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Ian H
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Posted: Fri Nov 02, 2012 12:52 pm |
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Joined: Wed Jun 09, 2010 10:24 pm Posts: 296 Location: Scotland
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Not about a cat, but one from a dog's point of view.
Ian
The Revenant - Billy Collins I am the dog you put to sleep, as you like to call the needle of oblivion, come back to tell you this simple thing: I never liked you--not one bit.
When I licked your face, I thought of biting off your nose. When I watched you toweling yourself dry, I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.
I resented the way you moved, your lack of animal grace, the way you would sit in a chair to eat, a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.
I would have run away, but I was too weak, a trick you taught me while I was learning to sit and heel, and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.
I admit the sight of the leash would excite me but only because it meant I was about to smell things you had never touched.
You do not want to believe this, but I have no reason to lie. I hated the car, the rubber toys, disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.
The jingling of my tags drove me mad. You always scratched me in the wrong place. All I ever wanted from you was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.
While you slept, I watched you breathe as the moon rose in the sky. It took all of my strength not to raise my head and howl.
Now I am free of the collar, the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater, the absurdity of your lawn, and that is all you need to know about this place
except what you already supposed and are glad it did not happen sooner--
that everyone here can read and write, the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.
_________________ Ian Hunter http://www.ian-hunter.co.ukEditor/Publisher of Unspoken Water http://www.ian-hunter.co.uk/unspoken-waterPoetry Editor of the BFS Journal Director of Read Raw Ltd http://www.readraw.co.uk
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Fri Nov 02, 2012 9:05 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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A secretly rebellious dog, slave to slave master, silently resentful! But I take exception to 'cats in prose'. 
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Ray
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Posted: Mon Nov 05, 2012 1:42 pm |
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Joined: Wed May 14, 2008 2:06 pm Posts: 1041 Location: Portsmouth
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I love it! I'm teaching Collins to my class at the moment and that'll go down a treat.
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Tony
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Posted: Tue Nov 06, 2012 9:06 am |
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Joined: Mon Mar 05, 2007 2:13 pm Posts: 868 Location: The Village
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Ian H
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Posted: Wed Nov 07, 2012 12:39 pm |
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Joined: Wed Jun 09, 2010 10:24 pm Posts: 296 Location: Scotland
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Ray
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Posted: Thu Nov 08, 2012 12:13 pm |
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Joined: Wed May 14, 2008 2:06 pm Posts: 1041 Location: Portsmouth
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I do like his stuff, and it's particularly good to hear the poet reading it.
I love this one:
Wolf
A wolf is reading a book of fairy tales. The moon hangs over the forest, a lamp.
He is not assuming a human position, say, cross-legged against a tree, as he would in a cartoon.
This is a real wolf, standing on all fours, his rich fur bristling in the night air, his head bent over the book on the ground.
He does not sit down for the words would be too far away to be legible, and it is with difficulty that he turns each page with his nose and forepaws.
When he finishes the last tale he lies down in pine needles. He thinks about what he has read, the stories passing over his mind like the clouds crossing the moon.
A zigzag of wind shakes down hazelnuts. The eyes of owls yellow in the branches.
The wolf now paces restlessly in circles around the book until he is absorbed by the power of its narration, making him one of its illustrations, a small paper wolf, flat as print.
Later that night, lost in a town of pigs, he knocks over houses with his breath.
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Fri Nov 09, 2012 9:10 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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I haven't seen that one before - excellent!
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Sun Nov 25, 2012 6:18 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Mon Dec 24, 2012 9:07 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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Church Going
Philip Larkin -
Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside, letting the door thud shut. Another church: matting, seats, and stone, And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff Up at the holy end; the small neat organ; And a tense, musty, unignorable silence, Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.
Move forward, run my hand around the font. From where I stand, the roof looks almost new - Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't. Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce 'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant. The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence, Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do, And always end much at a loss like this, Wondering what to look for; wondering, too, When churches will fall completely out of use What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep A few cathedrals chronically on show, Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases, And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep. Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come To make their children touch a particular stone; Pick simples for a cancer; or on some Advised night see walking a dead one? Power of some sort will go on In games, in riddles, seemingly at random; But superstition, like belief, must die, And what remains when disbelief has gone? Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognisable each week, A purpose more obscure. I wonder who Will be the last, the very last, to seek This place for what it was; one of the crew That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were? Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique, Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh? Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt So long and equably what since is found Only in separation - marriage, and birth, And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built This special shell? For, though I've no idea What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth, It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is, In whose blent air all our compulsions meet, Are recognized, and robed as destinies. And that much never can be obsolete, Since someone will forever be surprising A hunger in himself to be more serious, And gravitating with it to this ground, Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in, If only that so many dead lie round.
Merry Christmas everyone! x
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Wed Dec 26, 2012 5:26 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Mon Dec 31, 2012 10:21 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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The Passing of the Year by Robert W. Service
My glass is filled, my pipe is lit, My den is all a cosy glow; And snug before the fire I sit, And wait to feel the old year go. I dedicate to solemn thought Amid my too-unthinking days, This sober moment, sadly fraught With much of blame, with little praise.
Old Year! upon the Stage of Time You stand to bow your last adieu; A moment, and the prompter's chime Will ring the curtain down on you. Your mien is sad, your step is slow; You falter as a Sage in pain; Yet turn, Old Year, before you go, And face your audience again.
That sphinx-like face, remote, austere, Let us all read, whate'er the cost: O Maiden! why that bitter tear? Is it for dear one you have lost? Is it for fond illusion gone? For trusted lover proved untrue? O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan What hath the Old Year meant to you?
And you, O neighbour on my right So sleek, so prosperously clad! What see you in that aged wight That makes your smile so gay and glad? What opportunity unmissed? What golden gain, what pride of place? What splendid hope? O Optimist! What read you in that withered face?
And You, deep shrinking in the gloom, What find you in that filmy gaze? What menace of a tragic doom? What dark, condemning yesterdays? What urge to crime, what evil done? What cold, confronting shape of fear? O haggard, haunted, hidden One What see you in the dying year?
And so from face to face I flit, The countless eyes that stare and stare; Some are with approbation lit, And some are shadowed with despair. Some show a smile and some a frown; Some joy and hope, some pain and woe: Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down! Old weary year! it's time to go.
My pipe is out, my glass is dry; My fire is almost ashes too; But once again, before you go, And I prepare to meet the New: Old Year! a parting word that's true, For we've been comrades, you and I -- I thank God for each day of you; There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!
And all the best to you all for 2013 Marion x
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Sat Apr 06, 2013 5:28 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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The Saturday poem: Talking to Myself
by Dannie Abse
In the mildew of age all pavements slope uphill
slow slow towards an exit.
It's late and light allows the darkest shadow to be born of it.
Courage, the ventriloquist bird cries (a little god, he is, censor of language)
remember plain Hardy and dandy Yeats in their inspired wise pre-dotage.
I, old man, in my new timidity, think how, profligate, I wasted time
– those yawning postponements on rainy days, those paperhat hours of benign frivolity.
Now Time wastes me and there's hardly time to fuss for more vascular speech.
The aspen tree trembles as I do and there are feathers in the wind.
Quick quick speak, old parrot, do I not feed you with my life?
• From Speak, Old Parrot, published by Hutchinson, RRP £15. To order a copy for £12 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0870 836 0875 or go to guardian.co.uk/bookshop
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Mon Apr 15, 2013 7:16 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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Extract from Little Gidding T. S Eliot
V
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always-- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flames are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Fri Apr 26, 2013 11:19 am |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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A BURNT SHIP.
John Donne
Out of a fired ship, which by no way But drowning could be rescued from the flame, Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay ; So all were lost, which in the ship were found, They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drowned.
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Marion Arnott
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Posted: Sun May 12, 2013 8:42 pm |
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Joined: Tue Mar 06, 2007 12:46 am Posts: 3347
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The Unborn
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads, Like gnats around a streetlight in summer, The children we could have, The glimmer of them.
Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing In some antechamber - servants, half- Listening for the bell.
Sometimes I see them lying like love letters In the Dead Letter Office
And sometimes, like tonight, by some black Second sight I can feel just one of them Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea In the dark, stretching its arms out Desperately to me.
Sharon Olds
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