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Poem on your mind

A platform to express and share your enthusiasm and passion for poetry. What are your treasured poems and poets? Don't hesitate to showcase the poems you've penned yourself!
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Penelope

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Re: Poem on your mind

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giselle said:

but we don't share a taste for Gin. The closest I will get to Gin is a nice dry Martini ... a vodka Martini that is !! :)
Well, that leaves more gin for me! Hurrah!!

Having said that......After forty odd years of cooking a turkey for christmas dinner, using many and various methods, to good effect, this year, with fourteen to feed, I managed to incinerate it!! It was dark brown when it came out of the oven, and after we had carved it, it looked as though it had exploded. No carcass for soup (which is my favourite part of having a turkey) boo hoo!! They all ate it though and pronouced it good. There was very little left of anything, except cheese and biscuits, because they said they were all too gorged. And four people said it was the most fun Christmas Dinner they had ever attended. I thought it was fun too......but that might have been the gin..... :lol:
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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Penelope

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This is the one my Mum and I used to contemplate on New Year's Eve...posting it early...so you might enjoy:-

I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.'

And he replied,
'Go into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way!'

So I went forth and finding the Hand of God
Trod gladly into the night
He led me towards the hills
And the breaking of day in the lone east.

So heart be still!
What need our human life to know
If God hath comprehension?

In all the dizzy strife of things
Both high and low,
God hideth his intention."



by Minnie Louise Harkins 1875-1957
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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giselle

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All day snow fell
Snow fell all night
My silent lintel
Silted white
Inside a Creature -
Feathered - Bright -
With snowy Feature
Eyes of Light
Propounds - Delight.

Christabel LaMotte
from Possession, A.S. Byatt
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realiz

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Re: Poem on your mind

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giselle wrote:All day snow fell
Snow fell all night
My silent lintel
Silted white
Inside a Creature -
Feathered - Bright -
With snowy Feature
Eyes of Light
Propounds - Delight.

Christabel LaMotte
from Possession, A.S. Byatt

A snow queen.
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Penelope

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Re: Poem on your mind

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Is it called aliteration?

Well - it should be. Lovely, Lovely snow poem, thankyou giselle.

I've got some fluey virus - not feeling top-hole, but I am being treated very kindly. :cry:
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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giselle

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Indeed. A snow queen, I can see that. Guess I was thinking of something less imaginative .. a ptarmigan, beautiful white bird that nestles in the snow and is virtually invisible unless you disturb it and suddenly the snow transforms into feathers and wings. I think the poem also captures quite well the Christabel LaMotte character at this point in her life as described in Byatt's book.

Loss Creek

He went there to have it
exact. The broken prose of the bush roads.
The piles of half-burnt slash. Stumps
high on the valley wall like sconces
on a medieval ruin. To have it tangible.
To carry it as a load rather than as mood
or mist. To heft it - earth measure,
rock measure - and feel it raw drag without phrase
for the voice or handle for the hand.
He went there to hear the rapids curl around
the big basaltic boulders saying
husserl husserl, saying I'll
do the crying for you, licking the schists
into skippable discs. That uninhabited laughter
sluicing the methodically shorn valley.
He went there to finger the strike/slip
fissure between rock and stone between Vivaldi's
waterfall and the wavering note a varied thrush
sets on a shelf of air. Recognizing the sweet
perils rushing in the creek crawling
through the rock.
He knew he should not trust such
pauseless syntax.
That he should just say no.
But he went there just the same.

Don McKay
2007 Griffin Poetry Prize Anthology

Some interpretation of McKay's poetry quoted from the Anthology:

In Strike/Slip, Don McKay walks us out to the uncertain ground between the known and the unknown, between the names we have given things and things as they are. This is wonder's territory, and from within it, McKay considers a time "before mind and math"; before rock, in human hands, turned over in the mind, becomes stone. The poems confront the strangeness and inadequacy of using language to address the point at which language fails ---

(Strike/Slip is a collection of poems by Don McKay)
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Re: Poem on your mind

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Penny, I hope you are feeling better soon.

This Don McKay poem gives a lot to ponder on.
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Re: Poem on your mind

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Life… be thankful for it


Love your life because you are living it,
It doesn’t matter what others think about it.

Love you friends because they are always around to help you,
What would have happened to your life if they weren't with you?

Love your family because they care for you,

Can you think of your future without a family
living near by to help you?

Life is just a story that is being recited by god,
So whatever is happening is happening according to god.

Be thankful for the god, who made all these
people available to help you,

Because without these people around,
our lives would have been doomed.
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Penelope

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thankyou andrew angusa: You are fortunate in your family.

If I feel a certain lack, perhaps this is why this poem, though beautiful, makes me cry.





A few days after moving in he stuffed
the money into the roof of the doll's house
and kept practising his new voice.
He was only a few feet short of his own
vanishing point. He moved around late at night.
She heard him. She couldn't pin him down.
He sang about the pain in his heart.
He told her he was playing tennis,
extending his serve in the basement gym
15 storeys below their bedroom.
One night he didn't come back.
Her sister was visiting. She was knee-deep
in homework and adultery and when
she saw the doll's house she thought
of her childhood and burst into tears.
The doll's house was their father's obsession,
modelled on the family home.
They pulled it into the centre of room.
It was heavier and bigger than they remembered,
like their childhood. 'D'you think
it's haunted?' They laughed breathlessly,
as if that's where he'd been hiding all these years.
All the furniture in the rooms had fallen over,
their fingers feeling through tiny windows,
trying to make every little thing right again.

• From The Rapture, published by Salt (£9.99). To order a copy for £9.99 with free UK p&p go to the Guardian Bookshop
Only those become weary of angling who bring nothing to it but the idea of catching fish.

He was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad....

Rafael Sabatini
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giselle

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I identified with this poem because of my days as a 'paperboy', back when we were called that, although I had an afternoon route so I only had to do one morning a week but I liked the mornings, well, sometimes --- I like the way the newsagents action, 'his little sacrifice', flows out into the world:

The Newsagent

My clock has gone although the sun has yet to take the sky.
I thought I was the first to see the snow, but his old eyes
have marked it all before I catch him in his column of light:
a rolled up metal shutter-blind, a paper bale held tight

between his knees so he can bring his blade up through the twine,
and through his little sacrifice he frees the day's headlines:
its strikes and wars, the weather's big seize up, runs on the pound.
One final star still burns above my head without a sound

as I set off. The dark country I grew up in is gone.
Ten thousand unseen dawns will settle softly on this one.
But with streets all hushed I take my papers on my round
into the gathering blue, wearing my luminous armband.

Paul Farley
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