Blog

Poem for the Day

Posted: 12 January 2013

Phone for the fish knives, Norman
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.

Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.

It's ever so close in the lounge dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea
And Howard is riding on horseback
So do come and take some with me

Now here is a fork for your pastries
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know that I wanted to ask you-
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?

Milk and then just as it comes dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.

How To Get On In Society
John Betjeman

Poem for the Day

Posted: 11 January 2013

Give us a wrack or two, Good Lard,
For winter in Tops’il Tickle bes hard,
Wid grey frost creepin’ like mortal sin
And perishin’ lack of bread in the bin.

A grand, rich wrack, us do humbly pray,
Busted abroad at the break o’ day
An’ hove clear in ’crost Tops’il Reef,
Wid victuals an’ gear to beguile our grief.

God of reefs an’ tides an’ sky,
Heed Ye our need an’ hark to our cry!
Bread by the bag an’ beef by the cask.
Ease for sore bellies bes all we ask.

One grand wrack—or maybe two?—
Wid gear an’ victuals to see us through
’Til Spring starts up like the leap of day
An’ the fish strike back into Tops’il Bay.

One rich wrack—for Thy hand bes strong!
A barque or a brig from up-along
Bemused by Thy twisty tides, O Lard!
For winter in Tops’il Tickle bes hard.

Loud an’ long will us sing Yer praise,
Marciful Fadder, O ancient of Days,
Master of fog an’ tide an’ reef!
Heave us a wrack to beguile our grief.

The Wreckers’ Prayer
Theodore Goodridge Roberts

Poem for the Day

Posted: 10 January 2013

It was early last September nigh to Framlin'am-on-Sea,
An' 'twas Fair-day come to-morrow, an' the time was after tea,
An' I met a painted caravan adown a dusty lane,
A Pharaoh with his waggons comin' jolt an' creak an' strain;
A cheery cove an' sunburnt, bold o' eye and wrinkled up,
An' beside him on the splashboard sat a brindled tarrier pup,
An' a lurcher wise as Solomon an' lean as fiddle-strings
Was joggin' in the dust along 'is roundabouts and swings.

"Goo'-day," said 'e; "Goo'-day," said I; "an' 'ow d'you find things go,
An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' show?"
"I find," said 'e, "things very much as 'ow I've always found,
For mostly they goes up and down or else goes round and round."
Said 'e, "The job's the very spit o' what it always were,
It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a 'are;
But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's,
What's lost upon the roundabouts we pulls up on the swings!"

"Goo' luck," said 'e; "Goo' luck," said I; "you've put it past a doubt;
An' keep that lurcher on the road, the gamekeepers is out."
'E thumped upon the footboard an' 'e lumbered on again
To meet a gold-dust sunset down the owl-light in the lane;
An' the moon she climbed the 'azels, while a night-jar seemed to spin
That Pharaoh's wisdom o'er again, 'is sooth of lose-and-win;
For "up an' down an' round," said 'e, "goes all appointed things,
An' losses on the roundabouts means profits on the swings!"

Roundabouts and Swings
Patrick R Chalmers

Stranger Than Fiction.

Posted: 9 January 2013

While working on a new song that I was inspired to write after a recent visit to Lindisfarne, (the song is actually called 'Lindisfarne'; no sense in understating the obvious), I was reminded of an incident that occurred while I was there.

For those who dont know Holy Isle, there is, quite close to Lidisfarne Castle, a walled garden, created in 1911 by horticulturist and garden designer Gertrude Jekyll.  When I visited the gardens I found a ladies purse and on opening it I discovered that it was owned by a certain Mrs Hyde!  Absolutely true!

 

Poem for the Day

Posted: 9 January 2013

I visited the place where we last met.
Nothing was changed, the gardens were well-tended,
The fountains sprayed their usual steady jet;
There was no sign that anything had ended
And nothing to instruct me to forget.

The thoughtless birds that shook out of the trees,
Singing an ecstasy I could not share,
Played cunning in my thoughts. Surely in these
Pleasures there could not be a pain to bear
Or any discord shake the level breeze.

It was because the place was just the same
That made your absence seem a savage force,
For under all the gentleness there came
An earthquake tremor: Fountain, birds and grass
Were shaken by my thinking of your name.

Absence
Elizabeth Jennings

831-835 of 841 blog entries

<<< 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 >>>

Valid XHTML 1.0 Strict Valid CSS!

Site by Desktop Solutions