Poem for the Day
A very different, quite difficult poem from the Poet Laureate. I will be interested to see what people make of it.

 I put two yellow peepers in an owl.
Wow. I fix the grin of Crocodile.
Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel. 

I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.
Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.
Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.

I screw a tight snarl to a weasel.
Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal.
Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail.

I like her to be naked and to kneel.
Tame. My motionless, my living doll.
Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.

Stuffed
Carol Ann Duffy

Poem for the Day 
In case anyone was in any doubt Scotland has many wonderful poets apart from and, the equal of Burns. Here is one of my favourites.

'Oh tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin’ norlan’ Wind,
 As ye cam’ blawin’ frae the land that’s niver frae my mind?
 My feet they traivel England, but I’m deein’ for the north.'
 'My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o Forth.'

'Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa’ and rise,
 And fain I’d feel the creepin’ mist on yonder shore that lies,
 But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?'
 'My man, I rocked the rovin’ gulls that sail abune the Tay.'

'But saw ye naething, leein’ Wind, afore ye cam’ to Fife?
 There’s muckle lyin’ ‘yont the Tay that’s mair to me nor life.'
 'My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae'na trod for years.'
 'O Wind, forgi’e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!'

'And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
 A lang, lang skein o’ beatin’ wings, wi’ their heids towards the sea,
 And aye their cryin’ voices trailed ahint them on the air –'
 'O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!'

The Wild Geese
 Violet Jacob

The hazel-blooms, in threads of crimson hue,
Peep through the swelling buds, foretelling Spring,
Ere yet a white-thorn leaf appears in view,
Or March finds throstles pleased enough to sing.
To the old touchwood tree woodpeckers cling
A moment, and their harsh-toned notes renew ;
In happier mood, the stockdove claps his wing;
The squirrel sputters up the powdered oak,
With tail cocked o’er his head, and ears erect,
Startled to hear the woodman’s understroke;
And with the courage which his fears collect,
He hisses fierce half malice, and half glee,
Leaping from branch to branch about the tree,
In winter’s foliage, moss and lichens, deckt. 

Poem for the Day 

It was an evening in November,
As I very well remember,
I was strolling down the street in drunken pride,
But my knees were all a-flutter,
And I landed in the gutter
And a pig came up and lay down by my side.

Yes, I lay there in the gutter
Thinking thoughts I could not utter,
When a colleen passing by did softly say
‘You can tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses’—
And the pig got up and slowly walked away.

The Pig
Anonymous