Ophelia's Nun

FinsburyParkCarrots

Bee Eee girl, you're gonna fly
on a honey glade green in the blue of July
With the buzz of a happy heart loving like new
And the gleams of the river a-sparkle for you

Bee Eee girl
You're our girl
Bee Eee girl
You're our girl

FinsburyParkCarrots

Hired bikes careen down King's Parade
in eights and nines; and parties block the path
to pose for photos. When I try to wade
through this, I walk ellipses. I hear Plath
and Marlowe mentioned by one group. I hear
a reference to Ventris. Tourist guides
and chauffeur punts approach and wave me near,
But I've grown up with Cambridge river rides.

I've grown up with Cambridge river rides,
that's true, but what I share with those who come
from elsewhere is how this old city glides
above our hearts, not touching, never home.
We walk along pretend peripheries,
Negotiating faceless histories.

FinsburyParkCarrots

A: There comes a time when breath feels like your own,
though once, you had to fight to take it down;
There comes a time to say that you have grown
full out of snarl of lip and brow in frown;
There comes a time when all your thought and mood
wants sound that's soft: a wind that sings in grass;
There comes a time, no more to stoop and brood.
There comes a time to let the bad years pass.

B: There is a neverending and a gasp
you hope's the last, but still you carry on
waiting for the rattle and the rasp
of death. I need the glare of desert sun
upon my broken flesh, where vicious flies
gorge. 'There comes a time?'. No, That's just lies.

FinsburyParkCarrots

This is a song lyric of mine from some years back. The narrator could be one of many people I've met in my lifetime:



Would you like to steal a self for yourself so you could feel real?
There's not enough daylight; I may as well sleep;
You can take what you like, I don't mind. Steal me.
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by: see me fly.

I could be that window; I'll be any light that you keep in your room.
I know I'm dead now; I may as well live;
Waterfall in the sun, there's no mind. Still me?
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by: see me fly.

Whose is this body? Nothing that made me can show who I am.
You've my brains in your body; I might as well copy
All that you say so I know it's my mind: Do you love me?

Ninnygo nannygo nancing by,
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by,
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by,
Ninnygo nannygo nancing by.

FinsburyParkCarrots

His thick white hair, an old king's, will be mine one day,
as will the long head,
the whiskers brushed with a comb,
or the cataracted eyes
that saw the important corners of others' stealth.

Grandad sat on his wooden chair
under the back window,
beside the open stove.

He had a 'thirties box wireless on top of the press
next to him,
and used his finger sense to work the dials
to find the News.
I saw him use a hanky on his face,
shaking his head to news of another Nothern bombing.

When he died his coffin was six foot six
and the Boys wanted to come down from Antrim
and fire shots over him, their hero.
They were turned away
at the dying wish of an old man
cataracted by decades of seeing too much.

Grandad told me, his Little Patriot
that the art of a true guerrilla
was to save the sight best
that will see around the corners
always

maybe into a peace.

jboelhow

Great Stuff,
I am slowly getting through all these poems, FinsburyParkCarrots. Your words create wonderful images in the mind and the heart....

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by jboelhow
Great Stuff,
I am slowly getting through all these poems, FinsburyParkCarrots. Your words create wonderful images in the mind and the heart....

Thank you very much.

exhale

I turned this morning to this thread,
To inhale the words, to walk few steps
Down the line of the magnificent expressions,
This is a hard day, I need some inspiration.

In an hour, maybe two,
They´ll invite me in and say: ´We don´t know you
yet. Please, introduce yourself.´
I am scared, and I need help...

FinsburyParkCarrots

Never regret posting your poetry. Good luck in all your exams this week.

FinsburyParkCarrots

John, sitting in the lecture theatre with a shuffling, coughing class, thought it best to be patient. The lecturer was sidetracked near the end of the hour on The Waste Land, going on about the Osiris myth and Frazer's Golden Bough, at one point bringing in her own botanical observations and even recommending listening to Gardeners' Question Time on Radio Four. Well, in fairness to her, he mused, she had given some useful pointers to essays on the modern metropolis earlier. Yes, we must learn the diligence of monks in this academic world. John angled his open folder up, that had been covering his lap, towards him and saw handwriting, not his, on his page.

The pub after this?

He turned to his right and Nicola, sitting beside him and whose name he knew by the name tag on her breast, was looking deeply upon his lips, her bright blue eyes like globes of luscious sky. He noted the curl of her golden hair on her freckled cheek, the hint of a black silky brastrap on her sunbrowned shoulder under her top, and the soft deliberate stroke of her fingertips, along her khaki pants. Her light breath on his cheek sang low, Kiss these full quivering lips, now. His eyes focused on the lips, suddenly the centre of a delicious universe to be explored, enjoyed, tasted and indulged in protracted breathless headspinning starlight ecstacy. They mouthed, Kiss me, kiss me, and he was knowing he was moving, deeper, deeper, deeper into an exquisite dreampool honey dance of electric Nicola-ness, and he closed his eyes and, in that first pulsing shiver of lips seeking lips and desires plunging into oceans of response and touch and oneness of moment, a thunderclap roared upon the glass dome of the lecture hall, that desert of bookish knowledge, and discovering the sudden loveliness of love's surprise in the cloisters of learning, new and lively roots grew again in summer rain, without any help from Gardeners' Question Time.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Cloudflock, rainwinged,
preys upon a drenched head,
white, beaten, bowing

eyeless to the grass.
The black Dover sky beats down
babefed cormorants,

bloodmouthing thunder
flashes, over blind Gloucester
praying to bad gods.

The old man drops down
the imagined cliff fall,
cloudbirds screaming spoil;

Waking to flat land,
into tragedy's comfort,
sunny meadowed.

FinsburyParkCarrots

I see the down upon your arm,
and taste the gem of glycerin.
I feel your body rising, warm:
I move within.

I sense the rise of breath that moves
each skying wave azureward now
beyond the oldest joys and loves:
O deepest flow!

FinsburyParkCarrots

"Hey Junior, I've made these wings, resistant to the sun",
Cried Dedalus, who ran in rings, with all his hard work done.
"Hey Junior! Come try these on; I'll make you a propeller!",
The artificer bellowed: an enthusiastic fella.

"Ahh man, who wants those wings to fly? Get with the moment, dude!
You get up in those things and die, their structure's way too crude,
And you'll be flapping, dead, locked in the harness of the wind,
When you could be space-zapping, without gadgets of that kind."

Dedalus knelt down upon the ground, his head in hand.
"Oh, so's the way I've found, that you will never understand,
Your wingless claims to king the air can never come to pass
Because you don't go anywhere; you sit upon your arse."

anOmis

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
"Hey Junior, I've made these wings, resistant to the sun",
Cried Dedalus, who ran in rings, with all his hard work done.
"Hey Junior! Come try these on; I'll make you a propeller!",
The artificer bellowed: an enthusiastic fella.

"Ahh man, who wants those wings to fly? Get with the moment, dude!
You get up in those things and die, their structure's way too crude,
And you'll be flapping, dead, locked in the harness of the wind,
When you could be space-zapping, without gadgets of that kind."

Dedalus knelt down upon the ground, his head in hand.
"Oh, so's the way I've found, that you will never understand,
Your wingless claims to king the air can never come to pass
Because you don't go anywhere; you sit upon your arse."

thats brilliant FPC.

amasing writting..love poems inpisred of mytholohy!
love chasing the sun

DopeBeastie

Twas all the case for Icarus
His father bode him not to trust
The structure of a wing in wax
nor his own adolescent lust.

And still, he donned this fabrication
come to trust as he did fly
toward an ever-bright horizon
toward the stars beyond the sky.

Every Maiden fan does know
the edging of this story’s haze
Icarus’ wings turned to ashes
The lack of which to him his grave

What’s often left but yet unmentioned
Daedelus’ instruction biding
“Icarus, don’t fly too low, Son
lest ye be washed up in the tiding.”

And so the fabled fables blow
all the smoke up all the asses
quite cliched and unamazing
FLIGHT is oft slow like Molasses.


“Slow down, you move too fast, You got to make the morning last, just, skipping down the cobble stones… doo-n-de-doo and Feeling Groovy”

FinsburyParkCarrots

The point is that we keep trying to fly by improving our means of transportation.

No, I'm not an Iron Maiden fan.

DopeBeastie

the point is
is that we do what we can
what suits us
each
personally
that we seek to fly
in the vehicle of our own choosing
and deal with whatever turbulence we might make along the way
and learn
and change
if we're uncomfortable
and if not
then why would we?

FinsburyParkCarrots

Originally posted by PastaNazi
the point is
is that we do what we can
what suits us
each
personally
that we seek to fly
in the vehicle of our own choosing
and deal with whatever turbulence we might make along the way
and learn
and change
if we're uncomfortable
and if not
then why would we?

Indeed. My poem's about a person who thinks they can fly without trying to get up off their chair.

FinsburyParkCarrots

But I'll let cassia have the last word here. She emails me and says,

Better kingless on his ass
than kissing the ground
in a pool of melted wax.

:-)

Dat cass.

exhale

are these words from Pasta I can read here?