Come closely to this market stall. Wind thumps
its battered canopy. Its scaffold poles,
rusty to the touch with gritty bumps
of blue cement protruding from their holes,
seem to keep this grey old frame upright,
bolted at the feet between the stone
cobbles of the market square. The bright
summer day has drab things look undone.
Come closer, now. Red peppers on display
roll full bright oval curves of rounding skin
between deep contours. A reflective play
of light upon them shines, concave, a busy spin
of people fussing in a market sky:
Greyframed hearts displayed, passing by.
Patroklos advances
in profile like a K in the battle
thrusting his swordmastering arm
outward, into
the hissing throat
of a poor young soldier:
Another gentle lad of Ilium,
mouthing for mother
with wide sapphire eyes,
a worth of life in the dust of war,
a broken youth whose flower
drops down
shattered
and whose hopeless limbs
die flailing and shuddering
with a bright silver clatter
on black bloodgurgling sand.
And Patroklos
in his cousin's faceless mask
stalks the blooded plain,
chopping down breaths,
thoughts
desires
ambitions
doubts
and gentle pointless fears of little things
whirling on, driven by the whirr of a sword
forced from behind in a
deliberate frenzy, a
western wind.
Behind him, watching him,
Nestor screams out
spittlebearded, old grey
from the benched ships,
at the back of the man
whose gung ho aristeia
blisters history with the folly
of lust for kleos of kleoi:
"Fool! Fool!
Kill them all,
There's no glory, no body,
nobody to call you victor,
Kill less, conquer more!"
Patroklos hears,
Feels the weight of Achilles' breastplate
bows as shadows line the sand
and knows now
It is better then
to fall
for glory
before the enemy's champion
than to king nothing
for another king.
River pulsions lap the landscape kerb
of public ground; geese waddle through in twos,
nodding forth like winged pharoahs. Herb
sweetnesses between bloom pinks, full blues
and dancing reds, envelop two who drift
closely, strangers, man and woman, now
Remarking on their perfume. Sunplays shift
Brilliantly on the river flow.
Man and woman. Standing now. A bee
hovers low above a honey chance.
Sun sapphire, gold and blue. Near, now. A free
rush of water sound. A mirror dance
of glances, pulses, nearness. Now. A kiss,
a river flood, windmagic, scented bliss!
shranamonragh bridgesongs sing ringing shoaljumping salmon splooshing along the owenduff in the black ford river that negotiates the hunting lodge in broadfaced bigchinned liplapping drinking of an erris atlantic that's just a pretty jut crag turnaround
now I make threesixty observation and in that spin I see bog brownrush and fat summer red mosquito winds, midgetoothed ambling low loping six o' clock summer evening posied marsh orangewater and rivulets in the cutaway
and peat boreens
green
overgrown
and bog survey sky
and croagh patrick
left
and yet slievemore ahead
and backrock
sea horizon blue
and shimmer glaze silk otter movement from the muddied rise
Originally posted by Barroom Hero I love the Celtic influences in your poetry. One can tell that the life of the British Isles is an important subject of your poetry.
Well, I live where I live and try to live everywhere else in my words, if it suits the reader.
In the corner of the living room
lived Mrs Diamond's spider. He had great
hairy legs, with muscles. He could zoom
across the floor so fast that he would eat
the first fly that came buzzing through the door
and run smugly to his corner, back again
before you knew a thing. But more and more
the spider, who'd been useful now and then
for keeping that big noisy fly at bay,
that one that hovered near the garden pond,
began to feed on all that passed its way:
the budgie; cat; then Mrs Diamond,
First her legs, and then her head. My fable?
Swat your own flies if you're good and able.
' "He's been our visionary of today
and now he's gone, we've nothing coming up
To follow him. You could say, in a way
He went too far in what he did." Pure crap,
of course. By what this chap is saying,
You'd think he speaks of Mozart or of Bach
or even Hendrix. Maybe it's just my greying
head and deafing eardrums that dictate my lack
of eagerness to clap the latest fellow
to write a song then die before his prime.
Age changes me but I can't say I'm mellow;
I scorn the chap. There's nothing in this time
That hasn't been done many times before.
It's all derivative, and quite a dreadful bore. '
They each handled a slice of his brain, not caring for gloves
or niceties, here. MacKenzie stood under the lamp
turning a piece back and forth. "You know, fellows, one loves
Trying to guess what the chap here was like." "Ah, a bump
on the head sort of person, MacKenzie? Phrenology now?",
quipped O' Farrell, a lump in his palm from the right hemisphere.
"I suppose, yes", MacKenzie agreed. "I feel one can know,
with his swollen propensies, this man was quite mad, or damned near.
For, there was distension; imbalance was likely, and yes,
I would say that the man was a poet, who thought far too much
of himself and his work. With no balance. At least that's my guess:
The temporal lobe feels like sludge, does it not? Ah well, such
is our job that we spend our days cutting up heads with a neat
precision, then wondering what kind of life killed this meat."
I was inspired for this poem by a memory of someone who used to live in my Halls of Residence in college. People would flee and lock their doors when he patrolled the place looking for poetic inspiration from dirty skirting boards and rusty fire extinguishers.
I hope he's well. He's probably a bank manager by now.
He skulks about the hall dressed all in black,
sucking in his cheeks to look more wan,
and clutching at a book, poised to attack
each passer by with treatises on man
and how the heavens all turn filth begrimed
shining dark millennia of vice
when he plods underneath them. In unrhymed
canticles that ramble imprecise
existential vaguenesses, this clown
impersonates Prince Hamlet without skill,
but captures something of the overblown
self interest of tragic heroes. Still,
Prince Hamlet found his laugh with Yorick's skull;
but this man skulks, lifelong, in postures dull.
medicine can't be taught without sum forms donors bodies
lie on slabs while students relieve the tension poking the rubber-like skin with first scalpels and transplant body parts
if ever widely known
few would ever done again
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Inside the open thurible, half crumbled,
a litter of bright dying, orange fire
camps on a beach of ash after a humbled
incense battle blaze of just an hour.
Stained glass light falls on a surplus gown
draped long upon a chair. Sun fades the fine
robes, deep symbol stitched. Left on his own,
an altar boy sneaks down the cruet wine.
ritual is to some
as like forms cotemplate their mating
and so burn a stick
to offset some scent
or regale in the musk of
a woman's being
to those who would aspire
to feast upon her beauty..
suckle the luciousness
taste the love..
taste the love of life's gift which surely must be lust..
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Patroklos advances
in profile like a K in the battle
thrusting his swordmastering arm
outward, into
the hissing throat
of a poor young soldier:
Another gentle lad of Ilium,
mouthing for mother
with wide sapphire eyes,
a worth of life in the dust of war,
a broken youth whose flower
drops down
shattered
and whose hopeless limbs
die flailing and shuddering
with a bright silver clatter
on black bloodgurgling sand.
And Patroklos
in his cousin's faceless mask
stalks the blooded plain,
chopping down breaths,
thoughts
desires
ambitions
doubts
and gentle pointless fears of little things
whirling on, driven by the whirr of a sword
forced from behind in a
deliberate frenzy, a
western wind.
Behind him, watching him,
Nestor screams out
spittlebearded, old grey
from the benched ships,
at the back of the man
whose gung ho aristeia
blisters history with the folly
of lust for kleos of kleoi:
"Fool! Fool!
Kill them all,
There's no glory, no body,
nobody to call you victor,
Kill less, conquer more!"
Patroklos hears,
Feels the weight of Achilles' breastplate
bows as shadows line the sand
and knows now
It is better then
to fall
for glory
before the enemy's champion
than to king nothing
for another king.
Onward to Hektor.
am amazed of yer knowledge in mythology
patroclos and hektor are the symbol of true freindship
amasing writting once more mister FPC...
~~dont mind yer make up, just make up yer mind~~
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
ritual is to some
as like forms cotemplate their mating
and so burn a stick
to offset some scent
or regale in the musk of
a woman's being
to those who would aspire
to feast upon her beauty..
suckle the luciousness
taste the love..
taste the love of life's gift which surely must be lust..
we don't have language to describe it.....we must in that case just imbibe it.....
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
One lunchtime in the playground came the word
that pretty Prima'd dated grey boy John,
the nerdy one; all knew that she'd preferred
Smithy, suave and charming, but he'd gone
to some good school in Scotland. So, the chase
was on between two rivals: Tone, thin, sleek
with shiny teeth and sheeny baby face;
and Gordy, who'd the curse of looking bleak
with those big hangdog jowls of his. They made
a pact to try to win sweet Prima's love;
on good proviso that they each obeyed
this rule: The winner would make sure to move
aside, after a while, and let the other
have their chance of joy with Prima. Tone
said "Gordy, how I love you like a brother!
Of course I promise that this deal is done!"
Tone had winning playground ways. He wore
his school tie loose. At lunch, he played guitar.
He said he'd get the tuck shop bullies: more
and more dear Prima noticed him from far
and she, it was, who came to him one day
when drama class had finished. She said "Tone,
I'm yours forever." That good day in May
the two walked home from school. Standing alone,
Gordy said "Tone said my time would come,
He promised." Gordy wiggled both his thumbs,
harrumphed a bit, and mused while walking home
How Prima would prefer a lad whose sums
were always right in class, when she got older.
But weeks went on, and Tone and Prima still
kept walking hand in hand. Now Gordy, bolder
in his playground stomp roared "I've my fill!",
and rounded up his chums, stood around the yard
behind the bikesheds. Gordy shouted "Tone
promised me a date with Prima!" "Hard
luck!", one shouted back. "Yeah, that chap's one
two faced smiley rotter" said another
"He promised you you'd get your turn with Prima,
Saying how he loved you like a brother.
I've always said that fellow's just a climber."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Tuesday pub nights they meet up for darts,
counting down the 501s. Now, Gordy,
through his pint glass spies those loving hearts
kissing in the corner. When a bawdy
whisper from a mate, on Pri and Tone's
fabled "noisy neighbour" love life hits
his eardrum, Gordy makes these little moans
and growls "I'll win her yet" before he spits.
Old Frank, the college porter ends his shift
at dawn; these summer months he likes to bike
out from the Tudor grounds and greet the lift
of morning mist along the Cam, and hear quick pike
streak shearing slits in water or the tweet
of blackbirds in horse chestnut flowered trees,
trees he sees in pink cone bloom. His feet
push his pedals faster. His old knees
creak, but as he speeds upon the long
river towpath, he feels young, and sings
a snatch from last night's choral evensong.
He rides to Bait's Bite Lock. His fishing things -
His rod, his maggot tin, his sandwiches -
are balanced on his basket as he steers
along through Stourbridge Common, past the Bridges
at the Dragon and Fen Ditton, till he nears
His spot. He leans his bike down on the bank
and sits down on the river kerb, and stares
long upon the dawn red river. Frank
takes out his fishing gear, prepares
his rod and hook, then holds his maggot tin
and opens it. He sees the little pink
curls of thriving life shining within
His silver box. He always likes to think
Just at this moment how these maggots seem
Quite like the bright young things he's had to keep
all night at work. He loves the river gleam
about this time. He stares for pike. There! Deep!
you are the greatest painter of scenery, prof. Fins,
and your words most delightful colours.
it is your poetry that stimulates the nervs in my brain and makes my mind draw beautiful pictures.
thank you for sharing
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by exhale you are the greatest painter of scenery, prof. Fins,
and your words most delightful colours.
it is your poetry that stimulates the nervs in my brain and makes my mind draw beautiful pictures.
Judith Neave ran her right index finger, panning left to right, along the third shelf of blue and grey cloth bound books in the case set in the alcove of the living room. White clouded afternoon light, from the back garden behind her shoulder, streamed through the closed French windows upon her forearm and hand as she played the tops of the books like piano keys. Each book reverberated a different memory. The old secondhand Oxford edition of Wordsworth, blue cloth with browning gilt, brought to mind Jeffrey standing clad only in a towel after a bath, on the landing at the first house they bought in Duke Street, reading aloud Maud in a mock parson's drone as she heard her laugh rebound around the bathroom tiles, she happy to take his water for her own wash. They'd been young students together, married, and had got that house when Jeff had accepted his first teaching post at the new Comprehensive. Ha! Yes, she used to scour the market in town for poetry books for him, she never forgot him. Stacks and stacks, he really did read them all, he devoured them. That was long before they could afford to move here. And then there was that time when she was on maternity leave from the University after Jill was born. She'd take the baby into town and buy old collections of Donne or early English translations of Zola, and surprise him with them when he returned from work in the evening. There they were on the shelves, those memories. And look: That original Faber of Eliot, with Prufrock, which he quoted to her by heart that first holiday together, their honeymoon out by the bright dunes at Southwold, snuggled on a red tartan blanket with rather warm Chardonnay, with the cloud perpetually threatening rain and wind blowing her straw hat down to the sea. Oh, that was a touch of realism in the moment of romance! How did it happen, now? Oh yes! There he was in his cream linen shirt and trousers, all sandy, his eyes closed, whispering, she in her pink dress, her breast sighing. all the time watching his lips, "Do I dare?" Then the wind caught that hat she'd left beside her and it blew it up over their heads right up in the air, spinning it round and down to the sea, with the tide coming in for teatime, showering sprays of foam on the glistening sand ...
Peter and Margaret were the last of the guests to go home. They'd said to Judith if she needed anything, just to call. Jill had been but had now gone to her boyfriend's: She'd said she couldn't take it being here, surrounded by memories, so soon afterwards. Judith was still in the black outfit. It wasn't right to change so soon, was it? The fabric itched a little. She touched an unfamiliar edition of Proust with her fingertips. Then she felt a warm light upon the side of her face. She blinked, turned, and opened the French windows, to let the afternoon sounds of a busy high street resound over her garden wall, through her garden and into the still living room. Flies poured in on the speared cocktail sausages and limp ham sandwiches from the wake, before now untouched on their plates on the table. Judith turned her eyes once again to the strange copy of Proust, "The Remembrance of Things Past", plucked the volume from the shelf and opened it in her palm, the soft dust jacket sensuous against her flesh. Then she saw her husband's name etched in someone else's extravagant hand, a Loop on the J, a flourish on the Y. And just as the sun blinded, she read the dedication.
i sincerely believe that fins is working on a novel,
written in the classic tradition of the english language,
replete with a descriptive passage of his garden,
rest, his fields of vegetables grown wild,
his command and vocabulary of the written word
is indeed impressive, as is his apparent mastery of horticulture..
thank you mr fins for your great prose and metre
your contributions to the "challenge"
your references to mythology
are inspiring me to return
with a mature focus
to read more
write on fins and keep on thinking free..
btw .. you have also inspired me to read, with leisure this time, the great novel by (ms.) george eliot title middlemarch..
when i first read the novel, it was required, therefore i only got the parts i needed (i confess to getting by) to regurge to my prof..
i believe that the modern tv sitcom may owe it's existence to that novel..
thanks again mate and have a pint on me!!
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
I know now those long shadows on the shore
of seaward gulls like arrows on the sand
and on the surf's green shallows came before
my first walk on this shattered ocean band.
I know those shadows fell upon the trail
of my proud fathers as they looked beyond
the racking waters, dreaming of a sail
to free them from the famine of the land.
Now I, with them, will build my ship and go
and leave my shadowed ground once and for all
to pass where sunpulse motions make the flow
of gently rippling guidings to the call
of one beyond the wave, a woman true
and beautiful, a life revealed and new.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots I know now those long shadows on the shore
of seaward gulls like arrows on the sand
and on the surf's green shallows came before
my first walk on this shattered ocean band.
I know those shadows fell upon the trail
of my proud fathers as they looked beyond
the racking waters, dreaming of a sail
to free them from the famine of the land.
Now I, with them, will build my ship and go
and leave my shadowed ground once and for all
to pass where sunpulse motions make the flow
of gently rippling guidings to the call
of one beyond the wave, a woman true
and beautiful, a life revealed and new.
jeez fins.. i'm pasting this one to the challenge.. hope you don't mind.. i promise to write a good one for ophelia, 'neath the window..
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
i walked upon the eastern shore with sand
hot between my toes as the salt filled air
consume my senses, strokes me with her hand
her touch was soft like dream whipped cream tis fair
she sang of love and weather in love's grasp
neither hides amongst rocks along the reef
nor washes to shore in clumps of sea grass
yet must be found for these are my belief -
while love's box is replete - songs of merry days,
the beach is a good walk for remembrance
of love in the past, so much is sweet lust
bring on the surf and the sharp sting of rays
from the jelly fish, whose transluscence
invades my senses, yet, for now, i trust
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Originally posted by olderman i walked upon the eastern shore with sand
hot between my toes as the salt filled air
filled my senses, consumed me with her hand
her touch was soft like dream whipped cream tis fair
she sang of love and weather in love's grasp
neither hides amongst rocks along the reef
nor washes to shore in clumps of sea grass
yet must be found for these are my belief -
while love's box is replete - songs of merry days,
the beach is a good walk for remembrance
of love in the past, so much is sweet lust
bring on the surf and the sharp sting of rays
from the jelly fish, whose transluscence
invades my senses, yet, for now, i trust
A sigh, a little drop of blood, a touch
upon a vase of orchids. Window breath.
An echoed wonder. "Love, you would do much."
A close of blinds. A still. A peace. A death.
the still silent morning,
filtered sunlight in a dusty room,
an apparition of her form,
intimates to be here to bid us a final farewell
the dry wooden floors with madras rugs
are as quiet moments
paint us with sorrow
as the canvas of still life
lives on
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
To kill and be a thing of nothing kinged,
You fought on muddy ground and felt black rain
pummelling your back and on your singed
lightning struck brow. Through a flooded drain
you'd plough a hollowness with sodden claws
of marshland victims scratching at the earth,
blood grey, to force your master's faithless cause:
dead land, his monument to hopeless dearth.
But there has been embayment here, in time.
I've seen what seven miles of orchards yield:
emeraldic olives, trees of lime.
I've piled high sugarcane upon a field.
You killed for nothing, soaking death in grey.
I'll taste an orange, fruited of the bay.
Comments
its battered canopy. Its scaffold poles,
rusty to the touch with gritty bumps
of blue cement protruding from their holes,
seem to keep this grey old frame upright,
bolted at the feet between the stone
cobbles of the market square. The bright
summer day has drab things look undone.
Come closer, now. Red peppers on display
roll full bright oval curves of rounding skin
between deep contours. A reflective play
of light upon them shines, concave, a busy spin
of people fussing in a market sky:
Greyframed hearts displayed, passing by.
in profile like a K in the battle
thrusting his swordmastering arm
outward, into
the hissing throat
of a poor young soldier:
Another gentle lad of Ilium,
mouthing for mother
with wide sapphire eyes,
a worth of life in the dust of war,
a broken youth whose flower
drops down
shattered
and whose hopeless limbs
die flailing and shuddering
with a bright silver clatter
on black bloodgurgling sand.
And Patroklos
in his cousin's faceless mask
stalks the blooded plain,
chopping down breaths,
thoughts
desires
ambitions
doubts
and gentle pointless fears of little things
whirling on, driven by the whirr of a sword
forced from behind in a
deliberate frenzy, a
western wind.
Behind him, watching him,
Nestor screams out
spittlebearded, old grey
from the benched ships,
at the back of the man
whose gung ho aristeia
blisters history with the folly
of lust for kleos of kleoi:
"Fool! Fool!
Kill them all,
There's no glory, no body,
nobody to call you victor,
Kill less, conquer more!"
Patroklos hears,
Feels the weight of Achilles' breastplate
bows as shadows line the sand
and knows now
It is better then
to fall
for glory
before the enemy's champion
than to king nothing
for another king.
Onward to Hektor.
of public ground; geese waddle through in twos,
nodding forth like winged pharoahs. Herb
sweetnesses between bloom pinks, full blues
and dancing reds, envelop two who drift
closely, strangers, man and woman, now
Remarking on their perfume. Sunplays shift
Brilliantly on the river flow.
Man and woman. Standing now. A bee
hovers low above a honey chance.
Sun sapphire, gold and blue. Near, now. A free
rush of water sound. A mirror dance
of glances, pulses, nearness. Now. A kiss,
a river flood, windmagic, scented bliss!
now I make threesixty observation and in that spin I see bog brownrush and fat summer red mosquito winds, midgetoothed ambling low loping six o' clock summer evening posied marsh orangewater and rivulets in the cutaway
and peat boreens
green
overgrown
and bog survey sky
and croagh patrick
left
and yet slievemore ahead
and backrock
sea horizon blue
and shimmer glaze silk otter movement from the muddied rise
to the green
and
the green
to the green, with
ottersong
a new notion
of animal bridgesong
Shhhhh .....
shranamonragh
these are
bridgesongs
shranamonragh bridgesongs
shranamonragh bridgesongs
Well, I live where I live and try to live everywhere else in my words, if it suits the reader.
lived Mrs Diamond's spider. He had great
hairy legs, with muscles. He could zoom
across the floor so fast that he would eat
the first fly that came buzzing through the door
and run smugly to his corner, back again
before you knew a thing. But more and more
the spider, who'd been useful now and then
for keeping that big noisy fly at bay,
that one that hovered near the garden pond,
began to feed on all that passed its way:
the budgie; cat; then Mrs Diamond,
First her legs, and then her head. My fable?
Swat your own flies if you're good and able.
and now he's gone, we've nothing coming up
To follow him. You could say, in a way
He went too far in what he did." Pure crap,
of course. By what this chap is saying,
You'd think he speaks of Mozart or of Bach
or even Hendrix. Maybe it's just my greying
head and deafing eardrums that dictate my lack
of eagerness to clap the latest fellow
to write a song then die before his prime.
Age changes me but I can't say I'm mellow;
I scorn the chap. There's nothing in this time
That hasn't been done many times before.
It's all derivative, and quite a dreadful bore. '
or niceties, here. MacKenzie stood under the lamp
turning a piece back and forth. "You know, fellows, one loves
Trying to guess what the chap here was like." "Ah, a bump
on the head sort of person, MacKenzie? Phrenology now?",
quipped O' Farrell, a lump in his palm from the right hemisphere.
"I suppose, yes", MacKenzie agreed. "I feel one can know,
with his swollen propensies, this man was quite mad, or damned near.
For, there was distension; imbalance was likely, and yes,
I would say that the man was a poet, who thought far too much
of himself and his work. With no balance. At least that's my guess:
The temporal lobe feels like sludge, does it not? Ah well, such
is our job that we spend our days cutting up heads with a neat
precision, then wondering what kind of life killed this meat."
I hope he's well. He's probably a bank manager by now.
He skulks about the hall dressed all in black,
sucking in his cheeks to look more wan,
and clutching at a book, poised to attack
each passer by with treatises on man
and how the heavens all turn filth begrimed
shining dark millennia of vice
when he plods underneath them. In unrhymed
canticles that ramble imprecise
existential vaguenesses, this clown
impersonates Prince Hamlet without skill,
but captures something of the overblown
self interest of tragic heroes. Still,
Prince Hamlet found his laugh with Yorick's skull;
but this man skulks, lifelong, in postures dull.
lie on slabs while students relieve the tension poking the rubber-like skin with first scalpels and transplant body parts
if ever widely known
few would ever done again
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Excellent , Excellent, Fins and olderman, thank you!
(Angelina Jolie)
a litter of bright dying, orange fire
camps on a beach of ash after a humbled
incense battle blaze of just an hour.
Stained glass light falls on a surplus gown
draped long upon a chair. Sun fades the fine
robes, deep symbol stitched. Left on his own,
an altar boy sneaks down the cruet wine.
as like forms cotemplate their mating
and so burn a stick
to offset some scent
or regale in the musk of
a woman's being
to those who would aspire
to feast upon her beauty..
suckle the luciousness
taste the love..
taste the love of life's gift which surely must be lust..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
am amazed of yer knowledge in mythology
patroclos and hektor are the symbol of true freindship
amasing writting once more mister FPC...
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
we don't have language to describe it.....we must in that case just imbibe it.....
that pretty Prima'd dated grey boy John,
the nerdy one; all knew that she'd preferred
Smithy, suave and charming, but he'd gone
to some good school in Scotland. So, the chase
was on between two rivals: Tone, thin, sleek
with shiny teeth and sheeny baby face;
and Gordy, who'd the curse of looking bleak
with those big hangdog jowls of his. They made
a pact to try to win sweet Prima's love;
on good proviso that they each obeyed
this rule: The winner would make sure to move
aside, after a while, and let the other
have their chance of joy with Prima. Tone
said "Gordy, how I love you like a brother!
Of course I promise that this deal is done!"
Tone had winning playground ways. He wore
his school tie loose. At lunch, he played guitar.
He said he'd get the tuck shop bullies: more
and more dear Prima noticed him from far
and she, it was, who came to him one day
when drama class had finished. She said "Tone,
I'm yours forever." That good day in May
the two walked home from school. Standing alone,
Gordy said "Tone said my time would come,
He promised." Gordy wiggled both his thumbs,
harrumphed a bit, and mused while walking home
How Prima would prefer a lad whose sums
were always right in class, when she got older.
But weeks went on, and Tone and Prima still
kept walking hand in hand. Now Gordy, bolder
in his playground stomp roared "I've my fill!",
and rounded up his chums, stood around the yard
behind the bikesheds. Gordy shouted "Tone
promised me a date with Prima!" "Hard
luck!", one shouted back. "Yeah, that chap's one
two faced smiley rotter" said another
"He promised you you'd get your turn with Prima,
Saying how he loved you like a brother.
I've always said that fellow's just a climber."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
On Tuesday pub nights they meet up for darts,
counting down the 501s. Now, Gordy,
through his pint glass spies those loving hearts
kissing in the corner. When a bawdy
whisper from a mate, on Pri and Tone's
fabled "noisy neighbour" love life hits
his eardrum, Gordy makes these little moans
and growls "I'll win her yet" before he spits.
at dawn; these summer months he likes to bike
out from the Tudor grounds and greet the lift
of morning mist along the Cam, and hear quick pike
streak shearing slits in water or the tweet
of blackbirds in horse chestnut flowered trees,
trees he sees in pink cone bloom. His feet
push his pedals faster. His old knees
creak, but as he speeds upon the long
river towpath, he feels young, and sings
a snatch from last night's choral evensong.
He rides to Bait's Bite Lock. His fishing things -
His rod, his maggot tin, his sandwiches -
are balanced on his basket as he steers
along through Stourbridge Common, past the Bridges
at the Dragon and Fen Ditton, till he nears
His spot. He leans his bike down on the bank
and sits down on the river kerb, and stares
long upon the dawn red river. Frank
takes out his fishing gear, prepares
his rod and hook, then holds his maggot tin
and opens it. He sees the little pink
curls of thriving life shining within
His silver box. He always likes to think
Just at this moment how these maggots seem
Quite like the bright young things he's had to keep
all night at work. He loves the river gleam
about this time. He stares for pike. There! Deep!
and your words most delightful colours.
it is your poetry that stimulates the nervs in my brain and makes my mind draw beautiful pictures.
thank you for sharing
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Thank you so very much.
Peter and Margaret were the last of the guests to go home. They'd said to Judith if she needed anything, just to call. Jill had been but had now gone to her boyfriend's: She'd said she couldn't take it being here, surrounded by memories, so soon afterwards. Judith was still in the black outfit. It wasn't right to change so soon, was it? The fabric itched a little. She touched an unfamiliar edition of Proust with her fingertips. Then she felt a warm light upon the side of her face. She blinked, turned, and opened the French windows, to let the afternoon sounds of a busy high street resound over her garden wall, through her garden and into the still living room. Flies poured in on the speared cocktail sausages and limp ham sandwiches from the wake, before now untouched on their plates on the table. Judith turned her eyes once again to the strange copy of Proust, "The Remembrance of Things Past", plucked the volume from the shelf and opened it in her palm, the soft dust jacket sensuous against her flesh. Then she saw her husband's name etched in someone else's extravagant hand, a Loop on the J, a flourish on the Y. And just as the sun blinded, she read the dedication.
written in the classic tradition of the english language,
replete with a descriptive passage of his garden,
rest, his fields of vegetables grown wild,
his command and vocabulary of the written word
is indeed impressive, as is his apparent mastery of horticulture..
thank you mr fins for your great prose and metre
your contributions to the "challenge"
your references to mythology
are inspiring me to return
with a mature focus
to read more
write on fins and keep on thinking free..
btw .. you have also inspired me to read, with leisure this time, the great novel by (ms.) george eliot title middlemarch..
when i first read the novel, it was required, therefore i only got the parts i needed (i confess to getting by) to regurge to my prof..
i believe that the modern tv sitcom may owe it's existence to that novel..
thanks again mate and have a pint on me!!
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
of seaward gulls like arrows on the sand
and on the surf's green shallows came before
my first walk on this shattered ocean band.
I know those shadows fell upon the trail
of my proud fathers as they looked beyond
the racking waters, dreaming of a sail
to free them from the famine of the land.
Now I, with them, will build my ship and go
and leave my shadowed ground once and for all
to pass where sunpulse motions make the flow
of gently rippling guidings to the call
of one beyond the wave, a woman true
and beautiful, a life revealed and new.
jeez fins.. i'm pasting this one to the challenge.. hope you don't mind.. i promise to write a good one for ophelia, 'neath the window..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
hot between my toes as the salt filled air
consume my senses, strokes me with her hand
her touch was soft like dream whipped cream tis fair
she sang of love and weather in love's grasp
neither hides amongst rocks along the reef
nor washes to shore in clumps of sea grass
yet must be found for these are my belief -
while love's box is replete - songs of merry days,
the beach is a good walk for remembrance
of love in the past, so much is sweet lust
bring on the surf and the sharp sting of rays
from the jelly fish, whose transluscence
invades my senses, yet, for now, i trust
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Thank you!
upon a vase of orchids. Window breath.
An echoed wonder. "Love, you would do much."
A close of blinds. A still. A peace. A death.
filtered sunlight in a dusty room,
an apparition of her form,
intimates to be here to bid us a final farewell
the dry wooden floors with madras rugs
are as quiet moments
paint us with sorrow
as the canvas of still life
lives on
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
You fought on muddy ground and felt black rain
pummelling your back and on your singed
lightning struck brow. Through a flooded drain
you'd plough a hollowness with sodden claws
of marshland victims scratching at the earth,
blood grey, to force your master's faithless cause:
dead land, his monument to hopeless dearth.
But there has been embayment here, in time.
I've seen what seven miles of orchards yield:
emeraldic olives, trees of lime.
I've piled high sugarcane upon a field.
You killed for nothing, soaking death in grey.
I'll taste an orange, fruited of the bay.