Tag: poem

February chameleon bike

Sunday, 24 February, 2013 0 Comments

“It is all kind of lovely that I know what I attend here now the maturity of snow has settled around forming a sort of time pushing that other over either horizon and all is mine in any colors to be chosen and everything is cold and nothing is totally frozen.” February by Jack Collom

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Rat race run

Sunday, 10 February, 2013 0 Comments

You think: That one’s too clever, she’s dangerous, because I don’t stick around to be slaughtered and you think I’m ugly too despite my fur and pretty teeth and my six nipples and snake tail. Rat Song by Margaret Atwood.

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What is a snail’s fury?

Sunday, 27 January, 2013 0 Comments

Considering the Snail The snail pushes through a green night, for the grass is heavy with water and meets over the bright path he makes, where rain has darkened the earth’s dark. He moves in a wood of desire, pale antlers barely stirring as he hunts. I cannot tell what power is at work, drenched […]

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It powders all the Wood

Sunday, 20 January, 2013 0 Comments

It sifts from Leaden Sieves — It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road — It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain — Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again — It reaches to the Fence — It wraps it Rail by Rail […]

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Noël Coward at Noel

Monday, 24 December, 2012 0 Comments

On this Christmas Eve, let us celebrate with those who look “upon the present with delight” as they await what tomorrow brings, and let us think for a moment of all those who know “the loneliness of night” because of who they no longer have.

Nothing is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

Noël Coward (December 1899 – March 1973)


Auden on a Good Friday

Friday, 6 April, 2012

If there’s ever an award for a poem deemed worthy of Good Friday reflection, among the more deserving winners surely would be the grief-filled Funeral Blues by Wystan Hugh Auden. Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking at a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled […]

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