shouting urgent rivers of history.
Bees came and danced around, dazzled by our colour, fooled into death by counterfeit flowers. We stuck porcupine quills in our wet hair as we walked back in, painted our faces with red mud, and whooped like badguys halfnaked with whoop and bateyed with desert f*ck.
No one in? All in bed? Busy with family and dinner?
In reply to Sandrine:
My mate Jerry
can climb 8c
even in the wet
and when the holds are wee
My mate Jerry
gets all the girls
he's tall and handsome
with long blond curls
My mate Jerry
is the talk of the town
he's everyone's best mate
and the fave party clown
My mate Jerry
can go to hell
except he'd probably even
do that too bloody well
My mate Jerry
can climb 8c
even in the wet
and when the holds are wee
My mate Jerry
gets all the girls
he's tall and handsome
with long blond curls
My mate Jerry
is the talk of the town
he's everyone's best mate
and the fave party clown
My mate Jerry
can go to hell
except he'd probably even
do that too bloody well
In reply to Sandrine:
They ate with us, that Sunday
The philosopher and the pastor
And over the red wine and roasted pork
We discussed the sermon.
How we should meditate
Soak ourselves in God
Like a steamed sponge pudding
In sweet golden syrup.
And when they left, she asked me
"Why are you looking sad"
As I started to wash up
I explained my feelings.
Always rushing about,
Never stopping to pray.
"But you do meditate
But you call it walking the dogs"
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
>
> What about, meditation?
>
>
> What about, meditation?
They ate with us, that Sunday
The philosopher and the pastor
And over the red wine and roasted pork
We discussed the sermon.
How we should meditate
Soak ourselves in God
Like a steamed sponge pudding
In sweet golden syrup.
And when they left, she asked me
"Why are you looking sad"
As I started to wash up
I explained my feelings.
Always rushing about,
Never stopping to pray.
"But you do meditate
But you call it walking the dogs"
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
She is fine, but tired. She is a primary school teacher, and has one day 'til the end of term.
She has just had an afternoon with her next year's class, and (amongst other things) she asked them her favourite word.
One eight year old's favourite word is "inordinate"
The birthday went well. He went ice-skating with some friends, then got a DVD in, then Pizzahut.
Y.
She is fine, but tired. She is a primary school teacher, and has one day 'til the end of term.
She has just had an afternoon with her next year's class, and (amongst other things) she asked them her favourite word.
One eight year old's favourite word is "inordinate"
The birthday went well. He went ice-skating with some friends, then got a DVD in, then Pizzahut.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Descartes
Coordinated
Arithmetic
And Geometry
In Order
To avoid
Inordinate
Complexity
Y.
Descartes
Coordinated
Arithmetic
And Geometry
In Order
To avoid
Inordinate
Complexity
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf: check out beeb 2 now for ancient poetry
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I like that. I used to have similar debates, from a slightly different angle, but with a very similar intent. As a very learned and respected friend of mine once said, 'At some point you have to accept the authority of Father Zeus (read therein what you will), and go with the flow instead of swimming upstream all your life.' I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. The message is equally valid for those without gods or God. There are primary, central imperatives to life, and the awakening to them serves us rather better than the rebelling against them.
>
> How we should meditate
> Soak ourselves in God
> How we should meditate
> Soak ourselves in God
I like that. I used to have similar debates, from a slightly different angle, but with a very similar intent. As a very learned and respected friend of mine once said, 'At some point you have to accept the authority of Father Zeus (read therein what you will), and go with the flow instead of swimming upstream all your life.' I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it. The message is equally valid for those without gods or God. There are primary, central imperatives to life, and the awakening to them serves us rather better than the rebelling against them.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
'One doesn't have to call it weakness and cowardice, having to retreat, if it's under the compulsion of a god: no, we turned our backs to flee quickly: there exists a proper time for flight. Even once Telephus from Arcadia put to flight the great army of Argives, and they fled--indeed, so greatly was the fate of the gods routing them--powerful spear-men though they were. The fair-flowing river Kaikos and the plain of Mysia were stuffed with corpses as they fell. And being slain at the hands of the relentless man (Telephus), the well-greaved Achaeans turned-off with headlong speed to the shore of the much-resounding sea. Gladly did the sons of the immortals and brothers, whom Agamemnon was leading to holy Ilium to wage war, embark on their swift ships. On that occasion, because they had lost their way, they arrived at that shore. They set upon the lovely city of Teuthras, and there, snorting fury along with their horses, came in distress of spirit. For they thought they were attacking the high-gated city of Troy, but in fact they had their feet on wheat-bearing Mysia. And Heracles encountered them (the Argives), as he shouted to his brave-hearted son of Telephus, fierce and pitiless in cruel battle, who, inciting unfortunate flight in the Danaans, strove along on that occasion to gratify his father'
Archilochus, c 650 bc
'One doesn't have to call it weakness and cowardice, having to retreat, if it's under the compulsion of a god: no, we turned our backs to flee quickly: there exists a proper time for flight. Even once Telephus from Arcadia put to flight the great army of Argives, and they fled--indeed, so greatly was the fate of the gods routing them--powerful spear-men though they were. The fair-flowing river Kaikos and the plain of Mysia were stuffed with corpses as they fell. And being slain at the hands of the relentless man (Telephus), the well-greaved Achaeans turned-off with headlong speed to the shore of the much-resounding sea. Gladly did the sons of the immortals and brothers, whom Agamemnon was leading to holy Ilium to wage war, embark on their swift ships. On that occasion, because they had lost their way, they arrived at that shore. They set upon the lovely city of Teuthras, and there, snorting fury along with their horses, came in distress of spirit. For they thought they were attacking the high-gated city of Troy, but in fact they had their feet on wheat-bearing Mysia. And Heracles encountered them (the Argives), as he shouted to his brave-hearted son of Telephus, fierce and pitiless in cruel battle, who, inciting unfortunate flight in the Danaans, strove along on that occasion to gratify his father'
Archilochus, c 650 bc
In reply to all:
How do you manage to become philosophical late at night or early in the morning?
It's delightful.
Portion
How do you manage to become philosophical late at night or early in the morning?
It's delightful.
Portion
In reply to Sandrine:
Asterix the Gaul
met an old Yorkshire druid
who persuaded him to drink
of a mysterious fluid
This unwholesome brew
that the druid named portion
increased Asterix's ability
with both compression and torsion
He could wrest off the heads
of those warring tykes
or squash them with his hands
and smash up their bikes
But stranger than all this
were the words he now uttered
'Ey up thar Obelix,'
he testily muttered,
'Fetch us oop a keg
nor that magic portion,
or tha'll be the next
to suffer wi' torsion!'
Obelix watched as the druid
stirred his brew,
added a black sheep
and some eels and some glue
'This ere's the lixir,' he cried
'that meks warriors fitter,
an us as is lorcal
names it black sheep bitter!'
Well the two Gaulish heroes
became quite naturalised,
they supped up their ale
and dined on pork pies
They changed their names
to Trueman and Boycott
and their Frenchified manners
they soon quite forgot
Now the faces of their descendants
can still regularly be seen
glowering Tykish contempt
through the TV screen.
And if there was ever some magic
in the Yorkshire cricketer
it was nobbut that portion
they call Black Sheep Bitter.
Asterix the Gaul
met an old Yorkshire druid
who persuaded him to drink
of a mysterious fluid
This unwholesome brew
that the druid named portion
increased Asterix's ability
with both compression and torsion
He could wrest off the heads
of those warring tykes
or squash them with his hands
and smash up their bikes
But stranger than all this
were the words he now uttered
'Ey up thar Obelix,'
he testily muttered,
'Fetch us oop a keg
nor that magic portion,
or tha'll be the next
to suffer wi' torsion!'
Obelix watched as the druid
stirred his brew,
added a black sheep
and some eels and some glue
'This ere's the lixir,' he cried
'that meks warriors fitter,
an us as is lorcal
names it black sheep bitter!'
Well the two Gaulish heroes
became quite naturalised,
they supped up their ale
and dined on pork pies
They changed their names
to Trueman and Boycott
and their Frenchified manners
they soon quite forgot
Now the faces of their descendants
can still regularly be seen
glowering Tykish contempt
through the TV screen.
And if there was ever some magic
in the Yorkshire cricketer
it was nobbut that portion
they call Black Sheep Bitter.
Peashooter (it sounds completely differently poetic in French: sarbacane)
In reply to Sandrine:
People from Yorkshire call themselves Tykes. No idea why. But most of them haven't either.
People from Yorkshire call themselves Tykes. No idea why. But most of them haven't either.
In reply to Sandrine:
Hmm, just had a quick look at Tyke. Not exactly very flattering: it means a child, a boor, or a mongrel!
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/tyke
Hmm, just had a quick look at Tyke. Not exactly very flattering: it means a child, a boor, or a mongrel!
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/tyke
In reply to Sandrine:
Ha, they are certainly NOT self-deprecating in Yorkshire, they're very proud of themselves and their county. I reckon they've probably embraced the maverick undertone of mongrel, and recalibrated its meaning.
Ha, they are certainly NOT self-deprecating in Yorkshire, they're very proud of themselves and their county. I reckon they've probably embraced the maverick undertone of mongrel, and recalibrated its meaning.
Hello poets?
In reply to Sandrine:
Well, come on, pea shooter???!!! Oh, alright then, pah!
I'm on a mission
to kill all legumes
to cancel their future
and banish their fumes
I crawl through allotments
with my elephant gun
leaving wounded peas
to die in the sun
Well, come on, pea shooter???!!! Oh, alright then, pah!
I'm on a mission
to kill all legumes
to cancel their future
and banish their fumes
I crawl through allotments
with my elephant gun
leaving wounded peas
to die in the sun
Hello, hello poets?!
In reply to Sandrine:
I'm practising my gait
I drink nine pints of Stella
and crash through the gate
I'm learning to crawl
I finish my beer
then fall through the wall
I'm doing my sexy swagger
but the sober onlookers
somehow think it's a stagger
More fool them, huh!?
I'm practising my gait
I drink nine pints of Stella
and crash through the gate
I'm learning to crawl
I finish my beer
then fall through the wall
I'm doing my sexy swagger
but the sober onlookers
somehow think it's a stagger
More fool them, huh!?
Acrobat
In reply to Sandrine:
The crows on Sutton Bank
Catch the updraft,
Somersault, cawing for joy
Acrowbats all.
or
To play wom
Go to Wimbledon
Find a womball
And strike it
With the wombat
Until one of them squeals
A similar game
Needs a crow bat.
Y.
>
>
> Acrobat
>
> Acrobat
The crows on Sutton Bank
Catch the updraft,
Somersault, cawing for joy
Acrowbats all.
or
To play wom
Go to Wimbledon
Find a womball
And strike it
With the wombat
Until one of them squeals
A similar game
Needs a crow bat.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
I got me a trampoline as big as a whale
and I'm about to set sail
I'm placing it at the base of Malham Cove
and at sunset I'm jumping,
whizzing down through warm air,
thumping of that membrane,
and rocketing out over there
I reckon the bounce will get me
at least as far as Scafell Pike
where I've arranged to meet
with my acrobat mate, Mike
He's setting up his trampoline
underneath Pavey Ark
catapulting across Langdale
just as the sky goes dark
If this all works
as we imagine it will
we'll alight on Scafell Pike
just in time to watch Gwil
Who's bouncing over from Wales
from his special trampoline
he bounces, he soars, and he sails
and his trajectory just has to be seen
He's heading for the Howgills
juggling his two black cats
we'll meet him up there later
us crazy acrobats.
I got me a trampoline as big as a whale
and I'm about to set sail
I'm placing it at the base of Malham Cove
and at sunset I'm jumping,
whizzing down through warm air,
thumping of that membrane,
and rocketing out over there
I reckon the bounce will get me
at least as far as Scafell Pike
where I've arranged to meet
with my acrobat mate, Mike
He's setting up his trampoline
underneath Pavey Ark
catapulting across Langdale
just as the sky goes dark
If this all works
as we imagine it will
we'll alight on Scafell Pike
just in time to watch Gwil
Who's bouncing over from Wales
from his special trampoline
he bounces, he soars, and he sails
and his trajectory just has to be seen
He's heading for the Howgills
juggling his two black cats
we'll meet him up there later
us crazy acrobats.
In reply to Sandrine:
5 or 6 minutes or so. Is that within the limits?
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> May I ask how long you spent writing this?
>
> Made me smile.
>
> May I ask how long you spent writing this?
>
> Made me smile.
5 or 6 minutes or so. Is that within the limits?
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> You do loud exuberance very well, Steve.
>
Er, cheers. Hope I do subtlety here and there too! But maybe not when attempting comic stuff.
>
> You do loud exuberance very well, Steve.
>
In reply to Steve Parker:
Who said there were limits?
Well, I am impressed, must be all this training you're getting on here!
Who said there were limits?
Well, I am impressed, must be all this training you're getting on here!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Yes, I did not mean to imply any weakness of your subtle poems!
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
> [...]
> Er, cheers. Hope I do subtlety here and there too! But maybe not when attempting comic stuff.
> [...]
> Er, cheers. Hope I do subtlety here and there too! But maybe not when attempting comic stuff.
Yes, I did not mean to imply any weakness of your subtle poems!
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Loud, exuberant cheers then! I was going to go for the same interpretation of acrobat as you, but you beat me to it! Liked it.
Loud, exuberant cheers then! I was going to go for the same interpretation of acrobat as you, but you beat me to it! Liked it.
In reply to Steve Parker:
I suppose we should address ourselves to Saltpetre. My initial thought involved the Potash mine at Skiningrove. Unfortunately, it is Potassium Carbonate, and not Potassium Nitrate.
Do you think SHE will notice?
Y.
I suppose we should address ourselves to Saltpetre. My initial thought involved the Potash mine at Skiningrove. Unfortunately, it is Potassium Carbonate, and not Potassium Nitrate.
Do you think SHE will notice?
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I wanted to do some kind of desiccating natron salt stuff about a mummy called Peter or something, but I suppose it's not strictly accurate.
Hmm, might have to bend the rules!
I wanted to do some kind of desiccating natron salt stuff about a mummy called Peter or something, but I suppose it's not strictly accurate.
Hmm, might have to bend the rules!
In reply to Sandrine:
They sank a shaft
A mile or so deep
Then felt real daft
and said "you can keep
The potash from this mine
'cause its the wrong stuff
for Sand-er -ine
And this poem, too rough
It doesn't even rhyme!
Y.
(sorry, the calendar dictates that I have been listening to Alice Cooper's song "Schools out" which contains the stanza
"We've got no class
We've got no futures
We've got no principals
We can't even think of a word to rhyme")
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> Nice onesm thanks Y!
>
>
>
> saltpetre
>
> Nice onesm thanks Y!
>
>
>
> saltpetre
They sank a shaft
A mile or so deep
Then felt real daft
and said "you can keep
The potash from this mine
'cause its the wrong stuff
for Sand-er -ine
And this poem, too rough
It doesn't even rhyme!
Y.
(sorry, the calendar dictates that I have been listening to Alice Cooper's song "Schools out" which contains the stanza
"We've got no class
We've got no futures
We've got no principals
We can't even think of a word to rhyme")
In reply to Sandrine:
Natron Pete is a well known character.
He's a scribe and a poet, amanuensis and actor.
The day he dies, his fan club convenes
in downtown Cairo, to discuss his best scenes.
It's well known that Pete, despite all the above,
has made zero money, though quite some love.
So the cry soon goes up from the unruly crowd
that Pete must be preserved, and his mummy made proud.
Those that rest unsalted are food for the Soul Eater,
and this can't be allowed to happen to Ole Peter.
So a whip round is started, and the priestly chant metre,
and finally a salter agrees to salt Peter...
Awwk, maybe I should go and jump in a pond. Sorry!
Natron Pete is a well known character.
He's a scribe and a poet, amanuensis and actor.
The day he dies, his fan club convenes
in downtown Cairo, to discuss his best scenes.
It's well known that Pete, despite all the above,
has made zero money, though quite some love.
So the cry soon goes up from the unruly crowd
that Pete must be preserved, and his mummy made proud.
Those that rest unsalted are food for the Soul Eater,
and this can't be allowed to happen to Ole Peter.
So a whip round is started, and the priestly chant metre,
and finally a salter agrees to salt Peter...
Awwk, maybe I should go and jump in a pond. Sorry!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Don't jump in your pond, you would scare the frogs!
No need to apologise either. There are very few rules on this thread.
I liked it anyway: I had to look up natron and amanuensis, I will not die a complete ignorant.
Don't jump in your pond, you would scare the frogs!
No need to apologise either. There are very few rules on this thread.
I liked it anyway: I had to look up natron and amanuensis, I will not die a complete ignorant.
Plot
In reply to Sandrine:
A sonnet seeks to represent the world
as seen and felt by those who pause to feel.
But can a world be bound to meagre reel,
or any feeling of a mind unfurled
be trimmed and trained, and yet be felt as real
when metred meet to bear the sonnet's seal?
And can a world so bright be brought so low?
A scanty plot will grant but weeds to grow.
A sonnet seeks to represent the world
as seen and felt by those who pause to feel.
But can a world be bound to meagre reel,
or any feeling of a mind unfurled
be trimmed and trained, and yet be felt as real
when metred meet to bear the sonnet's seal?
And can a world so bright be brought so low?
A scanty plot will grant but weeds to grow.
In reply to Sandrine:
oh what a draft,
do we have to board a leechcraft,
we'll get bitten
by the little mittens,
just don't step in the water,
because then they'll of caught ya!
Evening!
oh what a draft,
do we have to board a leechcraft,
we'll get bitten
by the little mittens,
just don't step in the water,
because then they'll of caught ya!
Evening!
In reply to Sandrine:
The waiting: in the waiting is the art,
the discipline, and the slow craft.
They might come wading,
or they might come on a raft.
You wait in wetted ground,
like a sniper baiting
a movement or a sound
to start celebrating.
Finally they come,
as you knew they would,
full of stupidity,
and bloated with blood.
This is the art,
the old leech laughed,
waiting is the heart
of our old leechcraft.
The waiting: in the waiting is the art,
the discipline, and the slow craft.
They might come wading,
or they might come on a raft.
You wait in wetted ground,
like a sniper baiting
a movement or a sound
to start celebrating.
Finally they come,
as you knew they would,
full of stupidity,
and bloated with blood.
This is the art,
the old leech laughed,
waiting is the heart
of our old leechcraft.
In reply to wushu:
Evening Wushu! I heard you had a good time watching the film, must rent it, on your recommendation.
Thanks for your poem!
Last theme (must go, my eyes are closing) is: lyricism
Night everyone.
Evening Wushu! I heard you had a good time watching the film, must rent it, on your recommendation.
Thanks for your poem!
Last theme (must go, my eyes are closing) is: lyricism
Night everyone.
In reply to Sandrine: Aye it is a must see! A bit retro 1980's but it's great!
In reply to Sandrine:
This is from an approx 950 AD Leechcraft, translated by Pollington:
Against a dwarf:
"In came a spider creature
He had his mantle in his hand, said that you were his steed
Laid his thong on your neck, and they began to travel out of this land
AS soon as they came out of this land, their limbs began to cool
Then in came Eare's sister
Then she finished, and swore oaths
That this should never ail the sick
Nor whosoever should understand this charm
Nor whoever should intone this charm
Amen"
Y.
This is from an approx 950 AD Leechcraft, translated by Pollington:
Against a dwarf:
"In came a spider creature
He had his mantle in his hand, said that you were his steed
Laid his thong on your neck, and they began to travel out of this land
AS soon as they came out of this land, their limbs began to cool
Then in came Eare's sister
Then she finished, and swore oaths
That this should never ail the sick
Nor whosoever should understand this charm
Nor whoever should intone this charm
Amen"
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Iambic pentametre, tha knows!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> You're in good form tonight!
>
> You're in good form tonight!
Iambic pentametre, tha knows!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
That's weird. Is that a thing in itself, or is it part of something else? What and where is it? Seems half story, half spell. The 'Amen' almost seems a little out of place, but it has all that strange, transitional atmosphere of half formed Christianity undepinned by folk wisdom and paganism. I've come across a few similar things, but mostly from a little later.
That's weird. Is that a thing in itself, or is it part of something else? What and where is it? Seems half story, half spell. The 'Amen' almost seems a little out of place, but it has all that strange, transitional atmosphere of half formed Christianity undepinned by folk wisdom and paganism. I've come across a few similar things, but mostly from a little later.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> I spotted that!
>
Thought you would. Really want to try a Terza Rima in the near future. Quite like metre, really, and of course any discipline gives more facility with indiscipline!!!
>
> I spotted that!
>
In reply to Steve Parker:
Pollington admits that the translation is difficult!
There is a bit I missed between the heading (against a dwarf) and the charm, which gives instructions as to how to give the charm (first in the left ear, then the right, then to the top of the head. And it should be recited by a virgin)
The book from which it is taken (The Lacnunga Manuscript) has several similar. It seems to be a pre-Christian shaman tradition, with the odd bit of garbled Latin, Hebrew, and biblical text.
Here is another
Sing this against toothache, when the sun has set, very often:
"ciao laio quaque uoaque ofer sloficia"
Strike mens' worm (name here the man and his father) then say lilumenne - it aches all over where it lies, it cools when it burns hottest on earth, finit, amen.
Pollington notes that the first line of the song is "clearly some Latin formulae which has become garbled through repeated transmission"
Y.
Pollington admits that the translation is difficult!
There is a bit I missed between the heading (against a dwarf) and the charm, which gives instructions as to how to give the charm (first in the left ear, then the right, then to the top of the head. And it should be recited by a virgin)
The book from which it is taken (The Lacnunga Manuscript) has several similar. It seems to be a pre-Christian shaman tradition, with the odd bit of garbled Latin, Hebrew, and biblical text.
Here is another
Sing this against toothache, when the sun has set, very often:
"ciao laio quaque uoaque ofer sloficia"
Strike mens' worm (name here the man and his father) then say lilumenne - it aches all over where it lies, it cools when it burns hottest on earth, finit, amen.
Pollington notes that the first line of the song is "clearly some Latin formulae which has become garbled through repeated transmission"
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Ah, fantastic - only read a few extracts from the Lacnunga collection. A really interesting preservation of pre-Christian remedies and spells etc. Doesn't lacnunga actually mean remedies? Something like that, anyway. Long time since I ventured into this stuff. Many thanks for reminding me! More stuff to read properly! What a document that is, and Oh how I wish we had more like it!
Ah, fantastic - only read a few extracts from the Lacnunga collection. A really interesting preservation of pre-Christian remedies and spells etc. Doesn't lacnunga actually mean remedies? Something like that, anyway. Long time since I ventured into this stuff. Many thanks for reminding me! More stuff to read properly! What a document that is, and Oh how I wish we had more like it!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Night to you. See you in a while, as I really am going to be busy now.
Cuthbert of Essex
has a penchant for snails
he cooks em on a camp stove
no matter how they wails.
The problem with snails
is they leave trails of slime,
but that don't bother Cuthbert,
who's prioritising his time.
The shells he removes
and fries em in garlic,
then retreats a few paces,
and gives 'em a far lick.
They'll do, he cries,
they're quite nice and tender,
and I'll eat em raw if I want,
coz I'm on a bender.
That's what he says,
and I'm only reporting.
So let's hope his unquotes
are merely sporting.
That long lost Cuthbert,
who gobbles them snails -
he's lost to history,
but his fat ghost still wails.
Give me a slimy snail
with some garlic and butter,
and my utter snail nonsense
I'll quite cease to utter.
And those without shells
can soon adjourn
to their separate hells,
in garlic to burn.
Night to you. See you in a while, as I really am going to be busy now.
Cuthbert of Essex
has a penchant for snails
he cooks em on a camp stove
no matter how they wails.
The problem with snails
is they leave trails of slime,
but that don't bother Cuthbert,
who's prioritising his time.
The shells he removes
and fries em in garlic,
then retreats a few paces,
and gives 'em a far lick.
They'll do, he cries,
they're quite nice and tender,
and I'll eat em raw if I want,
coz I'm on a bender.
That's what he says,
and I'm only reporting.
So let's hope his unquotes
are merely sporting.
That long lost Cuthbert,
who gobbles them snails -
he's lost to history,
but his fat ghost still wails.
Give me a slimy snail
with some garlic and butter,
and my utter snail nonsense
I'll quite cease to utter.
And those without shells
can soon adjourn
to their separate hells,
in garlic to burn.
In reply to Sandrine:
No, it is a charm to use if you believe yourself afflicted with an outbreak of dwarfs.
I am not sure what they symptoms are.
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> You mean it's a charm to cure a dwarf?! It's interesting!
>
> You mean it's a charm to cure a dwarf?! It's interesting!
No, it is a charm to use if you believe yourself afflicted with an outbreak of dwarfs.
I am not sure what they symptoms are.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
If all the poets are leaving one after the other, what's gonna happen to this poor thread?!
If all the poets are leaving one after the other, what's gonna happen to this poor thread?!
In reply to Sandrine:
Good theme!
This old thread is going
to dust its dancing shoes,
head for the speakeasy,
and freak to the blues
This old thread is going
to get some new threads,
Brylcreem its quiff,
and hang with the heads
This tired ole thread
is gonna cast off its shackles,
head for a rave,
and strut its new hackles
No more of this dusty stuff!
shouts this reborn thread,
I'm slugging Tequila,
and hotwiring my head!
I'm walking outta here
looking for a better life.
I'm seeking a new thread
and a go-getter wife!
Good theme!
This old thread is going
to dust its dancing shoes,
head for the speakeasy,
and freak to the blues
This old thread is going
to get some new threads,
Brylcreem its quiff,
and hang with the heads
This tired ole thread
is gonna cast off its shackles,
head for a rave,
and strut its new hackles
No more of this dusty stuff!
shouts this reborn thread,
I'm slugging Tequila,
and hotwiring my head!
I'm walking outta here
looking for a better life.
I'm seeking a new thread
and a go-getter wife!
In reply to Sandrine:
Spring frost
Fragile, new born, bare
the buds had just emerged as
temperatures dropped.
Withered and dead, cast off
they fall under their mother vine
flayed, crippled almost lost in
the leprosy of frost.
Spring stutters into summer, green
and stubborn some survive, finally
burst into delighted leaf, forms
blossom out, a filial bunch hanging
bravely while assassins masked as
robins, mildew, rust - desist, finally
grapes graduate, sweet-ripe grapes
secure on tender vinous arms.
Respectfully, we amputate
her vital clustered work.
She mirrors the terroir,
embraces it, translates it
in a nectar of herself, filling
embryonic sacs, bearing
living, ripened seeds,
her purpose, her reason. Every season
unknowingly, a myriad thoughtless lips
will be lingered on, fruit-kissed
life-red by a glass of jubilant survivors.
Spring frost
Fragile, new born, bare
the buds had just emerged as
temperatures dropped.
Withered and dead, cast off
they fall under their mother vine
flayed, crippled almost lost in
the leprosy of frost.
Spring stutters into summer, green
and stubborn some survive, finally
burst into delighted leaf, forms
blossom out, a filial bunch hanging
bravely while assassins masked as
robins, mildew, rust - desist, finally
grapes graduate, sweet-ripe grapes
secure on tender vinous arms.
Respectfully, we amputate
her vital clustered work.
She mirrors the terroir,
embraces it, translates it
in a nectar of herself, filling
embryonic sacs, bearing
living, ripened seeds,
her purpose, her reason. Every season
unknowingly, a myriad thoughtless lips
will be lingered on, fruit-kissed
life-red by a glass of jubilant survivors.
In reply to Steve Parker:
What does that mean, you're off for good?
Perfid albioner!
PS: I have just listened to "hurt". It's excellent.
What does that mean, you're off for good?
Perfid albioner!
PS: I have just listened to "hurt". It's excellent.
In reply to Sandrine:
No, not at all.
Hmm, maybe!
Do you mean the Johnny Cash version?
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> What does that mean, you're off for good?
>
> What does that mean, you're off for good?
No, not at all.
>
> Perfid albioner!
> Perfid albioner!
Hmm, maybe!
>
>
> PS: I have just listened to "hurt". It's excellent.
>
> PS: I have just listened to "hurt". It's excellent.
Do you mean the Johnny Cash version?
In reply to Sandrine:
What is that 'perfid Albioner', by the way? You use that a lot - is it a known expression, or a Sandrinism?
What is that 'perfid Albioner', by the way? You use that a lot - is it a known expression, or a Sandrinism?
In reply to Sandrine:
The stream chatters in its stoney bed
The sun sets, flames the sky red.
I set my pack down, take the hat off my head.
Now the tent is pitched, the stove is alight
All is ready for the coming night
I sit, absorbed into the evening light
Behind me the bulk of the mountain scree
Before me, the stretch of the chert-grey sea.
In the horizon line I can see eternity.
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
>
> Solitary
The stream chatters in its stoney bed
The sun sets, flames the sky red.
I set my pack down, take the hat off my head.
Now the tent is pitched, the stove is alight
All is ready for the coming night
I sit, absorbed into the evening light
Behind me the bulk of the mountain scree
Before me, the stretch of the chert-grey sea.
In the horizon line I can see eternity.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
You've suddenly given me a great urge to do a solitary wild-camp for a night or two.
You've suddenly given me a great urge to do a solitary wild-camp for a night or two.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Re-reading it, it seems a poor effort.
But there you go. If it has inspired someone, it is good poetry?
Y.
Re-reading it, it seems a poor effort.
But there you go. If it has inspired someone, it is good poetry?
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
I'm sitting down right here,
just where my feet stop.
I'm going to crush some daisies.
I'm going to pitch my tent right here
under the gibbous moon.
But I'm going to lie outside for a while,
and look up at all those stars.
And I'm going to draw ancient pictures
in the sky, just because I want them to be there.
Then I'm going to get in my bag and listen
to the night
to the wind
to the soft wind
finding its lonely way
through the heather
heading for the sunrise
in some other land
where symphonies break
like waves
over the sleeping babies
that know nothing of distance
or borders or oceans
or belongings
or creeds, or races,
or faiths, or divisions,
or enmity,
though they know the night,
and the wind,
and its ancient laughing
up the cliffsides
that they might just remember
from somewhere far off.
Doors bang shut, somewhere.
Someone rolls over and coughs,
and a dying sheep wheezes
on the mountainside.
There is no end - you can see it
unending all around.
It just takes a night full of stars,
and a sheep coughing,
and a long dream.
I'm sitting down right here,
just where my feet stop.
I'm going to crush some daisies.
I'm going to pitch my tent right here
under the gibbous moon.
But I'm going to lie outside for a while,
and look up at all those stars.
And I'm going to draw ancient pictures
in the sky, just because I want them to be there.
Then I'm going to get in my bag and listen
to the night
to the wind
to the soft wind
finding its lonely way
through the heather
heading for the sunrise
in some other land
where symphonies break
like waves
over the sleeping babies
that know nothing of distance
or borders or oceans
or belongings
or creeds, or races,
or faiths, or divisions,
or enmity,
though they know the night,
and the wind,
and its ancient laughing
up the cliffsides
that they might just remember
from somewhere far off.
Doors bang shut, somewhere.
Someone rolls over and coughs,
and a dying sheep wheezes
on the mountainside.
There is no end - you can see it
unending all around.
It just takes a night full of stars,
and a sheep coughing,
and a long dream.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Re-reading it, it seems a poor effort.
>
> But there you go. If it has inspired someone, it is good poetry?
>
Maybe not your best effort, but the right reference can hit the right spot if someone is open to it, and I was.
>
> Re-reading it, it seems a poor effort.
>
> But there you go. If it has inspired someone, it is good poetry?
>
In reply to Steve Parker:
Ah! Good, I am attached to this thread now, it's nice to see it beating like a good little heart.
Perfid Albioner is a Sandrinism, a form of affectionate insult!
Yes, I meant the Johnny Cash version, are there any others?
Ah! Good, I am attached to this thread now, it's nice to see it beating like a good little heart.
Perfid Albioner is a Sandrinism, a form of affectionate insult!
Yes, I meant the Johnny Cash version, are there any others?
In reply to Yrmenlaf & Steve:
Solitary was definetely a good theme! I have asked for it before and it was ignored. You've to be patient with poets, things always come in their own time.
Fringe
Solitary was definetely a good theme! I have asked for it before and it was ignored. You've to be patient with poets, things always come in their own time.
Fringe
In reply to Sandrine:
It was first written and performed by Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000001Y5Z/102-4643823-2816118?v=glance&am...
Scroll down to hear a sample. Not as good as JC, though, in my opinion.
>
> Yes, I meant the Johnny Cash version, are there any others?
> Yes, I meant the Johnny Cash version, are there any others?
It was first written and performed by Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000001Y5Z/102-4643823-2816118?v=glance&am...
Scroll down to hear a sample. Not as good as JC, though, in my opinion.
In reply to Fawksey:
Sorry Fawksey, I missed your contribution last night! Is it yours, it's good as usual!
Sorry Fawksey, I missed your contribution last night! Is it yours, it's good as usual!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Ah! It's a bit short to form a complete opinion, but it sounded a bit whispery whispery.
La perfide Albion is a French expression from the 19th century. You might want to check this out:
fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perfide_Albion
Ah! It's a bit short to form a complete opinion, but it sounded a bit whispery whispery.
La perfide Albion is a French expression from the 19th century. You might want to check this out:
fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perfide_Albion
No one for fringe?
In reply to Sandrine:
He always seemed an elderly pup
Peering behind his grey-fringe eyebrow
At our first meeting, when I said "Sit"
He checked both my hands, saw the biscuit
(Before then, he had not looked highbrow)
And looked expectantly up.
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf & Steve)
>
>
>
> Fringe
>
>
>
> Fringe
He always seemed an elderly pup
Peering behind his grey-fringe eyebrow
At our first meeting, when I said "Sit"
He checked both my hands, saw the biscuit
(Before then, he had not looked highbrow)
And looked expectantly up.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
(that looked almost instant, did it not?
In fact, I cheated and checked the theme before I walked the dogs)
I will be dipping in and out. It is too hot to iron, but circumstances demand that I must
Y.
(that looked almost instant, did it not?
In fact, I cheated and checked the theme before I walked the dogs)
I will be dipping in and out. It is too hot to iron, but circumstances demand that I must
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Well, I'm not a poet .. or rather, I'm so bad at it that I would never inflict anything on anyone. Far too much of an ego trip. My pastiche of 'tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow' in TOATCR was bad enough, surely? (though deliberately so in the context .. I was really seeing just how daft I could be). I don't really like the idea of potted poetry at all, I'm afraid. I think a poem has to come out of oneself in a very, very deep and genuine way.
Well, I'm not a poet .. or rather, I'm so bad at it that I would never inflict anything on anyone. Far too much of an ego trip. My pastiche of 'tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow' in TOATCR was bad enough, surely? (though deliberately so in the context .. I was really seeing just how daft I could be). I don't really like the idea of potted poetry at all, I'm afraid. I think a poem has to come out of oneself in a very, very deep and genuine way.
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
And yet, you read this little thread regularly, no?
Perhaps you could write about what's deep and important for you at the moment?
And yet, you read this little thread regularly, no?
Perhaps you could write about what's deep and important for you at the moment?
In reply to Sandrine:
I could only do that as prose, right now - and it's far too secret to talk about anyway. Sorry.
I could only do that as prose, right now - and it's far too secret to talk about anyway. Sorry.
In reply to Sandrine:
No, would rather not. Far too paranoid about my latest book ideas (proposal now with three publishers - American, Japanese and English).
No, would rather not. Far too paranoid about my latest book ideas (proposal now with three publishers - American, Japanese and English).
Oh, I love it when self-declared non-poets stipulate what 'poets' should be writing in the evening on chatrooms, and somehow slip in an implied condemnation of a whole thread (or four) full of fun and invention because it isn't all dragged up burning from the soul.
Reminds me a little of non-climbers telling me that what I do on crags and mountains is wrong and selfish.
Reminds me a little of non-climbers telling me that what I do on crags and mountains is wrong and selfish.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Never, ever said anything about what anyone should be writing about, if you are referring to my post, Steve. Which is very unlikely, because it has no bearing on it.
Never, ever said anything about what anyone should be writing about, if you are referring to my post, Steve. Which is very unlikely, because it has no bearing on it.
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
I was referring to this, in the context of this thread:
I don't really like the idea of potted poetry at all, I'm afraid. I think a poem has to come out of oneself in a very, very deep and genuine way.
I was referring to this, in the context of this thread:
I don't really like the idea of potted poetry at all, I'm afraid. I think a poem has to come out of oneself in a very, very deep and genuine way.
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
It is a funny one, this.
Sandrine has suggested a number of themes which I have either not addressed, or addresed with my tongue in my cheek, simply because the theme is too close to my heart: more than I want to bare in public.
("solitude" got close: perhaps why I did not respond last time round. But at least I can expect a sympathetic audience for solitude on a climbing thread! "Prayer" I found impossible)
I tend to think of life in terms of beer (it might be apparent I have just enjoyed a pint). It needs froth, it needs body. I am, perhaps, more willing to share the froth.
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> I could only do that as prose, right now - and it's far too secret to talk about anyway. Sorry.
>
> I could only do that as prose, right now - and it's far too secret to talk about anyway. Sorry.
It is a funny one, this.
Sandrine has suggested a number of themes which I have either not addressed, or addresed with my tongue in my cheek, simply because the theme is too close to my heart: more than I want to bare in public.
("solitude" got close: perhaps why I did not respond last time round. But at least I can expect a sympathetic audience for solitude on a climbing thread! "Prayer" I found impossible)
I tend to think of life in terms of beer (it might be apparent I have just enjoyed a pint). It needs froth, it needs body. I am, perhaps, more willing to share the froth.
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
That is my completely personal opinion, and nothing else. That is how I see poetry, that's all. No condemnation at all of others who see it as something else e.g. something much more immediately public and entertaining perhaps (cf limericks or parodies). I just get a bit baffled by it sometimes ... as I do when I hear people on Desert Island Discs using it as some kind of psychiatrist's couch.
That is my completely personal opinion, and nothing else. That is how I see poetry, that's all. No condemnation at all of others who see it as something else e.g. something much more immediately public and entertaining perhaps (cf limericks or parodies). I just get a bit baffled by it sometimes ... as I do when I hear people on Desert Island Discs using it as some kind of psychiatrist's couch.
In reply to Sandrine:
I wear a suit to the office (and, during term time, both boys wear a white shirt)
And I like Mrs Y. to look her best all the time.
Y.
I wear a suit to the office (and, during term time, both boys wear a white shirt)
And I like Mrs Y. to look her best all the time.
Y.
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
So do I, and outside of this thread that's the way I choose to write. There is no comedy in my general poetry. If anything, I might be excessively dark and dwell overly on the damaging and the obsessional.
Poetry was originally something far closer to this concept of public and entertaining, as well as having other functions to do with recording, praising, group-building and magic. The stuff that happens on this thread is interaction through the manipulation of language, without too much prose, and it is laudable. Elitists who don't see it for what it is, keep away!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> That is my completely personal opinion, and nothing else. That is how I see poetry, that's all.
>
> That is my completely personal opinion, and nothing else. That is how I see poetry, that's all.
So do I, and outside of this thread that's the way I choose to write. There is no comedy in my general poetry. If anything, I might be excessively dark and dwell overly on the damaging and the obsessional.
> No condemnation at all of others who see it as something else e.g. something much more immediately public and entertaining perhaps (cf limericks or parodies). I just get a bit baffled by it sometimes ... as I do when I hear people on Desert Island Discs using it as some kind of psychiatrist's couch.
Poetry was originally something far closer to this concept of public and entertaining, as well as having other functions to do with recording, praising, group-building and magic. The stuff that happens on this thread is interaction through the manipulation of language, without too much prose, and it is laudable. Elitists who don't see it for what it is, keep away!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I appreciate the reservations, however. I'd be similarly reserved about expressing anything really meaningful on what is essentially a fun thread with the occasional foray into the more serious.
> (In reply to Gordon Stainforth)
> [...]
>
> It is a funny one, this.
>
> "Prayer" I found impossible)
>
I'd have been interested in, and sympathetic to, your take on that one. You would have got no condemnation from the regulars on this thread. I think we are all big enough to accept our differences and be interested in our different experiences and understandings.
> [...]
>
> It is a funny one, this.
>
> "Prayer" I found impossible)
>
I appreciate the reservations, however. I'd be similarly reserved about expressing anything really meaningful on what is essentially a fun thread with the occasional foray into the more serious.
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
Perhaps I should not have had the beer
As, full of dutch courage, I swagger and swerve
Full steam ahead, I cry, and, confident, steer
Round each slow bend and sinuous curve
Perhaps I should not have had that last drink
As loud as Chesterton, high as Lord Byron
I put creases in dresses. But tomorrow, I think,
She'll charge me: drunk in charge of an iron.
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> iron?
>
> iron?
Perhaps I should not have had the beer
As, full of dutch courage, I swagger and swerve
Full steam ahead, I cry, and, confident, steer
Round each slow bend and sinuous curve
Perhaps I should not have had that last drink
As loud as Chesterton, high as Lord Byron
I put creases in dresses. But tomorrow, I think,
She'll charge me: drunk in charge of an iron.
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Yes, I applaud it completely at that level, and that's one reason why I don't like it when people become overly critical about anyone's offerings.
Yes, I applaud it completely at that level, and that's one reason why I don't like it when people become overly critical about anyone's offerings.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Yes, I know & appreciate that.
But, well, it is a public forum. Even with my pseudonym (there are perhaps half a dozen people who post here who know me in real life), there are some things I am reluctant to share.
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
> [...]
> I'd have been interested in, and sympathetic to, your take on that one. You would have got no condemnation from the regulars on this thread.
> [...]
> I'd have been interested in, and sympathetic to, your take on that one. You would have got no condemnation from the regulars on this thread.
Yes, I know & appreciate that.
But, well, it is a public forum. Even with my pseudonym (there are perhaps half a dozen people who post here who know me in real life), there are some things I am reluctant to share.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Great, great stuff. But I'm still interested to know what the 'ironing' reference is all about!
Great, great stuff. But I'm still interested to know what the 'ironing' reference is all about!
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
...someones nicked your Peak book of mine & I'm so pissed off! - I need to get a new one for an article I'm doing - not to plagerise of course!
Are you aware of what Beatty's work at the mo is going on with the Peak shots on line and the potential work with the Tate etc?
Sounds interesting!
si
...someones nicked your Peak book of mine & I'm so pissed off! - I need to get a new one for an article I'm doing - not to plagerise of course!
Are you aware of what Beatty's work at the mo is going on with the Peak shots on line and the potential work with the Tate etc?
Sounds interesting!
si
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
The thing that I find really valuable about these poetry threads is that everyone was rather nervous to start with, and didn't seem to feel very comfortable with the exposure. It's not a poetry forum, and people can be a bit brutal on UKC with tentative posters who are sticking their necks out. I'm very used to it from using seriously brutal poetry sites, but it still seemed a bit of a jump to actually put up anything even vaguely genuine on one of these threads. It all started with very insincere, comedic stuff, if you remember, but it developed, and people come in from time to time and post pretty heartfelt writings.
I'm pretty protective of it all as an environment where that can be allowed to happen without anyone who won't join in having a go at those who do.
The thing that I find really valuable about these poetry threads is that everyone was rather nervous to start with, and didn't seem to feel very comfortable with the exposure. It's not a poetry forum, and people can be a bit brutal on UKC with tentative posters who are sticking their necks out. I'm very used to it from using seriously brutal poetry sites, but it still seemed a bit of a jump to actually put up anything even vaguely genuine on one of these threads. It all started with very insincere, comedic stuff, if you remember, but it developed, and people come in from time to time and post pretty heartfelt writings.
I'm pretty protective of it all as an environment where that can be allowed to happen without anyone who won't join in having a go at those who do.
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
Sorry, Gordon, I still am not sure what you are asking!
I had to do some ironing tonight (otherwise I would not have had an ironed shirt to wear to the office tomorrow, and Mrs. Y. would not have had something nice to wear to her hair appointment)
To make the task more bearable, I listened to Bach's unnaccompanied violin and had a beer.
Nothing more subtle than that.
Y.
Sorry, Gordon, I still am not sure what you are asking!
I had to do some ironing tonight (otherwise I would not have had an ironed shirt to wear to the office tomorrow, and Mrs. Y. would not have had something nice to wear to her hair appointment)
To make the task more bearable, I listened to Bach's unnaccompanied violin and had a beer.
Nothing more subtle than that.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> there are some things I am reluctant to share.
>
Fair enough. I'm less concerned, for my own reasons. We all have different lives, obviously. And I'm very committed to writing, and I can't do it properly without getting into quite uncomfortable exegesis about my own stuff occasionally, even on here, though I generally try and keep it light.
> there are some things I am reluctant to share.
>
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Ironing!!! Now that is really the Devil's work! I NEVER iron anything, it would drive me insane in about 2 minutes.
Bach and a beer I could live with.
Ironing!!! Now that is really the Devil's work! I NEVER iron anything, it would drive me insane in about 2 minutes.
Bach and a beer I could live with.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
it would drive me insane in about 2 minutes.
>
>
Perhaps that is what did it?
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Sandrine seems to have gone. Should we address ourselves to her theme?
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> Some special occasion where you need a tie, and a starchy shirt?
>
> Some special occasion where you need a tie, and a starchy shirt?
> Lecture
Sandrine seems to have gone. Should we address ourselves to her theme?
Y.
In reply to Simon:
You might find it on Abe or Amazon marketplace, I suppose.
No. John is a very old friend of mine, and I did a lot of work for him last year which he liked, but now he's decided not to work with me, it seems. Hope it's a temporary blip!
Anyhow, my own creative life looks as if it will shortly be moving into a huge new book area (plus there's another much more public television project coming up that people will learn about soon enough.)
> (In reply to Gordon Stainforth)
>
>
> ...someones nicked your Peak book of mine & I'm so pissed off! - I need to get a new one for an article I'm doing - not to plagerise of course!
>
>
> ...someones nicked your Peak book of mine & I'm so pissed off! - I need to get a new one for an article I'm doing - not to plagerise of course!
You might find it on Abe or Amazon marketplace, I suppose.
>
> Are you aware of what Beatty's work at the mo is going on with the Peak shots on line and the potential work with the Tate etc?
> Are you aware of what Beatty's work at the mo is going on with the Peak shots on line and the potential work with the Tate etc?
No. John is a very old friend of mine, and I did a lot of work for him last year which he liked, but now he's decided not to work with me, it seems. Hope it's a temporary blip!
Anyhow, my own creative life looks as if it will shortly be moving into a huge new book area (plus there's another much more public television project coming up that people will learn about soon enough.)
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
...Sounds good - hope all goes ok for you Gordon..be very interested to see what your plans are!
Cheers
Si
...Sounds good - hope all goes ok for you Gordon..be very interested to see what your plans are!
Cheers
Si
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I was just asking about this extraordinary (to me!) concept of ironing. I used to have an iron and an ironing board about 20 years ago, but can't now find. I think lost in last house move about 7 years ago.
If I go to a really posh do nowadays I typically buy a new M & S shirt, so I'll be wearing it, complete with creases, vertical and horizontal, straight out of the packet. Plus various labels if I'm a bit careless.
I was just asking about this extraordinary (to me!) concept of ironing. I used to have an iron and an ironing board about 20 years ago, but can't now find. I think lost in last house move about 7 years ago.
If I go to a really posh do nowadays I typically buy a new M & S shirt, so I'll be wearing it, complete with creases, vertical and horizontal, straight out of the packet. Plus various labels if I'm a bit careless.
In reply to Simon:
Can't make plans, Si. Last 4 years have been very difficult, but suddenly several things seem to be coming up trumps.
Can't make plans, Si. Last 4 years have been very difficult, but suddenly several things seem to be coming up trumps.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> [...]
>
> [...]
>
> Sandrine seems to have gone. Should we address ourselves to her theme?
>
Hmm, getting late. Spose I can hang around a while longer. Thinking.
> [...]
>
> [...]
>
> Sandrine seems to have gone. Should we address ourselves to her theme?
>
In reply to Gordon Stainforth:
..and there by sense of karma shows itself -
- put the effort in and the returns will follow !
The small galleries in the Peak often showcase the talent around - Karen Frankel has had a showcase at the Derwent Gallery at Grindleford - and has had a great response - your shots are well worth a go there mate!!
si
..and there by sense of karma shows itself -
- put the effort in and the returns will follow !
The small galleries in the Peak often showcase the talent around - Karen Frankel has had a showcase at the Derwent Gallery at Grindleford - and has had a great response - your shots are well worth a go there mate!!
si
A man from the South
came into the house of aspirant baboons
and hearkened to their babble,
their rants and their tunes.
No, you bunch of apes, he cried,
this is not humanity,
this is not even primatehood,
you are nowt but a jabbering rabble.
But an old baboon, in a bright white shirt,
ironed for the occasion, though smirched with dirt,
got down from his altar
to engage in the unfolding farce,
squared up to the interloper,
and bit him hard on the a*se.
came into the house of aspirant baboons
and hearkened to their babble,
their rants and their tunes.
No, you bunch of apes, he cried,
this is not humanity,
this is not even primatehood,
you are nowt but a jabbering rabble.
But an old baboon, in a bright white shirt,
ironed for the occasion, though smirched with dirt,
got down from his altar
to engage in the unfolding farce,
squared up to the interloper,
and bit him hard on the a*se.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Look here, you; a climber
Even a very good climber
Can look smart on the rocks
Too much effort, you say?
Unnecessary, you say?
Rubbish! Remove this block
Enjoy Ironing!
Y.
(when in trouble, go for the acrostic)
Look here, you; a climber
Even a very good climber
Can look smart on the rocks
Too much effort, you say?
Unnecessary, you say?
Rubbish! Remove this block
Enjoy Ironing!
Y.
(when in trouble, go for the acrostic)
In reply to Simon:
Yes, I've beem lazy about it (I know Karen too). But maybe a bit grand, too, because other things are opening up, way beyond the Peak, and I just haven't had time. And to make money, outside of my own writing/book work, it's been far more remunerative for me to do web design work - v hard mental graft, but at least I'm using the very latest DHTML, CSS and PHP techniques, so I'm quite a long way ahead of most of the field.
But it makes for a v tough life ... while I wait for my agent and potential publishers to clinch various deals ...
Yes, I've beem lazy about it (I know Karen too). But maybe a bit grand, too, because other things are opening up, way beyond the Peak, and I just haven't had time. And to make money, outside of my own writing/book work, it's been far more remunerative for me to do web design work - v hard mental graft, but at least I'm using the very latest DHTML, CSS and PHP techniques, so I'm quite a long way ahead of most of the field.
But it makes for a v tough life ... while I wait for my agent and potential publishers to clinch various deals ...
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Sandrine, see how much activity you missed!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> LOL
>
> Bed time, methinks
>
LOL, indeed! I'll be sure and get meself starched and ironed next time I go climbing.
>
> LOL
>
> Bed time, methinks
>
Sandrine, see how much activity you missed!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Finger pockets sinking deep
on pure white dreamy cream
awaking from deapths of sleep
moving over limestone dreams
Egg shell edges pick pockets
pinches like pulling greying hair
plucking and nipping white rockets
prodruding like shock tactics
Smear on the grey like ghosts
masters of past fuel the now
contort - pull for your past hosts
gone is the past - you are now
...
si
Finger pockets sinking deep
on pure white dreamy cream
awaking from deapths of sleep
moving over limestone dreams
Egg shell edges pick pockets
pinches like pulling greying hair
plucking and nipping white rockets
prodruding like shock tactics
Smear on the grey like ghosts
masters of past fuel the now
contort - pull for your past hosts
gone is the past - you are now
...
si
In reply to all:
Unruly poets! I was reading the thread, as you do, in the morning, eating my French toast dripping with honey, anxiety growing at the lack of poetry, the toast lost its balance and landed on my left forearm, honey-side down! There was no other option but to lick it, whilst I learnt about your ironing habits, the confessions regarding the lost themes, planning retaliation for all the hijacking! It's only around midnight, that poetry took over, and that the retaliation plans fell apart: I was just grateful, you dared to write a poem, for everyone who cared. (Gordon, you're not forgiven! )
Theme is: honey!
Unruly poets! I was reading the thread, as you do, in the morning, eating my French toast dripping with honey, anxiety growing at the lack of poetry, the toast lost its balance and landed on my left forearm, honey-side down! There was no other option but to lick it, whilst I learnt about your ironing habits, the confessions regarding the lost themes, planning retaliation for all the hijacking! It's only around midnight, that poetry took over, and that the retaliation plans fell apart: I was just grateful, you dared to write a poem, for everyone who cared. (Gordon, you're not forgiven! )
Theme is: honey!
Tatam! It's poetry time!
Anynone for honey?
No one for honey?
Grapefruit, then
Grapefruit, then
In reply to Sandrine:
Lessen the pain
wishing on stars
looking to the future
avoiding procrastination
it hampers, it tires
looking for sun
looking for smiles
running away
hunting kisses for miles
looking for passion
finding the fruit
taste so delicious
which one is for me
a problem like breaking a nut
it teases it tries
wanting more
asking no why's
i think I'm clever
I think I'm bright
there is a devil
wearing a suit
I'm at a loss
he's so astute
strangely in his hand
he holds a
grapefruit.
Lessen the pain
wishing on stars
looking to the future
avoiding procrastination
it hampers, it tires
looking for sun
looking for smiles
running away
hunting kisses for miles
looking for passion
finding the fruit
taste so delicious
which one is for me
a problem like breaking a nut
it teases it tries
wanting more
asking no why's
i think I'm clever
I think I'm bright
there is a devil
wearing a suit
I'm at a loss
he's so astute
strangely in his hand
he holds a
grapefruit.
In reply to Sandrine:
Grapefuit,
It's a weird fruit,
you'd think it'd taste like grapes,
but it certainly dont( jamaican voice)
It's a big fruit,
now give me a poem that doesn't involve grapefruit.
evening!
Grapefuit,
It's a weird fruit,
you'd think it'd taste like grapes,
but it certainly dont( jamaican voice)
It's a big fruit,
now give me a poem that doesn't involve grapefruit.
evening!
Pineapple Tmesis
A rather posh man
who thought himself wise
surveyed the fruit stall
with contemptuous eyes
'What have you got
to oil my vast brain,
and lubricate my neurons
that endure such strain?'
The assistant suggested apples,
but they were too coarse;
she suggested many things,
fit only, it seemed, for a horse.
Lemons and limes,
pineapples and lychees,
but nothing, it appeared,
was sufficient to please.
Finally, she suggested
the fine, juicy grapefruit.
'Grrr,' snarled the wise man,
Grrrr, bloody ape fruit!'
'Then may I politely suggest,'
the piqued assistant smiled,
'that you adjourn to a fruiterer
who might pander to a bloody child!'
A rather posh man
who thought himself wise
surveyed the fruit stall
with contemptuous eyes
'What have you got
to oil my vast brain,
and lubricate my neurons
that endure such strain?'
The assistant suggested apples,
but they were too coarse;
she suggested many things,
fit only, it seemed, for a horse.
Lemons and limes,
pineapples and lychees,
but nothing, it appeared,
was sufficient to please.
Finally, she suggested
the fine, juicy grapefruit.
'Grrr,' snarled the wise man,
Grrrr, bloody ape fruit!'
'Then may I politely suggest,'
the piqued assistant smiled,
'that you adjourn to a fruiterer
who might pander to a bloody child!'
In reply to wushu:
Parfois je danse
Comme un derviche tourneur,
Je tourne, je virevolte,
je suis en transe,
Ou presque,
Je perds le controle,
J'ai le vertige,
Mais je tourne,
toujours plus vite,
C'est enivrant,
De tourner,
tout le temps,
Je tourne,
jusqu'a m'effondrer,
le sol se derobe,
sous mes pieds,
juste a temps,
que la musique stoppe.
Parfois je danse
Comme un derviche tourneur,
Je tourne, je virevolte,
je suis en transe,
Ou presque,
Je perds le controle,
J'ai le vertige,
Mais je tourne,
toujours plus vite,
C'est enivrant,
De tourner,
tout le temps,
Je tourne,
jusqu'a m'effondrer,
le sol se derobe,
sous mes pieds,
juste a temps,
que la musique stoppe.
In reply to Sandrine: Thats great! ahh the online french translators!
In reply to Steve Parker:
hey, I have seen that before. Do you keep them stored somewhere?! Not allowed to recycle, you know.
hey, I have seen that before. Do you keep them stored somewhere?! Not allowed to recycle, you know.
In reply to Sandrine:
Nice one. I saw a load of whirling dervishes at the Temple of Luxor. Pretty spectacular stuff going on late at night, with a band playing hypnotic music, and people looking like they were in trances.
Nice one. I saw a load of whirling dervishes at the Temple of Luxor. Pretty spectacular stuff going on late at night, with a band playing hypnotic music, and people looking like they were in trances.
In reply to Sandrine:
You have NOT seen it before, unless I'm channelling stuff from someone else, unconsciously!
You have NOT seen it before, unless I'm channelling stuff from someone else, unconsciously!
In reply to Steve Parker:
I thought that was a Turkish/Greek tradition. Were they there for a festival or something? Or is it an Egyptian tradition too?
Were you moved?
I thought that was a Turkish/Greek tradition. Were they there for a festival or something? Or is it an Egyptian tradition too?
Were you moved?
In reply to Steve Parker:
Right, I will have to consult my archives.
Vertigo is the current theme, chosen by Wushu. Good theme actually
Right, I will have to consult my archives.
Vertigo is the current theme, chosen by Wushu. Good theme actually
In reply to Sandrine:
Don't know what was going on, we just happened along late at night and found this weird event going on. It was very, very intense, actually, with people very fired up and crazy, and often collapsing. The music was quite fantastic, with lots of drums and drones, and someone wailing over the top. Unfortunately, we had to leave to catch a train at midnight, so only saw about half an hour. Yes, quite moving in a way.
Don't know what was going on, we just happened along late at night and found this weird event going on. It was very, very intense, actually, with people very fired up and crazy, and often collapsing. The music was quite fantastic, with lots of drums and drones, and someone wailing over the top. Unfortunately, we had to leave to catch a train at midnight, so only saw about half an hour. Yes, quite moving in a way.
In reply to Sandrine:
To make my intentions truly overt,
I go looking for metaphors
in a great well at midnight,
and drop down my baited line.
To reprove RT, I go to the Chatroom
and start an angry thread
about why the server was down.
When seeking to observe wildlife
in a covert, I go equipped
with camouflage and binoculars.
Fear of hitting the ground is the monster.
No one is scared of heights on a plateau.
To make my intentions truly overt,
I go looking for metaphors
in a great well at midnight,
and drop down my baited line.
To reprove RT, I go to the Chatroom
and start an angry thread
about why the server was down.
When seeking to observe wildlife
in a covert, I go equipped
with camouflage and binoculars.
Fear of hitting the ground is the monster.
No one is scared of heights on a plateau.
In reply to Sandrine:
She has a great big bulging belly,
Smooth honey-coloured skin,
Her neck is black, finger-width thin,
And she wears a wound steel G-string.
If you tickle her and slap her
She'll sing you a funky beat
You'll listen to her and clap her
And put on your dancing feet
Her stomach swollen, stretched, engorged
The colour of golden honey is her skin,
Her graceful neck is black and thin,
And she wears her shining G-string.
Should you take her for a walk
Through golden saxophones
She will step, and sometimes talk
With shining bright trombones.
Her curvaceous body, smooth and round
Sweet honey gold her skin
Her brass - clad scroll, neck black and thin
And the slenderest G-String
And should you ask of her this boon
To show true accomplishment
She will sing a lyrical tune
To piano accompaniment.
Y.
>
>
> Tatam! It's poetry time!
> Anynone for honey?
>
> Tatam! It's poetry time!
> Anynone for honey?
She has a great big bulging belly,
Smooth honey-coloured skin,
Her neck is black, finger-width thin,
And she wears a wound steel G-string.
If you tickle her and slap her
She'll sing you a funky beat
You'll listen to her and clap her
And put on your dancing feet
Her stomach swollen, stretched, engorged
The colour of golden honey is her skin,
Her graceful neck is black and thin,
And she wears her shining G-string.
Should you take her for a walk
Through golden saxophones
She will step, and sometimes talk
With shining bright trombones.
Her curvaceous body, smooth and round
Sweet honey gold her skin
Her brass - clad scroll, neck black and thin
And the slenderest G-String
And should you ask of her this boon
To show true accomplishment
She will sing a lyrical tune
To piano accompaniment.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Got some more work to do, so probably won't be back until after your bedtime, young lady! I might see about Intentions later, if I can still see the screen. Pretty knackered.
Got some more work to do, so probably won't be back until after your bedtime, young lady! I might see about Intentions later, if I can still see the screen. Pretty knackered.
In reply to Simon:
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>
> Finger pockets sinking deep
> ....
> gone is the past - you are now
>
You do climbing poetry exceptionally well, Simon
>
>
> Finger pockets sinking deep
> ....
> gone is the past - you are now
>
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Intentions
I've been informed that beneficial negative ions
emanate from waterfalls, or from the stroking of cats,
and that they have a benign effect on the human psyche.
This might all be bullshit, of course, and the parlance of bats.
But to be on the safe side, I'm buying an ioniser,
to relax my soul, to defragment my hard-driven mind.
It's battery powered, so portable and camp-friendly,
and will provide many in-tent ions, of the negative kind.
Intentions
I've been informed that beneficial negative ions
emanate from waterfalls, or from the stroking of cats,
and that they have a benign effect on the human psyche.
This might all be bullshit, of course, and the parlance of bats.
But to be on the safe side, I'm buying an ioniser,
to relax my soul, to defragment my hard-driven mind.
It's battery powered, so portable and camp-friendly,
and will provide many in-tent ions, of the negative kind.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
He does!
> (In reply to Simon)
> [...]
> You do climbing poetry exceptionally well, Simon
>
> Y.
> [...]
> You do climbing poetry exceptionally well, Simon
>
> Y.
He does!
In reply to Steve Parker & Y:
Hmm, camping somewhere remote is cool. Any suggestion?
Steve, you've been cheating again! But I liked the poem, so you're forgiven.
minimum
Hmm, camping somewhere remote is cool. Any suggestion?
Steve, you've been cheating again! But I liked the poem, so you're forgiven.
minimum
In reply to Sandrine:
http://www.ukclimbing.com/images/dbpage.php?id=44721
Was nice over May Day.
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker & Y)
>
> Hmm, camping somewhere remote is cool. Any suggestion?
>
here
>
> Hmm, camping somewhere remote is cool. Any suggestion?
>
http://www.ukclimbing.com/images/dbpage.php?id=44721
Was nice over May Day.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Cheating? How? You mean because I broke the word up again? That's not cheating, that's having a laugh!!!
Cheating? How? You mean because I broke the word up again? That's not cheating, that's having a laugh!!!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Having a laugh, having a laugh! You deserve a punishment as you are doing it often, whereas other poet colleagues are taking the bull by the horns, so to speak. Please will you write a poem about "intentions" for good?
Having a laugh, having a laugh! You deserve a punishment as you are doing it often, whereas other poet colleagues are taking the bull by the horns, so to speak. Please will you write a poem about "intentions" for good?
All right, all right, all punishments lifted.
Hello, poets?
In reply to Sandrine: Hello french lass!
In reply to Sandrine: tired tonight - too much work today, sorry
In reply to Sandrine: I'll not be long to bed! That comment was very head teacher-like!
In reply to Glyn Jones:
That's because I am grumpy, no excuse.
I am sure a little poem would see me to bed in a decent mood.
That's because I am grumpy, no excuse.
I am sure a little poem would see me to bed in a decent mood.
In reply to Sandrine:
Nite and hot
the weather is a pleasure
wrestling with the duvet
a bare limb as respite
tired and needing
sleep comes so soon
time that will never
be held again
like watching the moon
what is life really?
apart from passing time
except to hold someone
with a passionate wave
why do we hold on
are we so brave?
Nite and hot
the weather is a pleasure
wrestling with the duvet
a bare limb as respite
tired and needing
sleep comes so soon
time that will never
be held again
like watching the moon
what is life really?
apart from passing time
except to hold someone
with a passionate wave
why do we hold on
are we so brave?
In reply to Sandrine:
Brave is a good word
that means bright and clear,
shiny and sunny
It reminds me of sunlight
glinting off speartips
and dancing in bright eyes
Men with big red crosses
on their tunics
riding out to war
Hearts full of Godliness
and heads full of damsels
eyes full of light
These days it reminds me
of a single mother
facing each new day
Or a Palestinian child
looking for a mother
in the rubble
Or anyone in adversity
who faces into the storm
and finds time to laugh
Brave is a good word
that means bright and clear,
shiny and sunny
It reminds me of sunlight
glinting off speartips
and dancing in bright eyes
Men with big red crosses
on their tunics
riding out to war
Hearts full of Godliness
and heads full of damsels
eyes full of light
These days it reminds me
of a single mother
facing each new day
Or a Palestinian child
looking for a mother
in the rubble
Or anyone in adversity
who faces into the storm
and finds time to laugh
Fortune
In reply to Sandrine:
I want to do brave again! Do you know this conflation of the word - that it originally meant 'fine', as in weather (which it still does in Welsh), and suggests some idea of people keeping a bright countenance during adversity? It obviously became confused with the French courageous, meaning 'hearted', or something like that. I like the whole idea, and the images conjured by it all. I was just briefly messing with it there, but a good poem could be made out of all the many associations in there.
I might be back about 'brave'!
Going to have a look around the site. If you're still up in a while, I might have time to do fortune. Seem to be staying up far too late at the moment, due to being far too busy.
I want to do brave again! Do you know this conflation of the word - that it originally meant 'fine', as in weather (which it still does in Welsh), and suggests some idea of people keeping a bright countenance during adversity? It obviously became confused with the French courageous, meaning 'hearted', or something like that. I like the whole idea, and the images conjured by it all. I was just briefly messing with it there, but a good poem could be made out of all the many associations in there.
I might be back about 'brave'!
Going to have a look around the site. If you're still up in a while, I might have time to do fortune. Seem to be staying up far too late at the moment, due to being far too busy.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Of course you can do brave again, and fortune after that, and perhaps combine the 2.
(Did not know about the conflation you mentioned, thanks)
Will read everything in the morning. As carefully as I can. Night all.
Of course you can do brave again, and fortune after that, and perhaps combine the 2.
(Did not know about the conflation you mentioned, thanks)
Will read everything in the morning. As carefully as I can. Night all.
In reply to Sandrine:
I'll take a Minim, um, two beats
And two breave, erm, eight.
(that's - hang on- eighteen altogether)
And six crotchets - that makes twenty four
Is all I need for tunes
Y.
(three themes in one, with only slightly blatant cheating. Do I get a prize?)
I'll take a Minim, um, two beats
And two breave, erm, eight.
(that's - hang on- eighteen altogether)
And six crotchets - that makes twenty four
Is all I need for tunes
Y.
(three themes in one, with only slightly blatant cheating. Do I get a prize?)
In reply to Sandrine:
Can days be brave?
They can shine like the points of spears,
they can glint like the eyes of an army
advancing through the corn,
filled with premature victory.
Does Tuesday do battle with Wednesday
for the love of Friday?
But the weather has changed:
those brave days of early summer
have become blasting and blackening heat,
Set, in their ways, as they called it once:
Set, Shet, Seth, sun in the South
that burned and deadened first
and asked few questions later.
Can days be brave?
I think they can shine
over acts acted with heart.
Most of this braveness turns to rain
or deadening winter
before the dawn anyway,
leaving young men
wondering what happened overnight
to steal such brave dreams.
In the mind's brave fisheye
those young men are kissing,
waving, dreaming, riding to war
under banners that proclaim
that the weather is fine,
bright, brave, masculine, hearty...
Those young men, with heads
full of brightness,
are riding to their deaths,
directed by weathermen
who couldn't see hurricanes
in the high pressure.
Brave, brave, brave,
maen hi'n braf,
the weather is just hot and wide,
and the moorlands burn beneath it.
Is it brave, or is it
just wide and white?
Just some late-night ideas about it, but there's a poem to be had in there somewhere. Have to follow this one up when I'm less tired.
Can days be brave?
They can shine like the points of spears,
they can glint like the eyes of an army
advancing through the corn,
filled with premature victory.
Does Tuesday do battle with Wednesday
for the love of Friday?
But the weather has changed:
those brave days of early summer
have become blasting and blackening heat,
Set, in their ways, as they called it once:
Set, Shet, Seth, sun in the South
that burned and deadened first
and asked few questions later.
Can days be brave?
I think they can shine
over acts acted with heart.
Most of this braveness turns to rain
or deadening winter
before the dawn anyway,
leaving young men
wondering what happened overnight
to steal such brave dreams.
In the mind's brave fisheye
those young men are kissing,
waving, dreaming, riding to war
under banners that proclaim
that the weather is fine,
bright, brave, masculine, hearty...
Those young men, with heads
full of brightness,
are riding to their deaths,
directed by weathermen
who couldn't see hurricanes
in the high pressure.
Brave, brave, brave,
maen hi'n braf,
the weather is just hot and wide,
and the moorlands burn beneath it.
Is it brave, or is it
just wide and white?
Just some late-night ideas about it, but there's a poem to be had in there somewhere. Have to follow this one up when I'm less tired.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
An age ago you did this problem
young sprite and fearless
so why now can't you pull back on?
strange fearfull and nervous
Find an edge - chalk slips from your tips
engranes on dark stone leaving your mark
Stoop and pull - feet finding purchase
gaining the ripples - ignighting the spark....
;0)
>
An age ago you did this problem
young sprite and fearless
so why now can't you pull back on?
strange fearfull and nervous
Find an edge - chalk slips from your tips
engranes on dark stone leaving your mark
Stoop and pull - feet finding purchase
gaining the ripples - ignighting the spark....
;0)
In reply to Sandrine:
There are some other things that should be in there, to do with promise and distance, horizons and sunrise. There should be sonics about horses' hoofs and images of budding trees, and some Elysian reference to cornfields and combine harvesters. Sexuality should be there, as well as the bright experience of a young man looking at the sunrise and seeing into the wished-for future. Then Panzer tanks rolling across the steppes, silencing everything with the Diesel engine thunder of certain victory, the brave sun, the brave new world shining on blonde hair and wide eyes. Cut to a skeletal guy in a bunker, midwinter, scratching a last diary entry to his teenage wife in Dusseldorf, ten minutes before a Katyusha rocket blows his legs off and he is bayoneted, thankfully, by a Red Army guy with frostbite, with a NKVD officer walking behind him, screaming that his wife will be raped by the entire platoon unless he sticks his bayonet in that f*cking dying German pig's chest. And the sun breaks through the cloud, and the Stalin Organs scream their rocket-music into history. I have no idea what brave means, other than a sunny day with clouds rolling in from the East.
There are some other things that should be in there, to do with promise and distance, horizons and sunrise. There should be sonics about horses' hoofs and images of budding trees, and some Elysian reference to cornfields and combine harvesters. Sexuality should be there, as well as the bright experience of a young man looking at the sunrise and seeing into the wished-for future. Then Panzer tanks rolling across the steppes, silencing everything with the Diesel engine thunder of certain victory, the brave sun, the brave new world shining on blonde hair and wide eyes. Cut to a skeletal guy in a bunker, midwinter, scratching a last diary entry to his teenage wife in Dusseldorf, ten minutes before a Katyusha rocket blows his legs off and he is bayoneted, thankfully, by a Red Army guy with frostbite, with a NKVD officer walking behind him, screaming that his wife will be raped by the entire platoon unless he sticks his bayonet in that f*cking dying German pig's chest. And the sun breaks through the cloud, and the Stalin Organs scream their rocket-music into history. I have no idea what brave means, other than a sunny day with clouds rolling in from the East.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
You're getting bravier in a cheeky sense Y!
I will send you the corresponding metal vase to put on your mantelpiece.
(they were fun poems btw)
You're getting bravier in a cheeky sense Y!
I will send you the corresponding metal vase to put on your mantelpiece.
(they were fun poems btw)
In reply to Steve Parker:
I liked this second version too. Serious themes are inspiring you more than lighthearted ones? It's good imho, keep it coming.
I liked this second version too. Serious themes are inspiring you more than lighthearted ones? It's good imho, keep it coming.
In reply to Simon:
Hello Si, it's good to have you back on this thread!
I will let Y answer to your poem.
Hello Si, it's good to have you back on this thread!
I will let Y answer to your poem.
In reply to Simon:
I'd popped up here:
http://www.climbonline.co.uk/crag_willas.htm
again last night (having checked with the gamekeeper), and tried Skiver (very near the end).
Get two metres up, and run out of bottle. The thinking bit of my head cannot see why it should get harder, but the emotional side refuses to continue!
A lovely evening, tho'. Sun, breeze, butterflies and dragonflies. And quiet.
I will have to haul a rope or a mat up there sometime.
Y.
I'd popped up here:
http://www.climbonline.co.uk/crag_willas.htm
again last night (having checked with the gamekeeper), and tried Skiver (very near the end).
Get two metres up, and run out of bottle. The thinking bit of my head cannot see why it should get harder, but the emotional side refuses to continue!
A lovely evening, tho'. Sun, breeze, butterflies and dragonflies. And quiet.
I will have to haul a rope or a mat up there sometime.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Yes, probably, but the first burst certainly included women. The second was more focussed on the contrast between the illusory conflation of brave/braf and fine/sunny etc, and was more from a male perspective. I am male after all, so I might be forgiven the occasional overemphasis of male myth-making, I hope! It'll be a cold day in Yorkshire before I attempt a poem entirely from a female perspective.
Not often you get to use a metaphor like that in Yorkshire - I love this heatwave! The skyline is burning, and the house smells of burning peat. Wild stuff going on out there on the moors!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> <there are some other things...>
>
> And perhaps more women too.
>
> <there are some other things...>
>
> And perhaps more women too.
Yes, probably, but the first burst certainly included women. The second was more focussed on the contrast between the illusory conflation of brave/braf and fine/sunny etc, and was more from a male perspective. I am male after all, so I might be forgiven the occasional overemphasis of male myth-making, I hope! It'll be a cold day in Yorkshire before I attempt a poem entirely from a female perspective.
Not often you get to use a metaphor like that in Yorkshire - I love this heatwave! The skyline is burning, and the house smells of burning peat. Wild stuff going on out there on the moors!
In reply to Sandrine:
The hills are armed
with a thousand fiery soldiers
who march onward with unappeasable appetite
to take new lands and claim them for their own.
Murdering, they continue forward
and leave a trail of darkness behind them.
Flags fluttering in the wind
and with roaring advance they bear down
on what we call home.
Up here on the hills
we can only sit and watch them
until they grow tired and slowly come to a halt.
The land is silent
and the blackbird waits
until the army lies down and collapses in on itself
and he slowly returns to the charred nest.
The hills are armed
with a thousand fiery soldiers
who march onward with unappeasable appetite
to take new lands and claim them for their own.
Murdering, they continue forward
and leave a trail of darkness behind them.
Flags fluttering in the wind
and with roaring advance they bear down
on what we call home.
Up here on the hills
we can only sit and watch them
until they grow tired and slowly come to a halt.
The land is silent
and the blackbird waits
until the army lies down and collapses in on itself
and he slowly returns to the charred nest.
In reply to Sandrine: Do you think we need a new thread yet!!!?
In reply to wushu:
No although we do need themes. I took Steves fire and did something with that and now trying to avoid packing for holiday / open24.
No although we do need themes. I took Steves fire and did something with that and now trying to avoid packing for holiday / open24.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Lol! I'm sure she would be shocked tomorrow reading it!
> (In reply to wushu)
>
> If she doesn't turn up in the next 10 minutes, the theme will be Sandrine.
>
>
>
> If she doesn't turn up in the next 10 minutes, the theme will be Sandrine.
>
>
Lol! I'm sure she would be shocked tomorrow reading it!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Sanders
The girl to all we panders
climbs grit o - er' the land (ers)
and she rilly rilly likes Pandas..
well she might!
;0)
Sanders
The girl to all we panders
climbs grit o - er' the land (ers)
and she rilly rilly likes Pandas..
well she might!
;0)
In reply to Steve Parker:
Thanks.
Maybe we should try a few themes that are sentences rather than just words?
"Gently, silently fear swept over me"
Thanks.
Maybe we should try a few themes that are sentences rather than just words?
"Gently, silently fear swept over me"
In reply to Wushu: maybe we will wait until it's a 1000 replies?
In reply to Steve: OK, forgiven, but surely women are part of the world. You don't want us to feel excluded.
In reply to Castleman: nice one, good to read you again.
In reply to Simon: yes, yes, yes I climbed on grit, me, half-realising I was living an historical moment!
Theme: palmy
In reply to Steve: OK, forgiven, but surely women are part of the world. You don't want us to feel excluded.
In reply to Castleman: nice one, good to read you again.
In reply to Simon: yes, yes, yes I climbed on grit, me, half-realising I was living an historical moment!
Theme: palmy
In reply to Sandrine:
You could say the funfair was palmy,
with it's ride's and tourists like an army,
The flashing lights and overwhelming sounds,
the tremors of the rides coming through the ground.
Evening!
You could say the funfair was palmy,
with it's ride's and tourists like an army,
The flashing lights and overwhelming sounds,
the tremors of the rides coming through the ground.
Evening!
In reply to Sandrine:
So I make an effort to be up late and all the poets have gone? Fussy bunch, aren't they?!
So I make an effort to be up late and all the poets have gone? Fussy bunch, aren't they?!
In reply to wushu:
Evening Wushu! Do you find it difficult to open the thread?
Have you been to a fair recently?
Evening Wushu! Do you find it difficult to open the thread?
Have you been to a fair recently?
In reply to Sandrine:
No i was just thinking if i wished to view like the poems over the last say 24hours it would be more difficult to do so.
And no i haven't been to a fair, just thought that would be appropriate.
So what you been up to?
No i was just thinking if i wished to view like the poems over the last say 24hours it would be more difficult to do so.
And no i haven't been to a fair, just thought that would be appropriate.
So what you been up to?
In reply to Sandrine:
Sandrine must consider us barmy
If she thinks her poetic army
Will write on the theme of palmy
Y.
>
> Theme: palmy
> Theme: palmy
Sandrine must consider us barmy
If she thinks her poetic army
Will write on the theme of palmy
Y.
In reply to wushu:
I went climbing and then went for a drink with my climbing partner. Which reminds me I haven't eaten!
I went climbing and then went for a drink with my climbing partner. Which reminds me I haven't eaten!
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
There, another poet is still lurking about! Hello Y.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, the muse rules (well she pretends she does, and the poets do as they wish...), no rebellion against the theme please!
There, another poet is still lurking about! Hello Y.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, the muse rules (well she pretends she does, and the poets do as they wish...), no rebellion against the theme please!
In reply to Sandrine:
Neither have i! Ah right where did you go climbing?
> (In reply to wushu)
>
> Which reminds me I haven't eaten!
>
> Which reminds me I haven't eaten!
Neither have i! Ah right where did you go climbing?
In reply to Sandrine:
Somewhere in the stars
Or the writing of your hands
Or your palm
Lies the future
But only if you stretch
Your arm to touch the stars
Burn your palm
Make your own patterns
Y.
Somewhere in the stars
Or the writing of your hands
Or your palm
Lies the future
But only if you stretch
Your arm to touch the stars
Burn your palm
Make your own patterns
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
I had the remains of last night's chilli
Why do chillis always taste nicer reheated?
Y.
I had the remains of last night's chilli
Why do chillis always taste nicer reheated?
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
(at least one of us is spelling it with the wrong number of "l"s. It is probably me, but I can't be bothered checking)
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> Chili con carne?
>
> Chili con carne?
(at least one of us is spelling it with the wrong number of "l"s. It is probably me, but I can't be bothered checking)
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
The spices have diffused throughout the fat (in the meat and the sauce). And fats are the best vehicle for flavours (think essential oil). So the aromas are lingering longer on your tastebuds.
The spices have diffused throughout the fat (in the meat and the sauce). And fats are the best vehicle for flavours (think essential oil). So the aromas are lingering longer on your tastebuds.
In reply to Sandrine:
Then I shall take my bat home, spit out my dummy and go and do the washing up
(consumption: what will she think of next!)
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> //en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chili_con_carne
>
> You're wrong.
>
> //en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chili_con_carne
>
> You're wrong.
Then I shall take my bat home, spit out my dummy and go and do the washing up
(consumption: what will she think of next!)
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
In those olden times when poverty was rife,
Consumption was the killer ,
It would take husband and wife,
Cold was the main threat,
freezing temperatures and blustery gales,
you wouldn't tell this by the fire as a christmas tale.
In those olden times when poverty was rife,
Consumption was the killer ,
It would take husband and wife,
Cold was the main threat,
freezing temperatures and blustery gales,
you wouldn't tell this by the fire as a christmas tale.
In reply to Sandrine:
Jings!
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
> See you liked the palmy theme in the end!
> See you liked the palmy theme in the end!
> Palpitate
Jings!
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Hahaha, don't forget the ironing afterwards!
First time you are really revolting against a theme, Y? What's up?
Palpitate is the new one, see I am trying to accomodate.
Hahaha, don't forget the ironing afterwards!
First time you are really revolting against a theme, Y? What's up?
Palpitate is the new one, see I am trying to accomodate.
In reply to Sandrine:
Being omnivore
I ate tractor
then car
then motor factor
I didn't stop there
I ran down the street
looking for anything
possible to eat
I ate a policeman
coz he looked at me
and a cricketer
coz he tried to bat me
then I ate some cats
then, with a huge leap,
gobbled some bats.
I eat anything, me,
see.
Being omnivore
I ate tractor
then car
then motor factor
I didn't stop there
I ran down the street
looking for anything
possible to eat
I ate a policeman
coz he looked at me
and a cricketer
coz he tried to bat me
then I ate some cats
then, with a huge leap,
gobbled some bats.
I eat anything, me,
see.
In reply to Sandrine:
I don't have the gumption
To write of consumption
And I would hate
To attempt palpitate
Y.
I don't have the gumption
To write of consumption
And I would hate
To attempt palpitate
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Funny one!
And yet another poet! Around midnight is a goot time to tempt them.
Funny one!
And yet another poet! Around midnight is a goot time to tempt them.
In reply to Sandrine:
I like to get my goots
around about midnight
especially when the horizon
is quite so alight
I assume that a goot
is a late night snack
loved by French ladies
feeling the snack-lack
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> Funny one!
>
> And yet another poet! Around midnight is a goot time to tempt them.
> Funny one!
>
> And yet another poet! Around midnight is a goot time to tempt them.
I like to get my goots
around about midnight
especially when the horizon
is quite so alight
I assume that a goot
is a late night snack
loved by French ladies
feeling the snack-lack
In reply to Sandrine:
The thing with poets
Is that they tend to go to bed late
They like a bit of encouragement
A laugh here and there.
The girly poets, them
have gone to bed by then
Knackered with work
too shy to lurk
Or perhaps,
It's just that they are in love
With someone, or the baby to come
The thing with poets
Is that they tend to go to bed late
They like a bit of encouragement
A laugh here and there.
The girly poets, them
have gone to bed by then
Knackered with work
too shy to lurk
Or perhaps,
It's just that they are in love
With someone, or the baby to come
In reply to Sandrine:
At the first sitting
They scattered shards of flint
On the riverbank.
For the next course
He slung his yellow sword
Into the water
They drove cows
And sheep to the clearing
for the meat
They gave names
- names that still linger
in the talk
The Romans came
a lattice of roads
The Romans went
Then they came
With the bread, wine
The cream towers
The cream towers
Flambéd in war
And built again
And the cheese
Blue-veined with roads
And railways
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> Consumption
>
> Consumption
At the first sitting
They scattered shards of flint
On the riverbank.
For the next course
He slung his yellow sword
Into the water
They drove cows
And sheep to the clearing
for the meat
They gave names
- names that still linger
in the talk
The Romans came
a lattice of roads
The Romans went
Then they came
With the bread, wine
The cream towers
The cream towers
Flambéd in war
And built again
And the cheese
Blue-veined with roads
And railways
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
Palmy was my first love,
and she let me down badly.
She took my car and workmate,
but I let them go gladly.
Consumption worked on Emmerdale,
before she left me.
She only took my heart
and left one quite bereft me.
Palpit ate my oranges
in the deranged mornings.
I tried to love her
in between the yawnings.
Titti had a knack
for sleeping after eight.
Her colleagues soon knew her
as that always Titti late.
> (In reply to Castleman)
>
> Palmy, consumption, palpitate and titillate!
>
> Palmy, consumption, palpitate and titillate!
Palmy was my first love,
and she let me down badly.
She took my car and workmate,
but I let them go gladly.
Consumption worked on Emmerdale,
before she left me.
She only took my heart
and left one quite bereft me.
Palpit ate my oranges
in the deranged mornings.
I tried to love her
in between the yawnings.
Titti had a knack
for sleeping after eight.
Her colleagues soon knew her
as that always Titti late.
In reply to Sandrine:
When I was but small
a wise man gave me wise words;
one might palpitate
or titillate
another
but remember my son,
to titillate
or palpitate
you need the right mate, mate.
Take her to a palmy isle
and there let love consume you both
and palpitate will soon become earthquake
and titillate the delight of gods.
When I was but small
a wise man gave me wise words;
one might palpitate
or titillate
another
but remember my son,
to titillate
or palpitate
you need the right mate, mate.
Take her to a palmy isle
and there let love consume you both
and palpitate will soon become earthquake
and titillate the delight of gods.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
There, great!
Now about palpitate, I really like this theme! Please poet Yrmenlaf will you contribute?
There, great!
Now about palpitate, I really like this theme! Please poet Yrmenlaf will you contribute?
In reply to Sandrine:
Huh, you gave us goots above! I just used it.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Goots? Hmm, will have to check as poet Steve is rather cheeky, usually
>
> Goots? Hmm, will have to check as poet Steve is rather cheeky, usually
Huh, you gave us goots above! I just used it.
In reply to Sandrine:
Yeah, and all with strange names!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Hahaha! Too many girlfriends I say!
>
> Hahaha! Too many girlfriends I say!
Yeah, and all with strange names!
In reply to Sandrine:
She's in London, where I shall be moving to at the end of September - so trying to get as much climbing in as possible over the summer!
She's in London, where I shall be moving to at the end of September - so trying to get as much climbing in as possible over the summer!
In reply to Sandrine:
You know you can't resist
his charisma.
(If only his smile would stop dazzling you he'd be perfect).
You know you can't resist
his charisma.
(If only his smile would stop dazzling you he'd be perfect).
Must go, as I need to start my state coach at 7.30 sharp tomorrow.
Nice evening, altogether!
Nice evening, altogether!
In reply to Sandrine:
I walk into a room, and the room looks.
I been floating on little gusts of wind all day,
everything right, drifting in slowmotion,
laughing, watching the sky, knowing everything I did
was exactly the rightest damn thing
that could be done by anyone
at that moment.
It was a day like cream
and everyone was my friend,
even those who marvelled
at my ability to dance
across the rooftops
of everybody's dreams.
Ha, you can only dream of this!
Everything I do is right,
and full of mysterious charm.
I reckon I could float
over the moor and quell
its fire, if I wished to.
Ha!
I walk into a room, and the room looks.
I been floating on little gusts of wind all day,
everything right, drifting in slowmotion,
laughing, watching the sky, knowing everything I did
was exactly the rightest damn thing
that could be done by anyone
at that moment.
It was a day like cream
and everyone was my friend,
even those who marvelled
at my ability to dance
across the rooftops
of everybody's dreams.
Ha, you can only dream of this!
Everything I do is right,
and full of mysterious charm.
I reckon I could float
over the moor and quell
its fire, if I wished to.
Ha!
In reply to Steve Parker:
When the heavens blacken
When lightning starts to shoot
I pull my grubby mack on
And pull on my left goot
And when the heavens rain down
On moorhen, duck and coot
On the village and the main town
I pull on my right goot
And when the downpour washes
Clean the frog and newt
What I wear is half galloshes
Half boot: a goot!
Y.
(I too need to go to bed)
When the heavens blacken
When lightning starts to shoot
I pull my grubby mack on
And pull on my left goot
And when the heavens rain down
On moorhen, duck and coot
On the village and the main town
I pull on my right goot
And when the downpour washes
Clean the frog and newt
What I wear is half galloshes
Half boot: a goot!
Y.
(I too need to go to bed)
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Goot me greet with gladness
the soon com soon agen
me fire just hidding byond
an soon grit thi agen
Tha goot got yoot ta geet
upon tha grousey greet
lekkin, lekkin, lark,
wi nae a soul ta deet.
Goot me greet with gladness
the soon com soon agen
me fire just hidding byond
an soon grit thi agen
Tha goot got yoot ta geet
upon tha grousey greet
lekkin, lekkin, lark,
wi nae a soul ta deet.
In reply to Sandrine:
Im pretty certain they are away,
although they do tend to appear like the changing wind,
Ever present yet ever distant,
always waiting for a new topic,
to lap it up and spit out a poet's poem.
Im pretty certain they are away,
although they do tend to appear like the changing wind,
Ever present yet ever distant,
always waiting for a new topic,
to lap it up and spit out a poet's poem.
In reply to Sandrine:
hot wet air
we walk silently
to the river
gasping at a new country
head on the bar
my change rifled
drunk with stars
dark eyes in the bar
hand on my thigh
no I say, no no
Temple Street beer
sitting in the steam
of garlic prawns
and Phillipino whores
mist always rises
over this city always
my heart chokes
from my high window
everything here is
down there, below, like fire
in Macau, moneyed, weary,
looking for food in the rain
we watch dripping facades
men cut live tortoise
on back streets
with steel cutters
we approximate
delicacy of dim sum
but we are clumsy
we know nothing
people eat fish scales
we eat with our eyes
shrinking
hookers run
from our cameras
toward the dark river
we fly home
to Hong Kong
in airships
and catamarans
and it is dark
and the electric trees
barely light our way
and the streetlights
wail up through Kowloon
and past the long-gone walled city
to the temple of deadness
dead men walk slowly
along Nathan Road
looking for lost hats
nothing seems certain
in the shimmer of water
and the wail of night
only the stars keep looking
and asking questions
I'm already asleep
hot wet air
we walk silently
to the river
gasping at a new country
head on the bar
my change rifled
drunk with stars
dark eyes in the bar
hand on my thigh
no I say, no no
Temple Street beer
sitting in the steam
of garlic prawns
and Phillipino whores
mist always rises
over this city always
my heart chokes
from my high window
everything here is
down there, below, like fire
in Macau, moneyed, weary,
looking for food in the rain
we watch dripping facades
men cut live tortoise
on back streets
with steel cutters
we approximate
delicacy of dim sum
but we are clumsy
we know nothing
people eat fish scales
we eat with our eyes
shrinking
hookers run
from our cameras
toward the dark river
we fly home
to Hong Kong
in airships
and catamarans
and it is dark
and the electric trees
barely light our way
and the streetlights
wail up through Kowloon
and past the long-gone walled city
to the temple of deadness
dead men walk slowly
along Nathan Road
looking for lost hats
nothing seems certain
in the shimmer of water
and the wail of night
only the stars keep looking
and asking questions
I'm already asleep
In reply to wushu:
They are certain
to be peeking
From behind a curtain
Quietly seeking
An easier theme
Y.
They are certain
to be peeking
From behind a curtain
Quietly seeking
An easier theme
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
"I could eat a horse", said the man,
I shall not consume such a beast , i prefer ham
with cheese and salad and several lashings of salad cream,
Oh no not again this would appear to be a dream,
To eat a horse and some ham,
maybe jam,
and i could cook it hanging over a fire with a cam,
What a nightmare this poem is,
But who's is the sandwich hers or his!?
"I could eat a horse", said the man,
I shall not consume such a beast , i prefer ham
with cheese and salad and several lashings of salad cream,
Oh no not again this would appear to be a dream,
To eat a horse and some ham,
maybe jam,
and i could cook it hanging over a fire with a cam,
What a nightmare this poem is,
But who's is the sandwich hers or his!?
In reply to Sandrine:
Thanks. No, most definitely not! Being a soldier is about as far from where I'm at as you can get.
Thanks. No, most definitely not! Being a soldier is about as far from where I'm at as you can get.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Poet Y is a shy one, and very sensitive. They are all very sensitive poets, to be treated with the utmost respect and careful probing.
Poet Y is a shy one, and very sensitive. They are all very sensitive poets, to be treated with the utmost respect and careful probing.
In reply to Sandrine:
Probing! :-| <runs away>
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
>
> Poet Y is a shy one, and very sensitive. They are all very sensitive poets, to be treated with the utmost respect and careful probing.
>
>
> Poet Y is a shy one, and very sensitive. They are all very sensitive poets, to be treated with the utmost respect and careful probing.
Probing! :-| <runs away>
In reply to Steve Parker:
You just travelled there for your own pleasure then, I mean to Macau, HK and all that?
You just travelled there for your own pleasure then, I mean to Macau, HK and all that?
In reply to wushu:
You are in good form tonight W! I meant probing with my index pointing at the forefront, gently. Don't run away!
You are in good form tonight W! I meant probing with my index pointing at the forefront, gently. Don't run away!
In reply to Sandrine:
triphthong (just one!)
In less than an hour
the milk will turn sour
gleers will glour
and the dead will devour
triphthong (just one!)
In less than an hour
the milk will turn sour
gleers will glour
and the dead will devour
In reply to Sandrine: Ah right, not on good form, just actually trying for once instead of trying to do light-hearted funny stuff..
In reply to Sandrine:
Worked in HK on three occasions over the last couple of years. Fantastic place - a wild mixture of space age, surrealism and third world poverty and paganism. Nowhere does the night better than Hng Kong.
Worked in HK on three occasions over the last couple of years. Fantastic place - a wild mixture of space age, surrealism and third world poverty and paganism. Nowhere does the night better than Hng Kong.
In reply to wushu:
I like your horse poem. Sandrine would have consumed such a beast, you know, being a hoss eater.
I like your horse poem. Sandrine would have consumed such a beast, you know, being a hoss eater.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Well done! Difficult to stop poet Steve, he likes to have the last word!
Well done! Difficult to stop poet Steve, he likes to have the last word!
In reply to Steve Parker:
I spent a day there, on my way to Oz. No nightime though, far too short obviously.
I spent a day there, on my way to Oz. No nightime though, far too short obviously.
In reply to Steve Parker:
What's a hoss exactly?
To Wushu: you should try it once in your lifetime, very tasty!
What's a hoss exactly?
To Wushu: you should try it once in your lifetime, very tasty!
Trauma
In reply to Sandrine: Probably will do, maybe one day. I'd like to try Haggis to be honest!! lol!
In reply to Sandrine:
Does trauma rhyme with korma
or with Sloughmer?
Come to think of it,
is there any curry
that currently rhymes
with furry?
This story doesn't repeat
but it rhymes.
Does trauma rhyme with korma
or with Sloughmer?
Come to think of it,
is there any curry
that currently rhymes
with furry?
This story doesn't repeat
but it rhymes.
In reply to Sandrine:
180mph,
181mph,
182mph,
The cars collide,
Glass and metal litters the street,
999 is dialed into the phone,
A+E,
major trauma,
The white light,
Game over.
180mph,
181mph,
182mph,
The cars collide,
Glass and metal litters the street,
999 is dialed into the phone,
A+E,
major trauma,
The white light,
Game over.
In reply to Sandrine:
My dad is a horologist,
A clock engineer is his trade,
To control time,
minutes,
hours,
seconds,
Tempus fugit.
My dad is a horologist,
A clock engineer is his trade,
To control time,
minutes,
hours,
seconds,
Tempus fugit.
In reply to Sandrine: Glad it worked, that was the idea :-D
In reply to Sandrine:
http://www.katapi.org.uk/BibleMSS/LindisfarneMt.htm
>
> Now where is Y hiding?
> Now where is Y hiding?
http://www.katapi.org.uk/BibleMSS/LindisfarneMt.htm
In reply to Steve Parker:
F*cking 'ell Steve, that's a good one! A lost love, who made a fortune in HK, told me never to go there.
Mick
F*cking 'ell Steve, that's a good one! A lost love, who made a fortune in HK, told me never to go there.
Mick
In reply to wushu:
Liked that. Well done.
Quite a departure from your normal style (if you have such a thing), and it worked well.
Y.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> 180mph,
> ....
> Game over.
>
> 180mph,
> ....
> Game over.
Liked that. Well done.
Quite a departure from your normal style (if you have such a thing), and it worked well.
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf: Thankyou!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Hmm... you're sure you're sure? Things go round in ellipses.
Mick
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> Thanks. No, most definitely not! Being a soldier is about as far from where I'm at as you can get.
>
> Thanks. No, most definitely not! Being a soldier is about as far from where I'm at as you can get.
Hmm... you're sure you're sure? Things go round in ellipses.
Mick
In reply to Sandrine:
There are many mysteries
In Mathematics:
What histories
Will tell us why
Fibonacci numbers are named
After Leonardo of Pisa?
And how do sunflowers arrange
Their seeds in his spiral?
Y.
> (In reply to wushu)
>
> Sunflower
>
> Sunflower
There are many mysteries
In Mathematics:
What histories
Will tell us why
Fibonacci numbers are named
After Leonardo of Pisa?
And how do sunflowers arrange
Their seeds in his spiral?
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
And hello to you Sandrine!
Mick (back from Pex, flushed with success and failure, those two imposters.)
And hello to you Sandrine!
Mick (back from Pex, flushed with success and failure, those two imposters.)
In reply to Sandrine:
The British Library have the original, as well as a facsimile. They don't always have them on display.
Y.
> (In reply to Yrmenlaf)
>
> Is it exposed at the BM, or kept in the archives?
>
> Is it exposed at the BM, or kept in the archives?
The British Library have the original, as well as a facsimile. They don't always have them on display.
Y.
In reply to Sandrine:
I don't know - check their website?
They don't let you touch either the original, but they are prepared to let you handle the copy, and look at whatever images take your fancy
(I am particularly fond of the cat:
http://www.bl.uk/onlinegallery/ttp/lindisfarne/accessible/page22lge.html
Y.
I don't know - check their website?
They don't let you touch either the original, but they are prepared to let you handle the copy, and look at whatever images take your fancy
(I am particularly fond of the cat:
http://www.bl.uk/onlinegallery/ttp/lindisfarne/accessible/page22lge.html
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Mindgoggling stuff, all those young monks applying themselves to those manuscripts. Looks like a lot of pain and angst and discipline in there, alongside the illumination. Great bit of almost-living history.
Mindgoggling stuff, all those young monks applying themselves to those manuscripts. Looks like a lot of pain and angst and discipline in there, alongside the illumination. Great bit of almost-living history.
In reply to Sandrine:
It is stalking down the RH side of the page, its belly full of birds (and looking hungry at the birds along the bottom margin). Its head is level with the bottom line of text, its tail curled neatly between the "u" of Quo and the word Secundum.
It is a poor image: go and see it in the flesh!
Y.
It is stalking down the RH side of the page, its belly full of birds (and looking hungry at the birds along the bottom margin). Its head is level with the bottom line of text, its tail curled neatly between the "u" of Quo and the word Secundum.
It is a poor image: go and see it in the flesh!
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
There is a strong argument that it is the work of one man (Eadfrith)
If it was, he was a genius. The devil might get the best music, but heaven the best calligraphers!
Y.
There is a strong argument that it is the work of one man (Eadfrith)
If it was, he was a genius. The devil might get the best music, but heaven the best calligraphers!
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Thanks, got it! Looks so real!
I love illuminations! (I checked in my dictionay for this word, somehow it does not seem right?)
Thanks, got it! Looks so real!
I love illuminations! (I checked in my dictionay for this word, somehow it does not seem right?)
In reply to Sandrine:
Sorry to disappoint... but I just can't write to demand - even for such a lovely lady as you. (If I could, I would!) A lot of my stuff has a long gestation period - one climbing article was 22 years - 1969 to 1991. Six months after it was published, I picked it up, idly, and suddenly understood what that day (my childhood coming of age) had been trying to teach me, all those years ago.
Mick
P.S. And it was/is a hard lesson which I'm still learning - yesterday, today...
Sorry to disappoint... but I just can't write to demand - even for such a lovely lady as you. (If I could, I would!) A lot of my stuff has a long gestation period - one climbing article was 22 years - 1969 to 1991. Six months after it was published, I picked it up, idly, and suddenly understood what that day (my childhood coming of age) had been trying to teach me, all those years ago.
Mick
P.S. And it was/is a hard lesson which I'm still learning - yesterday, today...
In reply to Mick Ward:
That's pretty cool. Lessons are always good. I just write all the time and forget about most of it. Occasionally something comes out which means enough for me to keep it. Nice when others appreciate something too, though, obviously.
That's pretty cool. Lessons are always good. I just write all the time and forget about most of it. Occasionally something comes out which means enough for me to keep it. Nice when others appreciate something too, though, obviously.
One more?
cauterization
cauterization
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
I was talking about illuminated manuscripts generally. The whole culture astonishes me.
Blimey, not much boogeying there then!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> There is a strong argument that it is the work of one man (Eadfrith)
>
> There is a strong argument that it is the work of one man (Eadfrith)
I was talking about illuminated manuscripts generally. The whole culture astonishes me.
>
> If it was, he was a genius. The devil might get the best music, but heaven the best calligraphers!
> If it was, he was a genius. The devil might get the best music, but heaven the best calligraphers!
Blimey, not much boogeying there then!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Nothing wrong with it... no, that's not true, she said there were some dark beliefs in the culture. She'd worked with some very rich, very amoral HK people. Felt it wasn't for me and protective (then) of me. No reason to put anyone else off. I've lived in Belfast, Bradford and Beirut, none of which are most peoples' cup of tea. Am currently enjoying your alma mater, Liverpool!
Re the soldier comment - didn't mean to be flippant or impertinent. Don't quite know how to put this. There's a 'warrior spirit' in certain people - I don't mean anything egotistical or arrogant, just the way they are. Look in Lynn Hill's eyes and you see pure warrior. Such people can easily be anti-military (past lives??)
Mick
Nothing wrong with it... no, that's not true, she said there were some dark beliefs in the culture. She'd worked with some very rich, very amoral HK people. Felt it wasn't for me and protective (then) of me. No reason to put anyone else off. I've lived in Belfast, Bradford and Beirut, none of which are most peoples' cup of tea. Am currently enjoying your alma mater, Liverpool!
Re the soldier comment - didn't mean to be flippant or impertinent. Don't quite know how to put this. There's a 'warrior spirit' in certain people - I don't mean anything egotistical or arrogant, just the way they are. Look in Lynn Hill's eyes and you see pure warrior. Such people can easily be anti-military (past lives??)
Mick
In reply to Mick Ward:
I am not disappointed. It's nice to know that you read the poems and that you write every once in a while.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
> Sorry to disappoint...
>
> Sorry to disappoint...
I am not disappointed. It's nice to know that you read the poems and that you write every once in a while.
In reply to Sandrine:
Spell for preserving knowledge
To affirm the moment
of wounding,
the moment when life's shock
grips the soul, when your inner thigh
is pierced in myth
by the antler of a fabled beast,
you must resort to fire.
The blood that runs down the thigh
pierced by the tusk of the charging
chimera is hot and full of the sun's
wanton breath. To capture it,
light a branch of alder
and thrust it into the wound
until it steams in the dawn light.
Years from now,
you will remember this burning
and this moment
and the life that soared
above you in that glade
where your father died
cursing your future.
Spell for preserving knowledge
To affirm the moment
of wounding,
the moment when life's shock
grips the soul, when your inner thigh
is pierced in myth
by the antler of a fabled beast,
you must resort to fire.
The blood that runs down the thigh
pierced by the tusk of the charging
chimera is hot and full of the sun's
wanton breath. To capture it,
light a branch of alder
and thrust it into the wound
until it steams in the dawn light.
Years from now,
you will remember this burning
and this moment
and the life that soared
above you in that glade
where your father died
cursing your future.
In reply to Mick Ward:
Yeah, some very dark stuff going on in HK. That's part of the reason I like it. Although I'm talking cultural and on the streets, rather than in the skyscrapers. I imagine it gets far darker up there in the night sky.
Flippant and impertinent? You better had be, you Irish git! I know what you mean about warriors, though. But I think there's normally a big difference between warriors and soldiers these days.
Yeah, some very dark stuff going on in HK. That's part of the reason I like it. Although I'm talking cultural and on the streets, rather than in the skyscrapers. I imagine it gets far darker up there in the night sky.
Flippant and impertinent? You better had be, you Irish git! I know what you mean about warriors, though. But I think there's normally a big difference between warriors and soldiers these days.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Steve, keep everything you ever write. I threw some stuff out when I was about nine and my dad went ballistic, made me get it back out of the bin. He was right.
Yep, it's nice if folk appreciate it but... it seems to me that writing is throwing a stone into eternity. Nobody knows where it's going to end up.
For the last two years, I've known the best thing I could write (and the closer to the event, the better it would have been.) But I didn't want to face the pain. And I still don't want to.
Easier to go climbing instead!
Mick
Steve, keep everything you ever write. I threw some stuff out when I was about nine and my dad went ballistic, made me get it back out of the bin. He was right.
Yep, it's nice if folk appreciate it but... it seems to me that writing is throwing a stone into eternity. Nobody knows where it's going to end up.
For the last two years, I've known the best thing I could write (and the closer to the event, the better it would have been.) But I didn't want to face the pain. And I still don't want to.
Easier to go climbing instead!
Mick
In reply to Steve Parker:
How dark, and full of pain.
(reminded me of the legend of Dionysos born off the thigh of Zeus)
How dark, and full of pain.
(reminded me of the legend of Dionysos born off the thigh of Zeus)
In reply to Sandrine:
Receive this ring, Breguswith of the brown-hair
A confirmation of our contract, my commitment to care
For you, pledge of peace between your people and mine.
So that should the friendship falter between your father and my folk
So the ranked spears of Rheged, red tipped and raging
Surge against our shield wall, shatter our swords,
Or should elfshot, or old age end my existance,
You will not be empty handed.
_______________________________
“H” “R” “I” “NG”
I tell you, lady, I can read the runes
- we still divine them, when the priests are away
“I” “CH”
Your grandmother’s? That makes sense
No-one speaks like that today!
“A” “T” “T” “Æ”
I tell you what: I’ll put a circle of gold
And beads of glass to cover the signs
“H” and “Æ”
They will sparkle like your eyes
- I swear there is Wælas blood in your veins
Then it will read as we speak in this land.
And if you will be the Baduhild to my Weyland
We will waive all other payment.
_______________________________
Weep no longer, woman: it was a worthless thing
Thin-gilded silver and glass, your ancestor’s ring.
Strange marks in the metal that men of God cannot read
Ancient curses, pagan magic: we no longer need.
Such enchantments. Return to the wheat field, go if you must,
But that thin band of metal: leave it to rust.
Y.
http://ariadne.uio.no/runenews/nor_1997/engl96p1.htm
(I am getting as bad as McGonnegal putting footnotes to my poems)
Receive this ring, Breguswith of the brown-hair
A confirmation of our contract, my commitment to care
For you, pledge of peace between your people and mine.
So that should the friendship falter between your father and my folk
So the ranked spears of Rheged, red tipped and raging
Surge against our shield wall, shatter our swords,
Or should elfshot, or old age end my existance,
You will not be empty handed.
_______________________________
“H” “R” “I” “NG”
I tell you, lady, I can read the runes
- we still divine them, when the priests are away
“I” “CH”
Your grandmother’s? That makes sense
No-one speaks like that today!
“A” “T” “T” “Æ”
I tell you what: I’ll put a circle of gold
And beads of glass to cover the signs
“H” and “Æ”
They will sparkle like your eyes
- I swear there is Wælas blood in your veins
Then it will read as we speak in this land.
And if you will be the Baduhild to my Weyland
We will waive all other payment.
_______________________________
Weep no longer, woman: it was a worthless thing
Thin-gilded silver and glass, your ancestor’s ring.
Strange marks in the metal that men of God cannot read
Ancient curses, pagan magic: we no longer need.
Such enchantments. Return to the wheat field, go if you must,
But that thin band of metal: leave it to rust.
Y.
http://ariadne.uio.no/runenews/nor_1997/engl96p1.htm
(I am getting as bad as McGonnegal putting footnotes to my poems)
In reply to Mick Ward:
With you there, Mick. I've got stuff that is too difficult to write. But I suspect it leaks through, which is why I write so much. It's slowly building.
With you there, Mick. I've got stuff that is too difficult to write. But I suspect it leaks through, which is why I write so much. It's slowly building.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
And we can let our imagination wander all night long about the ring, the lives a long while ago, and the reasons for it to be made.
And we can let our imagination wander all night long about the ring, the lives a long while ago, and the reasons for it to be made.
In reply to Sandrine:
That was the idea, and the James Fraser stuff about the boy standing with one leg on a bath and being wounded in the thigh by a stag. Ancient stuff that still resonates with meanings about the basic SHOCK and GASP of becoming a human instead of an animal.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>
> How dark, and full of pain.
>
> (reminded me of the legend of Dionysos born off the thigh of Zeus)
>
>
> How dark, and full of pain.
>
> (reminded me of the legend of Dionysos born off the thigh of Zeus)
That was the idea, and the James Fraser stuff about the boy standing with one leg on a bath and being wounded in the thigh by a stag. Ancient stuff that still resonates with meanings about the basic SHOCK and GASP of becoming a human instead of an animal.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Couldn't agree more. Honourable exceptions though. I found a martial arts instructor this week, with massive military experience. He's been studying combat for as long as I've been studying climbing - 40 years. Utterly humbling being on the same planet as the man... which is what he feels about a little old lady who was once paracuted into France in World War Two, to be deliberately captured as a decoy.
'But I guess that these heroes
must always live their lives
where you and I
have only been.'
(Saint Lenny)
All best wishes,
Mick
> But I think there's normally a big difference between warriors and soldiers these days.
Couldn't agree more. Honourable exceptions though. I found a martial arts instructor this week, with massive military experience. He's been studying combat for as long as I've been studying climbing - 40 years. Utterly humbling being on the same planet as the man... which is what he feels about a little old lady who was once paracuted into France in World War Two, to be deliberately captured as a decoy.
'But I guess that these heroes
must always live their lives
where you and I
have only been.'
(Saint Lenny)
All best wishes,
Mick
In reply to Sandrine:
I didn't get that one: reminded me of Ulysses being wounded by the boar (is it Ulysses? can't remember)
Very good, Steve.
Y.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
>
> How dark, and full of pain.
>
> (reminded me of the legend of Dionysos born off the thigh of Zeus)
>
>
> How dark, and full of pain.
>
> (reminded me of the legend of Dionysos born off the thigh of Zeus)
I didn't get that one: reminded me of Ulysses being wounded by the boar (is it Ulysses? can't remember)
Very good, Steve.
Y.
In reply to Steve Parker:
It does/will leak through - for you, for me. But, as this is a poetry thread and I'm (currently) a non-producing poet, I'm going to delete myself and let you good folk carry on!
Mick
It does/will leak through - for you, for me. But, as this is a poetry thread and I'm (currently) a non-producing poet, I'm going to delete myself and let you good folk carry on!
Mick
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
You're being harsh with yourself Y, sleep well.
You're being harsh with yourself Y, sleep well.
In reply to Mick Ward:
Nice chatting anyway, Mick. I've met some awesome Japanese martial arts instructors. Hirokasu Kanazawa may have been the most impressive - he was about 55 at the time, and looked about 30.
Nice chatting anyway, Mick. I've met some awesome Japanese martial arts instructors. Hirokasu Kanazawa may have been the most impressive - he was about 55 at the time, and looked about 30.
In reply to Sandrine:
Ha, SP ticks all themes! Off to write a ghazal somewhere else. Going camping tomorrow night, hopefully.
Ha, SP ticks all themes! Off to write a ghazal somewhere else. Going camping tomorrow night, hopefully.
In reply to Steve Parker:
You've probably read, 'Moving Zen - Karate as a Way to Gentleness' by Clive Nicol (went to school with Brian Jones of the Stones.) Trained with Kanazawa, if I remember correctly, said he was awesome - and an even finer human being.
Night to all.
Mick
You've probably read, 'Moving Zen - Karate as a Way to Gentleness' by Clive Nicol (went to school with Brian Jones of the Stones.) Trained with Kanazawa, if I remember correctly, said he was awesome - and an even finer human being.
Night to all.
Mick
In reply to Steve Parker:
No you haven't! What's a ghazal?
Too scare to do it myself these days...Getting old.
No you haven't! What's a ghazal?
Too scare to do it myself these days...Getting old.
Oooh! It's late! Night all!
In reply to Mick Ward:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> You've probably read, 'Moving Zen - Karate as a Way to Gentleness' by Clive Nicol (went to school with Brian Jones of the Stones.) Trained with Kanazawa, if I remember correctly, said he was awesome - and an even finer human being.
>
Heard about it, but haven't read it, but I've also trained with Kanazawa in my karate bumbledom. Yes, a very fine human being. He used to stand in the basic karate stance with his hands on his hips, nodding his head back and forth. This is the only exercise you will ever need to do for fitness and long life, he used to say. Maybe I should have believed him!
>
> You've probably read, 'Moving Zen - Karate as a Way to Gentleness' by Clive Nicol (went to school with Brian Jones of the Stones.) Trained with Kanazawa, if I remember correctly, said he was awesome - and an even finer human being.
>
In reply to Sandrine:
Old? How old, Madame? Anyway, you're supposed to get less scared as you get older. Less bullshit self-image to worry about, in theory.
A ghazal is a Persian poetry structure that I'm just learning about at the insistence of someone else. Bloody hard work, actually. I'll give it half an hour, then off ta beed. Dr Feelgood on the radio right now, playing Do it Right. Fantastic. Wilko Johnson shaking my soul.
Night night.
Old? How old, Madame? Anyway, you're supposed to get less scared as you get older. Less bullshit self-image to worry about, in theory.
A ghazal is a Persian poetry structure that I'm just learning about at the insistence of someone else. Bloody hard work, actually. I'll give it half an hour, then off ta beed. Dr Feelgood on the radio right now, playing Do it Right. Fantastic. Wilko Johnson shaking my soul.
Night night.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Self-image has nothing to do with it. I was scared but curious when I was younger, and I would go and do whatever I wanted to do, still scared but brushing it off. Now, the curiosity is more focussed I guess, and it takes a lot more motivation to go and explore.
Self-image has nothing to do with it. I was scared but curious when I was younger, and I would go and do whatever I wanted to do, still scared but brushing it off. Now, the curiosity is more focussed I guess, and it takes a lot more motivation to go and explore.
In reply to Sandrine:
On my birthday an earthquake shook the Pacific.
The tremors blew out my distant candles.
Big waves growled onto beaches like Orcas.
Robert Bly ice-skated through my mind, grim
with blood, burning with fairy tales from forests.
I joined other men, and related my story.
Five years before I was born, a door banged shut
for my parents. They probably didn't hear it
banging there in the wind, just before the Beatles.
Me, of all people, in a men's group! I told my songs
of the desert that had changed me, the rocks and the wind.
I don't think they heard my words above their own clamour.
My son skirts the pond, a rock climber, watching his shadow,
calling to the old language of frogs with his old language
that we all once shared. The frogs say nowt, just glisten.
Over towards Cowling, the sky is on fire - some smoking fool
- no one is allowed to go and view the flames. A creature
in a dark pool might grasp at strangers, shout rude poetry in their ears.
On my birthday an earthquake shook the Pacific.
The tremors blew out my distant candles.
Big waves growled onto beaches like Orcas.
Robert Bly ice-skated through my mind, grim
with blood, burning with fairy tales from forests.
I joined other men, and related my story.
Five years before I was born, a door banged shut
for my parents. They probably didn't hear it
banging there in the wind, just before the Beatles.
Me, of all people, in a men's group! I told my songs
of the desert that had changed me, the rocks and the wind.
I don't think they heard my words above their own clamour.
My son skirts the pond, a rock climber, watching his shadow,
calling to the old language of frogs with his old language
that we all once shared. The frogs say nowt, just glisten.
Over towards Cowling, the sky is on fire - some smoking fool
- no one is allowed to go and view the flames. A creature
in a dark pool might grasp at strangers, shout rude poetry in their ears.
In reply to Steve Parker:
You're not gone camping?
Oh! I meant to ask: do you consider the "brave" poem finished?
Substitute
You're not gone camping?
Oh! I meant to ask: do you consider the "brave" poem finished?
Substitute
In reply to Sandrine:
No, not camping as the weather forecast was bad, and it's now chucking it down. Brave poem very far from finished, as it's too good a subject to do briefly. Needs some care, really, and some gestation.
Substitute, huh? Here's one I just wrote on that very theme.
You think we look pretty good together
You think my shoes are made of leather
But I'm a substitute for another guy
I look pretty tall but my heels are high
The simple things you see are all complicated
I look pretty young, but I'm just back-dated, yeah
Substitute your lies for fact
I can see right through your plastic mac
I look all white, but my dad was black
My fine looking suit is really made out of sack
I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth
The north side of my town faced east, and the east was facing south
And now you dare to look me in the eye
Those crocodile tears are what you cry
It's a genuine problem, you won't try
To work it out at all you just pass it by, pass it by
Substitute me for him
Substitute my coke for gin
Substitute you for my mum
At least I'll get my washing done.
Honest. Do I get a tick?
No, not camping as the weather forecast was bad, and it's now chucking it down. Brave poem very far from finished, as it's too good a subject to do briefly. Needs some care, really, and some gestation.
Substitute, huh? Here's one I just wrote on that very theme.
You think we look pretty good together
You think my shoes are made of leather
But I'm a substitute for another guy
I look pretty tall but my heels are high
The simple things you see are all complicated
I look pretty young, but I'm just back-dated, yeah
Substitute your lies for fact
I can see right through your plastic mac
I look all white, but my dad was black
My fine looking suit is really made out of sack
I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth
The north side of my town faced east, and the east was facing south
And now you dare to look me in the eye
Those crocodile tears are what you cry
It's a genuine problem, you won't try
To work it out at all you just pass it by, pass it by
Substitute me for him
Substitute my coke for gin
Substitute you for my mum
At least I'll get my washing done.
Honest. Do I get a tick?
In reply to Steve Parker:
Yes, you get a tick! What's honest, the poem?
Funny how poet Steve, and Y, and Wushu need recognition, from me, of all people?!
Upside down
Yes, you get a tick! What's honest, the poem?
Funny how poet Steve, and Y, and Wushu need recognition, from me, of all people?!
Upside down
In reply to Sandrine:
Hello poets! We had a great Thursday evening, a fantastic Friday, I want fireworks tonight, it's Sat on the poetry thread! Woohoo!
Hello poets! We had a great Thursday evening, a fantastic Friday, I want fireworks tonight, it's Sat on the poetry thread! Woohoo!
In reply to Sandrine:
Hmm i've got that upside down song in my head now!
So they said it's,
upside down,
topsy turvy(sp?),
inside out,
downwards up,
but which way does the box go,
it says this way up..
Hmm i've got that upside down song in my head now!
So they said it's,
upside down,
topsy turvy(sp?),
inside out,
downwards up,
but which way does the box go,
it says this way up..
In reply to Sandrine:
No, that was Substitute, by The Who - I was joshin.
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> Yes, you get a tick! What's honest, the poem?
>
> Yes, you get a tick! What's honest, the poem?
No, that was Substitute, by The Who - I was joshin.
>
> Funny how poet Steve, and Y, and Wushu need recognition, from me, of all people?!
>
Yeah, we all gather like wagging dogs to have our heads patted by the Madame. > Funny how poet Steve, and Y, and Wushu need recognition, from me, of all people?!
>
In reply to Steve Parker:
Hahaha! (Don't call me Madame, please)
Capitulate
> Yeah, we all gather like wagging dogs to have our heads patted by the Madame.>
Hahaha! (Don't call me Madame, please)
Capitulate
In reply to Sandrine:
My Dad says I'm stupid
coz I hang in the big tree
from my feet, looking down,
laughing, saying look at me,
I'm flying, almost flying,
almost, 30 feet above
all the rest of you
and your talk, 30 feet
above where our old dog,
Sian, was buried, 30 feet
above where my brother
dug her up, thinking
she'd made some kind of sound
that was more than the escape
of gas as the soil was tamped,
that was more than physics
could explain, that was really
the sound of a dead live dog
moaning and wanting to come
back up. An owl, a big owl
used to sit up here, probably
not expecting that one of us
would come up and hang upside down
from a slender branch
just to show off and look
sadly into the history
of dogs and brothers.
I ain't coming down
until that owl consents
to come back and hoot
above these ghosts.
My Dad says I'm stupid
coz I hang in the big tree
from my feet, looking down,
laughing, saying look at me,
I'm flying, almost flying,
almost, 30 feet above
all the rest of you
and your talk, 30 feet
above where our old dog,
Sian, was buried, 30 feet
above where my brother
dug her up, thinking
she'd made some kind of sound
that was more than the escape
of gas as the soil was tamped,
that was more than physics
could explain, that was really
the sound of a dead live dog
moaning and wanting to come
back up. An owl, a big owl
used to sit up here, probably
not expecting that one of us
would come up and hang upside down
from a slender branch
just to show off and look
sadly into the history
of dogs and brothers.
I ain't coming down
until that owl consents
to come back and hoot
above these ghosts.
In reply to Sandrine:
Capitulate!
The men would not,
Maybe it was for their fallen brothers,
Maybe they wished to keep their dignity in tact,
The battle waged on,
Capitulation was gone
from the minds of the men who faught the battle,
Be it in death or life they would not surrender,
they would be free.
Capitulate!
The men would not,
Maybe it was for their fallen brothers,
Maybe they wished to keep their dignity in tact,
The battle waged on,
Capitulation was gone
from the minds of the men who faught the battle,
Be it in death or life they would not surrender,
they would be free.
In reply to Sandrine:
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
> [...]
>
> Hahaha! (Don't call me Madame, please)
>
Pourquoi le non? I believe there is a move in French society to have Mademoiselle ousted as it is considered derogatory. I'm just trying to keep up with international affairs. You ain't got no version of Ms yet, have you? > [...]
>
> Hahaha! (Don't call me Madame, please)
>
In reply to Steve Parker:
Not aware of that move. Although calling someone who is 75 Mademoiselle is derogatory as it is insisting on the fact she is not married (and therefore good for damnation obviously).
Calling me the Madame sounds as if I was keeping a brothel or a seedy bar! Plus I am not married. Don't like Ms either!!!! All this system is crap I hate it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Not aware of that move. Although calling someone who is 75 Mademoiselle is derogatory as it is insisting on the fact she is not married (and therefore good for damnation obviously).
Calling me the Madame sounds as if I was keeping a brothel or a seedy bar! Plus I am not married. Don't like Ms either!!!! All this system is crap I hate it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In reply to Sandrine: Evening, erm yeah it is, well if you have noticed it i guess it is!
1 camel i asked from the man,
1 person i'll need for that camel,
"Human trading!", i gasped with an astonished look,
He said no it's just i don't have a cook!
1 camel i asked from the man,
1 person i'll need for that camel,
"Human trading!", i gasped with an astonished look,
He said no it's just i don't have a cook!
In reply to Sandrine: Erm nothing, just first idea that came to mind when i read the topic!
So hows you day been!? Climbing tomorrow?
So hows you day been!? Climbing tomorrow?
In reply to Sandrine: Erm i went indoor on friday, was meant to be out tomorrow but it had been called off, might go to the local wall or maybe just sort out my camera stuff tomorrow.
Shoot
In reply to Sandrine:
War,
To take a life,
game,
to enjoy life,
wargames,
Played by children,
created by men,
But in the end someone always get's shot.
hmmm not trying to be dark!!
War,
To take a life,
game,
to enjoy life,
wargames,
Played by children,
created by men,
But in the end someone always get's shot.
hmmm not trying to be dark!!
In reply to Sandrine:
Out the window
and to the left,
theres a palm tree
maybe with some shoots,
My dad once stuck a coconut in the top,
the neighbour came out and nearly dropped!
true story :-p
Out the window
and to the left,
theres a palm tree
maybe with some shoots,
My dad once stuck a coconut in the top,
the neighbour came out and nearly dropped!
true story :-p
In reply to Sandrine:
I think the overall idea is that mademoiselle is okay for young girls, but for women it includes some value-judgement about marriage. IE: unmarried women are only entitled to the same state of address as girls. The idea is that all French women over (I think) 18 be addressed as Madame. I agree, the Madame is a little different, and I was only joking. Though Marcel Duchamp would probably have said that all poets were whores, and quite what that makes your role in this thread...
Hmm.
I think the overall idea is that mademoiselle is okay for young girls, but for women it includes some value-judgement about marriage. IE: unmarried women are only entitled to the same state of address as girls. The idea is that all French women over (I think) 18 be addressed as Madame. I agree, the Madame is a little different, and I was only joking. Though Marcel Duchamp would probably have said that all poets were whores, and quite what that makes your role in this thread...
Hmm.
In reply to Sandrine:
I wonder if Sandrine's posts about new themes, all assembled, would be interesting as some kind of Burroughsian cutup kind of thing. If I ever get the time (and it would take some time), I might just do it. Just scrolling back a little, it looks promising. You writing a long unconscious poem, Sandrine???
I wonder if Sandrine's posts about new themes, all assembled, would be interesting as some kind of Burroughsian cutup kind of thing. If I ever get the time (and it would take some time), I might just do it. Just scrolling back a little, it looks promising. You writing a long unconscious poem, Sandrine???
In reply to Steve Parker:
You will find that young women are called Mademoiselle long after the age of 18 in F. When the local baker starts to address you as Madame, you know that you're on the slippery slope in terms of age and don't look 20 something anymore!
It's meant to be respectful as well. That's the French side anyway.
Mind you, I get addressed as Madam sometimes in shops here as well (or love, or puppet, or darling which shocked me when I arrived here! . But then I have never heard anyone being addressed as Miss.
I know you were joking! And this thread is perfectly respectable!
You will find that young women are called Mademoiselle long after the age of 18 in F. When the local baker starts to address you as Madame, you know that you're on the slippery slope in terms of age and don't look 20 something anymore!
It's meant to be respectful as well. That's the French side anyway.
Mind you, I get addressed as Madam sometimes in shops here as well (or love, or puppet, or darling which shocked me when I arrived here! . But then I have never heard anyone being addressed as Miss.
I know you were joking! And this thread is perfectly respectable!
In reply to Steve Parker:
Don't know! (scrolling up quickly to find out if there is anything unsightly, worried!)
I let my mind wander off wherever it fancies going.
> (In reply to Sandrine)
You writing a long unconscious poem, Sandrine???>
Don't know! (scrolling up quickly to find out if there is anything unsightly, worried!)
I let my mind wander off wherever it fancies going.
In reply to Sandrine:
We hired some camels and cameleers
in Giza, just looking
for the usual obligatory bumpy trip
around them pointy things
that sit like big exclamations
over the rooftops of Cairo.
The cameleers steered our camels
out past the Sphinx (where we stopped
and drank Coke rushed upon us by the son of the head cameleer's Dad) and over towards
the little pyramids, the unimpressive
ones that you wouldn't bother with
until you'd run out of antiquities,
which might take a while.
These camels, said the cameleers
(and the camels'ears must have burnt)
wouldn't go near the big pyramids
because of their Islamic temperament.
A big bull camel came rushing up
behind my jaunty female, and tried
to get up into my saddle, or something.
It was hard to place his motives
as I fell off, looking at the sky
slowly, with tourists laughing
through their ripped-off asses.
Of course, we later learned
that we'd paid 3 times the going rate
when we saw signs all around the pyramids
listing the charges for camels.
That night, me and my mate, Andy,
stalked across the necropolis
and climbed the Great Pyramid.
We danced on top and whooped
under the full moon, with not one
cameleer in sight. Ha, Egypt,
we gotcha back!
We hired some camels and cameleers
in Giza, just looking
for the usual obligatory bumpy trip
around them pointy things
that sit like big exclamations
over the rooftops of Cairo.
The cameleers steered our camels
out past the Sphinx (where we stopped
and drank Coke rushed upon us by the son of the head cameleer's Dad) and over towards
the little pyramids, the unimpressive
ones that you wouldn't bother with
until you'd run out of antiquities,
which might take a while.
These camels, said the cameleers
(and the camels'ears must have burnt)
wouldn't go near the big pyramids
because of their Islamic temperament.
A big bull camel came rushing up
behind my jaunty female, and tried
to get up into my saddle, or something.
It was hard to place his motives
as I fell off, looking at the sky
slowly, with tourists laughing
through their ripped-off asses.
Of course, we later learned
that we'd paid 3 times the going rate
when we saw signs all around the pyramids
listing the charges for camels.
That night, me and my mate, Andy,
stalked across the necropolis
and climbed the Great Pyramid.
We danced on top and whooped
under the full moon, with not one
cameleer in sight. Ha, Egypt,
we gotcha back!
In reply to Simon:
Hi Si! My climbing partners say I am progressing!
I am going to the wall twice a week, so perhaps it's true. Still enjoying it despite the sweltering heat inside but being outside, is a different thing altogether...And would be super duper top in this weather.
Might go to Swanage soon, fingers crossed. And probably to Southern sandstone in Sep.
Hey, will you write us a poem Si?
Hi Si! My climbing partners say I am progressing!
I am going to the wall twice a week, so perhaps it's true. Still enjoying it despite the sweltering heat inside but being outside, is a different thing altogether...And would be super duper top in this weather.
Might go to Swanage soon, fingers crossed. And probably to Southern sandstone in Sep.
Hey, will you write us a poem Si?
In reply to Sandrine:
Sure have. The full story is a bit of a laugh, as it involves an Egyptian policeman taking all his clothes off, and us thinking we were about to get gang-raped, but I'll tell it some other time.
Sure have. The full story is a bit of a laugh, as it involves an Egyptian policeman taking all his clothes off, and us thinking we were about to get gang-raped, but I'll tell it some other time.
In reply to Sandrine:
Ace! - good on ya!
Its brill!
And probably to Southern sandstone in Sep.
errr - no - but maybe - what about? - lol!
> (In reply to Simon)
>
> Hi Si! My climbing partners say I am progressing!
>
> Hi Si! My climbing partners say I am progressing!
Ace! - good on ya!
>
> Might go to Swanage soon, fingers crossed.
> Might go to Swanage soon, fingers crossed.
Its brill!
And probably to Southern sandstone in Sep.
>
err - ok - hav fun - its poo tho imho - get up on the grit lol!
> Hey, will you write us a poem Si?
errr - no - but maybe - what about? - lol!
In reply to Steve Parker:
I am envious (of the climb!)
Tell us the story!
Another theme for those who want one:
thirst
I am envious (of the climb!)
Tell us the story!
Another theme for those who want one:
thirst
In reply to Simon:
It's not grippy grit, it's really hard work sandstone, good stuff to progress and learn whether your footwork is really good or crap!!! I don't dislike it.
Thirst is the theme
It's not grippy grit, it's really hard work sandstone, good stuff to progress and learn whether your footwork is really good or crap!!! I don't dislike it.
Thirst is the theme
In reply to Sandrine:
Having imbibed Stella like a warthog
since my son's head hit the pillow
and closed its eyes,
kissed and full of quick dreams
to do with how much room there is on the broom,
and how best to dress the smartest giant in town,
and how ridiculous his Dad can be
when demonstrating how to hop
like a giant, I'm not very thirsty.
I am far from thirsty
Having imbibed Stella like a warthog
since my son's head hit the pillow
and closed its eyes,
kissed and full of quick dreams
to do with how much room there is on the broom,
and how best to dress the smartest giant in town,
and how ridiculous his Dad can be
when demonstrating how to hop
like a giant, I'm not very thirsty.
I am far from thirsty
In reply to Steve Parker:
Made me smile. How is little Alfie doing with the heat, and in general these days?
Made me smile. How is little Alfie doing with the heat, and in general these days?
Night everyone!
Machination
Machination
In reply to Sandrine:
He's doing amazingly well, thank you. I'm getting him playing out almost naked to get him soaking up the sunlight. He's in love with Alexandra at the nursery, at the moment, and regularly tells her so. But he has little moderacy. He shouted to one of the neighbours, 'Hi, I'm having a poo' the other day. 'That's probably more information than you generally get from your neighbours,' said I. Dear me, what kind of behaviour is that!
Love it all.
He's doing amazingly well, thank you. I'm getting him playing out almost naked to get him soaking up the sunlight. He's in love with Alexandra at the nursery, at the moment, and regularly tells her so. But he has little moderacy. He shouted to one of the neighbours, 'Hi, I'm having a poo' the other day. 'That's probably more information than you generally get from your neighbours,' said I. Dear me, what kind of behaviour is that!
Love it all.
In reply to Sandrine:
A train rattles its Diesel throws over the viaduct
While Swallows dance and catch the warm summer breeze
The yellow cracks fit perfect hand jams to move on
the cliff sends to climber breaks locked o' with ease...
si
;0)
A train rattles its Diesel throws over the viaduct
While Swallows dance and catch the warm summer breeze
The yellow cracks fit perfect hand jams to move on
the cliff sends to climber breaks locked o' with ease...
si
;0)
In reply to Sandrine:
Given the ratio of velocity to medium
and the fantastic genius of Ernst Mach
and the strangely idiosyncratic mindset
of the British nation, with its egoism
and its self-focus, can I establish
a new concept of speed, perhaps to do
with rate of progress away from colonialism,
and can I label Britain for the measuring,
and can I call it the Mach I Nation?
Of course, France would be the Mach You Nation.
Germany would clearly be the Mach ine Gunnation.
Sorry, very late, and I should be maching me way ta beed. That last bit was almost racist! Nite oil.
Given the ratio of velocity to medium
and the fantastic genius of Ernst Mach
and the strangely idiosyncratic mindset
of the British nation, with its egoism
and its self-focus, can I establish
a new concept of speed, perhaps to do
with rate of progress away from colonialism,
and can I label Britain for the measuring,
and can I call it the Mach I Nation?
Of course, France would be the Mach You Nation.
Germany would clearly be the Mach ine Gunnation.
Sorry, very late, and I should be maching me way ta beed. That last bit was almost racist! Nite oil.
America's shadow
beating over red crescents
youth learning the hate
in the ratholes of myth
breathing the dust of oldness
that forgot what youngness was
swearing Stalingrads of unending war
sail on silver bird, sail on by
another generation betrayed
rise risenbird rise
rise across the night
again again again
grey mother of everything
rise dripping
with the same old filth
forever while old ugly men
value the young
so little
beating over red crescents
youth learning the hate
in the ratholes of myth
breathing the dust of oldness
that forgot what youngness was
swearing Stalingrads of unending war
sail on silver bird, sail on by
another generation betrayed
rise risenbird rise
rise across the night
again again again
grey mother of everything
rise dripping
with the same old filth
forever while old ugly men
value the young
so little
In reply to Steve Parker:
About Alfie: it seems to be a lot "easier and fun" than this winter, I am pleased for you. A bit of sunscreen with the sunlight, eh?
Hahaha! Is he learning to ask to go to the toilets?! Or he just said that out of the blue?!
Small kids of that age are hilarious: they form all sorts of funny ideas about the way they see the world, express that in a creative sentence, sometime with their own inventive words!
About Alfie: it seems to be a lot "easier and fun" than this winter, I am pleased for you. A bit of sunscreen with the sunlight, eh?
Hahaha! Is he learning to ask to go to the toilets?! Or he just said that out of the blue?!
Small kids of that age are hilarious: they form all sorts of funny ideas about the way they see the world, express that in a creative sentence, sometime with their own inventive words!
In reply to Steve Parker:
I will not count the daily tally
Of lives taken to cross the Styx
I will not listen to the justifications
Of peace spots poundering and counties wrecking
I will not hear the hypocrisy
of the so-called leaders and peaceful nations
I refuse to cry for it all.
Call a ceasefire now!
Stick Nasrallah and Olmert in an open cell each
In the middle of a roman stadium
Surround them with hungry lions
Call the crowd to the spectacle,
with ripe tomatoes as ammunition
Provide history books and pen, and paper
Leave them to roast in the sun, for a month,
To read and ponder and find a consensus.
There is no going out,
Until they find a solution.
> America's shadow
> beating over red crescents
> .......
> forever while old ugly men
> value the young
> so little
> beating over red crescents
> .......
> forever while old ugly men
> value the young
> so little
I will not count the daily tally
Of lives taken to cross the Styx
I will not listen to the justifications
Of peace spots poundering and counties wrecking
I will not hear the hypocrisy
of the so-called leaders and peaceful nations
I refuse to cry for it all.
Call a ceasefire now!
Stick Nasrallah and Olmert in an open cell each
In the middle of a roman stadium
Surround them with hungry lions
Call the crowd to the spectacle,
with ripe tomatoes as ammunition
Provide history books and pen, and paper
Leave them to roast in the sun, for a month,
To read and ponder and find a consensus.
There is no going out,
Until they find a solution.
In reply to Sandrine:
Exactly.
Call all those involved to a summit
and lock the doors. Nobody leaves
until a solution is found.
Nobody gathers their papers
and stalks out dramatically,
with a great sense
of their place in history,
they stay and work
until the work is done,
if it takes a year,
or two.
If you get bored,
people will die.
If you run out of intelligence,
imagination, understanding,
interest or forgiveness,
people will die as a result.
If you leave this table,
people will die.
Here is your chance,
here is your place in history.
You walk out the door,
you walk straight into
the shithouse
that you deserve.
No more snooze buttons,
no more theatre,
no more grand gestures,
nothing but the utmost care
and caution
forever. This is all
too complex for little boys
in big suits. The coffee
and grapes are free, and we ask
that you expect a little turbulence
at the table,
ladies and gentlemen,
for there are monsters
in our midst.
And we must forgive them everything.
Exactly.
Call all those involved to a summit
and lock the doors. Nobody leaves
until a solution is found.
Nobody gathers their papers
and stalks out dramatically,
with a great sense
of their place in history,
they stay and work
until the work is done,
if it takes a year,
or two.
If you get bored,
people will die.
If you run out of intelligence,
imagination, understanding,
interest or forgiveness,
people will die as a result.
If you leave this table,
people will die.
Here is your chance,
here is your place in history.
You walk out the door,
you walk straight into
the shithouse
that you deserve.
No more snooze buttons,
no more theatre,
no more grand gestures,
nothing but the utmost care
and caution
forever. This is all
too complex for little boys
in big suits. The coffee
and grapes are free, and we ask
that you expect a little turbulence
at the table,
ladies and gentlemen,
for there are monsters
in our midst.
And we must forgive them everything.
In reply to Sandrine:
I'll forgive
If you forget.
Then we might live
As tho we met
But one brief hour ago -
Then all the stones
And darts and pins,
We threw and jabbed
And hammered in,
Would vanish on the wind.
Our slate all clean,
We'd sit a while.
And laugh and talk,
And dance and smile.
And you could play piano
While I make tea.
If you forget
And I forgive,
Our hearts and souls
Would be a sieve
Pouring out
The negative -
Leaving only
The loving essence
Of you and me.
I'll forgive
If you forget.
Then we might live
As tho we met
But one brief hour ago -
Then all the stones
And darts and pins,
We threw and jabbed
And hammered in,
Would vanish on the wind.
Our slate all clean,
We'd sit a while.
And laugh and talk,
And dance and smile.
And you could play piano
While I make tea.
If you forget
And I forgive,
Our hearts and souls
Would be a sieve
Pouring out
The negative -
Leaving only
The loving essence
Of you and me.
In reply to Sandrine:
A conclave? Hmm, I suspect it's a sanclave, or a sinclave. Something without a key, anyway!
> (In reply to Steve Parker)
>
> A conclave! The bishops know how to do it. Brick them all in!
>
> A conclave! The bishops know how to do it. Brick them all in!
A conclave? Hmm, I suspect it's a sanclave, or a sinclave. Something without a key, anyway!
In reply to Sandrine: No, only just wrote it! Will do when she arrives home
In reply to Sandrine:
Got to go too. Off to get some DIY
materials in order to compete
with myself, and the overarching
image of manliness that pulls
my strings.
Got to go too. Off to get some DIY
materials in order to compete
with myself, and the overarching
image of manliness that pulls
my strings.
In reply to Marc C:
I liked that Narc, some of the other stuff goes over my head as it seems like words thrown in a bucket and dragged out randomly.
I liked that Narc, some of the other stuff goes over my head as it seems like words thrown in a bucket and dragged out randomly.
In reply to Steve Parker: Ha, I too have to do manly DIY - got to put some hinges on. Mrs C says I'm unhinged
In reply to Steve Parker:
How is the DIY going Steve? Still not finished? Come on, hurry up!
What are you up to?
Have you asked for advice on UKC and offered some, erm, favours in return?
DIY and manliness, hmm, DIY does not give me any form of womanliness (this word exists?). I put it off, delay, find excuses, then I actually do it and find it not as hard as I had imagined, and it gives me a fleeting sense of satisfaction (nesting?) when it's finished. But that's it!
How is the DIY going Steve? Still not finished? Come on, hurry up!
What are you up to?
Have you asked for advice on UKC and offered some, erm, favours in return?
DIY and manliness, hmm, DIY does not give me any form of womanliness (this word exists?). I put it off, delay, find excuses, then I actually do it and find it not as hard as I had imagined, and it gives me a fleeting sense of satisfaction (nesting?) when it's finished. But that's it!
In reply to Marc C:
Mrs C is always right and you should listen to why she is saying this. You have been misbehaving for her to say that. The evidence is in your poem too!
Mrs C is always right and you should listen to why she is saying this. You have been misbehaving for her to say that. The evidence is in your poem too!
In reply to Sandrine:
Let's get a big sticking plaster
and spread it over Israel, Palestine
and Lebanon, like we always have.
Then let's forget about it all,
and go and get plastered
with disaster.
The word 'bastard' would rhyme
and chime with some of this.
As do depression
and regression.
Let's get a big sticking plaster
and spread it over Israel, Palestine
and Lebanon, like we always have.
Then let's forget about it all,
and go and get plastered
with disaster.
The word 'bastard' would rhyme
and chime with some of this.
As do depression
and regression.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Let's get a big volcano to erupt
Just West off the coast of the Holy Land
Let's keep the cap simmering for a whole night
and collect the ashes to cool them down.
Spread the ashes in a sweeping gesture
All the way to Syria, Lebanon, Jordan
and as far as necessary, to stop everyone in their tracks
Everyone turned into stone for a few minutes
Let's them see for themselves the situation,
frozen, with tepid ashes, a finger on the trigger
A suckling baby on a nipple, a refugee group stuck in their own suburbian parking lot.
Keep the ashes stuck on everyone's skin for a few moments.
Wait until the tears come out, dripping, into a large stream of salty water.
Let the water wash everybody's skin, one by one.
Let's get a big volcano to erupt
Just West off the coast of the Holy Land
Let's keep the cap simmering for a whole night
and collect the ashes to cool them down.
Spread the ashes in a sweeping gesture
All the way to Syria, Lebanon, Jordan
and as far as necessary, to stop everyone in their tracks
Everyone turned into stone for a few minutes
Let's them see for themselves the situation,
frozen, with tepid ashes, a finger on the trigger
A suckling baby on a nipple, a refugee group stuck in their own suburbian parking lot.
Keep the ashes stuck on everyone's skin for a few moments.
Wait until the tears come out, dripping, into a large stream of salty water.
Let the water wash everybody's skin, one by one.
In reply to Sandrine:
They called it "Candida Casa"
Because Ninian
Who had been trained in building
And Bishoping both
By Martin of Tours
Rendered the wattle
With white lime plaster
Y.
They called it "Candida Casa"
Because Ninian
Who had been trained in building
And Bishoping both
By Martin of Tours
Rendered the wattle
With white lime plaster
Y.
In reply to Yrmenlaf:
Have you visited Withorn, Y?
Have you visited Withorn, Y?
Glimmer
In reply to Sandrine:
Shimmer,
Glimmer,
strimmer,
dinner mmm,
food,
dude,
rude tut tut,
foot,
cut,
shut,
put.
This could go on forever!!
Shimmer,
Glimmer,
strimmer,
dinner mmm,
food,
dude,
rude tut tut,
foot,
cut,
shut,
put.
This could go on forever!!
In reply to wushu:
This could go on forever.
Yes, but it would not count.
I would have thought you would have come up with something about photo developing or in that vein?
This could go on forever.
Yes, but it would not count.
I would have thought you would have come up with something about photo developing or in that vein?
Night all
In reply to Sandrine:
Glimmer over Slippery Ford
and Oldfield
glimmer a thousand dead faces
captured in water
running off the moors
glimmer the dead stigmaria
cut with stone axes
by hefty men
glimmer the blood pools
on the dead
left in the rivers
the glimmering rivers
their houses empty
their songs gone quiet
things happened here
unremembered things
a transfer of power
a change of language
an exchange of ownership
and it all glimmers
across the heather
when the night shines
the same old shine
deathlovewarwastejoybirthlove
unending glimmer
flowering new amid the dew
like it knows everything already.
Glimmer over Slippery Ford
and Oldfield
glimmer a thousand dead faces
captured in water
running off the moors
glimmer the dead stigmaria
cut with stone axes
by hefty men
glimmer the blood pools
on the dead
left in the rivers
the glimmering rivers
their houses empty
their songs gone quiet
things happened here
unremembered things
a transfer of power
a change of language
an exchange of ownership
and it all glimmers
across the heather
when the night shines
the same old shine
deathlovewarwastejoybirthlove
unending glimmer
flowering new amid the dew
like it knows everything already.
In repl
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
for a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
we trekked and picked until the cans were full,
until the tinkling bottom had been covered
with green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
with thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
that all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
for a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
we trekked and picked until the cans were full,
until the tinkling bottom had been covered
with green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
with thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
that all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
In reply to Juicy Lucy:
Juicy blackberries must go in a tart asap!
Very English and summery, lovely poem Kelly.
Juicy blackberries must go in a tart asap!
Very English and summery, lovely poem Kelly.
In reply to Sandrine:
I'm going there this w/e
(well, beyond Hope really: Castleton)
Y.
(I too might be back in a couple or three hours. I am having a rest from installing a dishwasher. The twin joys of wiring and plumbing)
> (In reply to Sandrine)
>
>
>
> Hope
>
>
>
> Hope
I'm going there this w/e
(well, beyond Hope really: Castleton)
Y.
(I too might be back in a couple or three hours. I am having a rest from installing a dishwasher. The twin joys of wiring and plumbing)
In reply to Sandrine:
did it really quickly and i dont like it much... but hey!
There is a flower in my window
I remember you giving it to me
It’s a lily, my favourite
And made me so happy.
Everytime I looked at the flower
Perfect in every way
Id smile to myself and swear
Id love you forever and a day.
I looked at my flower
When I was alone at night
It told me your love was here
Holding me really tight
I knew while I had it
That you would be here
You would protect me
And chase away my fear
But the days passed
My flower wilted and died
My hope drained away
As love ran to hide
My flower is now black
Dried and fallen apart
You took away all hope
When you broke my heart
> (In reply to Sandrine)
> Hope
did it really quickly and i dont like it much... but hey!
There is a flower in my window
I remember you giving it to me
It’s a lily, my favourite
And made me so happy.
Everytime I looked at the flower
Perfect in every way
Id smile to myself and swear
Id love you forever and a day.
I looked at my flower
When I was alone at night
It told me your love was here
Holding me really tight
I knew while I had it
That you would be here
You would protect me
And chase away my fear
But the days passed
My flower wilted and died
My hope drained away
As love ran to hide
My flower is now black
Dried and fallen apart
You took away all hope
When you broke my heart
hope - again! :oS
What hope is there now
For just a girl like me
I aint anything special
What you get is what you see
Im not the cleverest girl
Im not the funniest
Im not the best singer
And im far from the prettiest
So what hope is there for me
When there are girls out there like that
Im just your average person
And what use is that?
What hope is there now
For just a girl like me
I aint anything special
What you get is what you see
Im not the cleverest girl
Im not the funniest
Im not the best singer
And im far from the prettiest
So what hope is there for me
When there are girls out there like that
Im just your average person
And what use is that?
In reply to mm548:
Hello mm, long time no read! Have you been on hols?
"just your average person", eh? Who can put together a poem and got the first art prize?
I, who don't know you, declare that you are probably very creative, which is not average or anything. In fact, not many people are like that. Be proud of it!
secret
Hello mm, long time no read! Have you been on hols?
"just your average person", eh? Who can put together a poem and got the first art prize?
I, who don't know you, declare that you are probably very creative, which is not average or anything. In fact, not many people are like that. Be proud of it!
secret
In reply to Sandrine:
heya. went away for a week, which was cool, did some sport climbing. other than that just not been online much!
well thanks guess sometimes everyone has times where they feel like everyone else is above them though. and i have felt like that a lot lately, so thought i would fit it into a poem
thanks again!
> (In reply to mm548)
>
> Hello mm, long time no read! Have you been on hols?
>
> Hello mm, long time no read! Have you been on hols?
heya. went away for a week, which was cool, did some sport climbing. other than that just not been online much!
> "just your average person", eh? Who can put together a poem and got the first art prize?
well thanks guess sometimes everyone has times where they feel like everyone else is above them though. and i have felt like that a lot lately, so thought i would fit it into a poem
> I, who don't know you, declare that you are probably very creative, which is not average or anything. In fact, not many people are like that. Be proud of it!
thanks again!
In reply to Sandrine:
Ancient secrets of rain
drip through the heather
run through gravel and peat
laughing quietly into rivers
roaring thunderous ciphers
into the secret gathering
of the sea's embrace,
vast quieter of all secrets.
Secrets whisper along
the mid-Atlantic conveyor,
seeking long-lost ears
to hush themselves in.
Ancient secrets of rain
drip through the heather
run through gravel and peat
laughing quietly into rivers
roaring thunderous ciphers
into the secret gathering
of the sea's embrace,
vast quieter of all secrets.
Secrets whisper along
the mid-Atlantic conveyor,
seeking long-lost ears
to hush themselves in.
In reply to Steve Parker:
Thank you poet Steve, thunder versus quiet, I was not sure whether it was noisy or not in that river?
May I just usher you to the new thread, if you would not mind?
Thank you poet Steve, thunder versus quiet, I was not sure whether it was noisy or not in that river?
May I just usher you to the new thread, if you would not mind?
In reply to mm548:
My bedroom is growing womens’ clothes
And become a cross-dressing boudoir.
Stringy thongs and silky pants
And the occasional uplift bra.
Feminine things now fill the drawers
Where once was only mess.
And my wardrobe now has quite filled out
To nicely fit a dress!
Its good to think our clothes now share
A space, too male, too long.
And I hope that they can stay this close
So that I can try them on!
My bedroom is growing womens’ clothes
And become a cross-dressing boudoir.
Stringy thongs and silky pants
And the occasional uplift bra.
Feminine things now fill the drawers
Where once was only mess.
And my wardrobe now has quite filled out
To nicely fit a dress!
Its good to think our clothes now share
A space, too male, too long.
And I hope that they can stay this close
So that I can try them on!
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