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Poem for the Day

Posted: 16 January 2014

somehwere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
e. e. cummings

Poem for the Day

Posted: 15 January 2014

I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I've walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn't find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames.
Made a marble phone book and I carved all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I smell something burning, hope it's just my brains.
They're only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

To Whom It May Concern
(Tell Me Lies about Vietnam)
Adrian Mitchell

Poem for the Day

Posted: 14 January 2014

I know not how it may be with others
Who sit amid relics of householdry
That date from the days of their mothers' mothers,
But well I know how it is with me
Continually.

I see the hands of the generations
That owned each shiny familiar thing
In play on its knobs and indentations,
And with its ancient fashioning
Still dallying:

Hands behind hands, growing paler and paler,
As in a mirror a candle-flame
Shows images of itself, each frailer
As it recedes, though the eye may frame
Its shape the same.

On the clock's dull dial a foggy finger,
Moving to set the minutes right
With tentative touches that lift and linger
In the wont of a moth on a summer night,
Creeps to my sight.

On this old viol, too, fingers are dancing -
As whilom - just over the strings by the nut,
The tip of a bow receding, advancing
In airy quivers, as if it would cut
The plaintive gut.

And I see a face by that box for tinder,
Glowing forth in fits from the dark,
And fading again, as the linten cinder
Kindles to red at the flinty spark,
Or goes out stark.

Well, well. It is best to be up and doing,
The world has no use for one to-day
Who eyes things thus--no aim pursuing!
He should not continue in this stay,
But sink away.

Old Furniture
Thomas Hardy

Poem for the Day

Posted: 13 January 2014

When I am an old man I shall not wear beige.
I shall wear faded denim and cowboy boots which are down at heel and need soled.
I shall spend all my money on guitar strings and magazines and beer,
And buy coffee for the old women wearing purple.
I shall still wear a golden earing, like some kind of ancient, gypsy minstrel,
And go out in port and starboard socks like Kate and Anna McGarrigle.
I shall sing the protest songs I learned as a teenager
That demand to know where all the flowers have gone.
And I shall argue in public with traffic wardens and slow check-out girls,
And swear loudly at religious zealots and politicians
To challenge the arrogance of their self-promoting dogma.

I shall turn up at music festivals with my guitar
And people will look and say, “I thought he was dead.”
And I will release a CD of new songs
That shall have on its cover a cautionary label which says:
Fuck Parental Guidance!

Just for now though, in my sombre middle age, I have to act responsibly
And not embarrass my friends and family.
I have to eat sensibly and not drink too much,
And pay my taxes and vote.

But later on, when I am old, my friends will know
That in my dotage I am just rebelling late in life
Against the strict, grey Presbyterianism of my youth.

Omen: A Man’s Reply to Jenny Joseph
(When I am an old man I shall not wear beige)
Bill Adair

Poem for the day

Posted: 13 January 2014

After two terrific Folk for the Clutha concerts there is only one poem I can use today. A huge thanks to Ross MacFadyen and all at Celtic Music Radio and St Andrews in the Square for putting on such a great event. It was a real privilege to share the stage with so many wonderful singers and musicians and enormous thanks to all those who came along and gave so generously. Final total raised was £3455.78.

I’ve been wi’ a few o' my cronies
One or two pals o’ my ain
We went into a hotel and we did very well
Then we came out once again
Then we went in tae another
And that's the reason I’m fu’
We had six deoch and dorus and then sang a chorus
Listen, I’ll sing it to you

I belong to Glasgow
Dear old Glasgow town,
Well what's the matter with Glasgow
For it's goin’ ‘roon and ‘roon.
I’m only a common old working chap
As anyone here can see,
But when I get a couple of drinks on a Saturday
Glasgow belongs to me.

I’d meet with a few other singers,
In a pub on the banks of the Clyde,
Where we sang a few songs and righted some wrongs,
As we sat in the bar side by side.
But tragedy came to the Clutha,
And the whole of the land shared the pain,
But this wonderful town will never be down,
And we’ll build up the Clutha again.

I belong to Glasgow
Dear old Glasgow town,
Well what's the matter with Glasgow
For it's goin’ ‘roon and ‘roon.
I’m only a common old working chap
As anyone here can see,
But when I get a couple of drinks on a Saturday
Glasgow belongs to me.

I Belong to Glasgow
Will Fyffe
Additional Lyrics
Bill Adair

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