Cyril Haearn wrote:Skimbleshanks the Station Cat by T S Eliot is quite good Not sure what a cat is doing on the railway, mind
Railway cats are all very potent supplementing their diet with a fat juicy rodent Aways on duty with full dedication For the thrill of the hunt, and some daily admiration.
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
It's the same the whole world over
It's the poor what gets the blame
It's the rich what gets the pleasure
Isn't it a blooming shame?
I like poems, Larkin, R S Thomas, Housman, Lisel Mueller, Ogden Nash, Wordsworth even.. Got a book token so I went to the big bookstore in town to browse the poetry department It was tiny
Is poetry on the way out? I blame English Literature teachers, they try to force it on unwilling children
Entertainer, juvenile, curmudgeon, PoB, 30120 Cycling-of course, but it is far better on a Gillott We love safety cameras, we hate bullies
The trees have took to rustling in an increasing wind, An extra layer of clothing, Red berries in abundance, Leaves begin their colour change, Swifts and Swallows now departed.
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"All we are not stares back at what we are"
W H Auden
In the rear view mirror a black spectre like figure. Young 'n fast,carbon fibre,minimum spoker, looking lean 'n mean,an' gettin' closer. Then nobbut a sideways glance an' a "Hiya!" "fast young b*gger" I hear myself utter
Try to catch the wheel but it's useless trying, in half a mile my legs are crying. "Fit young b*gger" again I utter, as I'm dropped,an' left like litter in the gutter.
So I drop the pace as my heart beats faster, and hear myself mutter, "I was fast like that once yer fast young tw*tter!"
PS,this verse must be read lightheartedly
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"All we are not stares back at what we are"
W H Auden
Use different words to say the same, always the same Use the same words again and again to say something quite different, or to say the same in quite a different way Leave much unsaid, or say a lot with ineloquent words Or say much by keeping silent
Hans Magnus Enzensberger, trans bp
Entertainer, juvenile, curmudgeon, PoB, 30120 Cycling-of course, but it is far better on a Gillott We love safety cameras, we hate bullies
Cyril Haearn wrote:Skimbleshanks the Station Cat by T S Eliot is quite good Not sure what a cat is doing on the railway, mind
Railway cats are all very potent supplementing their diet with a fat juicy rodent Aways on duty with full dedication For the thrill of the hunt, and some daily admiration.
In Huddersfield, of course Plus One for blurring the line between reality and phantasy
Entertainer, juvenile, curmudgeon, PoB, 30120 Cycling-of course, but it is far better on a Gillott We love safety cameras, we hate bullies
Frigid air and freezing frost With tearful eyes from tearing blast On cunning road where shiny shields Of incognito ice alurk Awaiting wobbled gumshoe tyre Conspiring with the furtive ditch All muddy deep and seeping cold Beneath a bubbled glassy lid.
We pass them by My bike and I.
A beaky buzzard in a field All pouncing feet and tearing points, Some sleepy darting winter beast Provides a life to make a lunch; A spurt of warmth to nourish flight With greedy avid eyes abeam Above a frozen furrowed field Waiting for another life To husband life through gripping cold Till blood-filled Spring comes back again.
We pass them by My bike and I.
A standing barn with hay-bale walls, Quiet horses dark within, Hairy cattle on a lea, Standing stolid, steaming breath; A frozen lake, a runner there Plodding dogged miles from home; Shredded cloud on dark-blue sky Shadowed sun and silver glare - Promises of snow tonight; A tractor-throbbing farmyard full With heaping dung and cobbled mud And smell of cider vinegar.
We pass them by My bike and I.
A battlefield, a sullen slope, Memorials, and marble steles, Pompous carvings, dead and cold Dotted here and dotted there. Long ago the Prussian charged, Long ago the hussar fell, Long ago they ploughed and sowed, Left their brains and steel behind And flailing horses foundering. If you climb up to the right And stand upon that polished step The valley view is wonderful.
But we pass by My bike and I.
A cresting hill, a swooping dive, Cheekbones peeled with freezing wind Ear-tips hurting blue-chip ice Lungs all razorblades of air. Pavements now, and passers-by Never glance, it's just a bike, Cross the road, dear, never mind. Sway and swerve and pass behind: Do they feel the rush of air - Think of crash and shattered bone - Weeks or years of awkward pain?
We pass them by My bike and I.
Home ahead and final drive, Energy to waste on fun, Gaping throat and hammered heart, Tarmac hiss and whirling feet, Plunging through a sudden dip, Up and out, a long black curve, Push and push, no need to stint. Now, a hundred feet to go, Straighten up and catch the wind Squeeze the brake, bleed off the speed, Pop a foot out of the clip, Trail it down to meet the road Time its fall till speed is gone, Feel the warmth of air at rest, Stop the counter, count the miles. Just beyond the garden gate The dog is carolling: "He's home!"
