Pickman's model
Starry Wisdom
('The Nation', 29 January 1876)
*Poem of the day thread
- Thread starter RubyToogood
- Start date
('The Nation', 29 January 1876)
bluescreen
tofu eating wokerati
Stanza 4 line 3 "to wunst" - do you reckon that means "for once"?
Pickman's model
Starry Wisdom
yeh a quick google suggests once for wunst
bluescreen
tofu eating wokerati
I saw that; it was the preposition 'to' that made me wonder.yeh a quick google suggests once for wunst
Pickman's model
Starry Wisdom
think you have the meaning right tho
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal — a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire —
clearly I’m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal — a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire —
clearly I’m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
chainsawjob
Kipping in the dunes
Autumn - John Clare
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
“When I Imagine All the Possibilities of the Swarm” by Muriel Leung
Suppose there is an end to our suffering. Like a chariot,
the absence of grief circles us with the obstinate heat
of the largest star. To believe in the radiant orbit of this fire.
To face an empty cup and find the constellated mire of you
and me and the toppling of a century. We rise from the painful
corridors of a life. Rarely did we dream of planetary rings,
and yet, tilting ourselves up, we see the heavenly bodies
of all that has passed, each one bright with surrender.
We can go on. We can dress ourselves in the celestial cloak
of this wide expanse, every woman and femme and the disorder
of the peal. I will never write another elegy again.
I am looking at you now in the acceleration of time.
All the possibilities of the swarm ignite. The humming of many
wings amassing into a greater noise. We can write our origins
sacred here and renounce the country of our fear.
There is only our singular pulse when we fill the sky.
Suppose there is an end to our suffering. Like a chariot,
the absence of grief circles us with the obstinate heat
of the largest star. To believe in the radiant orbit of this fire.
To face an empty cup and find the constellated mire of you
and me and the toppling of a century. We rise from the painful
corridors of a life. Rarely did we dream of planetary rings,
and yet, tilting ourselves up, we see the heavenly bodies
of all that has passed, each one bright with surrender.
We can go on. We can dress ourselves in the celestial cloak
of this wide expanse, every woman and femme and the disorder
of the peal. I will never write another elegy again.
I am looking at you now in the acceleration of time.
All the possibilities of the swarm ignite. The humming of many
wings amassing into a greater noise. We can write our origins
sacred here and renounce the country of our fear.
There is only our singular pulse when we fill the sky.
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
“America, We Talk About It” by Juan Felipe Herrera
— every day of the week. It is not easy. First I had to learn. Over
decades — to take care of myself. Are you listening. I had to
learn. I had to gain, pebble by pebble, seashell by seashell, the
courage to listen to my self. My true inner self. For that I had to
push you aside. It was not easy I had pushed aside my mother
my father my self in that artificial stairway of becoming you to
be inside of you — after years I realized perhaps too late there
was no way I could bring them back I could not rewind the
clock. But I did — I could do one thing. I could care. Now we
— are here.
— every day of the week. It is not easy. First I had to learn. Over
decades — to take care of myself. Are you listening. I had to
learn. I had to gain, pebble by pebble, seashell by seashell, the
courage to listen to my self. My true inner self. For that I had to
push you aside. It was not easy I had pushed aside my mother
my father my self in that artificial stairway of becoming you to
be inside of you — after years I realized perhaps too late there
was no way I could bring them back I could not rewind the
clock. But I did — I could do one thing. I could care. Now we
— are here.
chainsawjob
Kipping in the dunes
Three Postcards by Brian Bilston
The first one came from Weston-super-Mare
with the newly-built Grand Pier in view,
a bright, gleaming promise of the future,
and the sea, an impossible blue.
Unfamiliar, that neat hand, the black fountain pen.
But she knew he was the one, even then.
The next, she received eighteen months on:
Tidworth station, as viewed from Church Hill.
The foreground, a row of thatched cottages;
the barracks beyond; fields, silent and still.
She propped it against a vase on their mantelpiece,
a wedding present from her niece.
The last, a busy scene from Boulogne,
a censor-passed, heaven-sent souvenir.
'Crossing rough - but I made it!' he'd written.
When it's all over, we should come here!'
She clutched it tight as the baby moved once more.
The telegram had come two days before.
The first one came from Weston-super-Mare
with the newly-built Grand Pier in view,
a bright, gleaming promise of the future,
and the sea, an impossible blue.
Unfamiliar, that neat hand, the black fountain pen.
But she knew he was the one, even then.
The next, she received eighteen months on:
Tidworth station, as viewed from Church Hill.
The foreground, a row of thatched cottages;
the barracks beyond; fields, silent and still.
She propped it against a vase on their mantelpiece,
a wedding present from her niece.
The last, a busy scene from Boulogne,
a censor-passed, heaven-sent souvenir.
'Crossing rough - but I made it!' he'd written.
When it's all over, we should come here!'
She clutched it tight as the baby moved once more.
The telegram had come two days before.
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
In the pavilion of separation, the leaves suddenly blew away.
On the road of farewell, the clouds lifted all of a sudden.
Ah! How I regret that men are not like wild geese
Who go on their way together
On the road of farewell, the clouds lifted all of a sudden.
Ah! How I regret that men are not like wild geese
Who go on their way together
Pickman's model
Starry Wisdom
irishman 15/2/1879
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
the poets speak of the things which cannot be said
so that we know
which silence
is the one streaming in the light
when the movie stops reeling
in the silence
after the talk of love
a bird sang
so that we know
which silence
is the one streaming in the light
when the movie stops reeling
in the silence
after the talk of love
a bird sang
DotCommunist
So many particulars. So many questions.
Doctor Wha
Wha’s Doctor Wha? Wha better kens nor he
that jouks the yetts and rides the birlin wheels
o time and space, shape-shiftin as he reels
through endless versions o reality?
Bit dis he ken himsel? Weel, mibbe sae,
yet wha’s tae ken gin aw that’s kent by Wha
maks mair or less or better sense ava
nor whit we ithers ken, or think we dae?
The universe is fou o parallels:
wha’s like us? Hunners? Thoosans? We oorsels
micht be mere glisks o life-forms yet tae be.
Whit’s real? Whaur’s here? When’s noo? Wha’s quick or deid?
Wha’s jist a thoctie in anither’s heid?
Wha’s Doctor Wha? Wha better kens nor s/he?
James Robertson
Wha’s Doctor Wha? Wha better kens nor he
that jouks the yetts and rides the birlin wheels
o time and space, shape-shiftin as he reels
through endless versions o reality?
Bit dis he ken himsel? Weel, mibbe sae,
yet wha’s tae ken gin aw that’s kent by Wha
maks mair or less or better sense ava
nor whit we ithers ken, or think we dae?
The universe is fou o parallels:
wha’s like us? Hunners? Thoosans? We oorsels
micht be mere glisks o life-forms yet tae be.
Whit’s real? Whaur’s here? When’s noo? Wha’s quick or deid?
Wha’s jist a thoctie in anither’s heid?
Wha’s Doctor Wha? Wha better kens nor s/he?
James Robertson
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
Home by Warsan Shire
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilet
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
What Kind of Times are These by Adrienne Rich
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.
I Thought That I Could Not Be Hurt
by Sylvia Plath
I thought that I could not be hurt;
I thought that I must surely be
impervious to suffering–
immune to mental pain
or agony.
My world was warm with April sun
my thoughts were spangled green and gold;
my soul filled up with joy, yet felt
the sharp, sweet pain that only joy
can hold.
My spirit soared above the gulls
that, swooping breathlessly so high
o'erhead, now seem to brush their whirring
wings against the blue roof of
the sky.
(How frail the human heart must be–
a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing–
a fragile, shining instrument
of crystal, which can either weep,
or sing.)
Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
and darkness wiped aside my joy.
A dull and aching void was left
where careless hands had reached out to
destroy
my silver web of happiness.
The hands then stopped in wonderment,
for, loving me, they wept to see
the tattered ruins of my firma-
ment.
(How frail the human heart must be–
a mirrored pool of thought. So deep
and tremulous an instrument
of glass that it can either sing,
or weep.
by Sylvia Plath
I thought that I could not be hurt;
I thought that I must surely be
impervious to suffering–
immune to mental pain
or agony.
My world was warm with April sun
my thoughts were spangled green and gold;
my soul filled up with joy, yet felt
the sharp, sweet pain that only joy
can hold.
My spirit soared above the gulls
that, swooping breathlessly so high
o'erhead, now seem to brush their whirring
wings against the blue roof of
the sky.
(How frail the human heart must be–
a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing–
a fragile, shining instrument
of crystal, which can either weep,
or sing.)
Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
and darkness wiped aside my joy.
A dull and aching void was left
where careless hands had reached out to
destroy
my silver web of happiness.
The hands then stopped in wonderment,
for, loving me, they wept to see
the tattered ruins of my firma-
ment.
(How frail the human heart must be–
a mirrored pool of thought. So deep
and tremulous an instrument
of glass that it can either sing,
or weep.
bluescreen
tofu eating wokerati
She was fourteen when she wrote that.
ETA I didn't know the poem (was sceptical tbh) then found this. Impressive
Teenage Sylvia Plath’s First Tragic Poem, with a Touching Remembrance by Her Mother
“Once a poem is made available to the public, the right of interpretation belongs to the reader.”
www.themarginalian.org
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White Apples
BY DONALD HALLwhen my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door
white apples and the taste of stone
if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes
She was fourteen when she wrote that.
ETA I didn't know the poem (was sceptical tbh) then found this. Impressive
Teenage Sylvia Plath’s First Tragic Poem, with a Touching Remembrance by Her Mother
“Once a poem is made available to the public, the right of interpretation belongs to the reader.”
Yes..I knew that..
bluescreen
tofu eating wokerati
Well, that's impressive too. I've read pretty well all her mature stuff. By some weird coincidence, or is it, when I looked at twitter just now the first thing I saw (timed at 8.20) was a retweet of this (won't be signing on as it's expensive and anyway I'm a bit Plathed out):
The Poetry and Prose of Sylvia Plath. Feb.-March 2023 — Literature Cambridge
Sylvia Plath Course 2023 Join us for 4 x weekly classes, live online via zoom with Mariah Whelan. We will study a range of Plath’s brilliant poetry plus her journals and critical writings, and her only novel, The Bell Jar (1963). Dates The classes are weekly on Thursdays, live online via Zo
www.literaturecambridge.co.uk
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
.
Remote from Mansion and from Mart
Beyond our outer furrowed fields
One with the rock he cleaves apart
One with the weary pick he wields
Both with his weight of discontent
Beneath the heaven’s sighing grey
His steaming shoulders stark and bent
He drags his joyless years away
For dreamy dames with haughty eyes
And cunning men with soft white hands
Have offered you in sacrifice
Lone outcast of the outcast land
For all the furs that keep them warm
And all the food that keeps them fit
Through all the years they’ve wrought you harm
And take a churlish pride in it
Oh hard we’ve hashed it far and near
I’ve shared your warmth and dull despair
We’ve sung our songs and none to hear
And shared our woes and none to care
Some day how soon we may not tell
We’ll rend the riven fetters free
Till then may heaven guard you well
And god be good to you and me..
The Navvy; Patrick Macgill.
A hard to find poem which i’ve transcribed from a beautiful version put to music, link below. Macgill was considered the Navvy's poet in the early 20th C, when he laboured with those who had built the canals.
Beyond our outer furrowed fields
One with the rock he cleaves apart
One with the weary pick he wields
Both with his weight of discontent
Beneath the heaven’s sighing grey
His steaming shoulders stark and bent
He drags his joyless years away
For dreamy dames with haughty eyes
And cunning men with soft white hands
Have offered you in sacrifice
Lone outcast of the outcast land
For all the furs that keep them warm
And all the food that keeps them fit
Through all the years they’ve wrought you harm
And take a churlish pride in it
Oh hard we’ve hashed it far and near
I’ve shared your warmth and dull despair
We’ve sung our songs and none to hear
And shared our woes and none to care
Some day how soon we may not tell
We’ll rend the riven fetters free
Till then may heaven guard you well
And god be good to you and me..
The Navvy; Patrick Macgill.
A hard to find poem which i’ve transcribed from a beautiful version put to music, link below. Macgill was considered the Navvy's poet in the early 20th C, when he laboured with those who had built the canals.
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Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dreams for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moing to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful be realistic to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes."
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dreams for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moing to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful be realistic to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes."
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Dillinger4
Es gibt Zeit
The Buddhas Last Instruction by Mary Oliver
“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal -- a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire --
clearly I'm not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal -- a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire --
clearly I'm not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.
Elpenor
Dancing as fast as I can
With apologies to Pam Ayres, I wrote this in self-pity!
Oh, I wish I’d done me stretches
Copied the figures in my physios sketches
I used to run so many races
But now can't bend to tie my laces
Oh, I wish I'd done me stretches
I wish I'd not chosen to ignore
When they said to work your core
Not me; I did a speed session
My one concern: PB progression
Strength work to me an utter bore
When I used to race for hours
Through sun and snow, and wind and showers
No time I had for a pre-race jog
Instead was queueing for the bog
The need to pee would overpower
My coach, she told me no end
"What doesn't break, won't have to mend"
I was young then, didn't listen
New running shoes had I to christen
No need for me to stretch or bend
Yoga and Pilates were never done
As for strength work not begun
Rarely thought of lifting weights
No cross training for me awaits
Not worth the time when I could run
If to the future I could see
Plantar fasciitis, runners knee
My shin splints and a dodgy hammy,
Would combine for a quadruple whammy
I'd do my stretching - yes siree!
So I lie here on a massage couch
Can't run no more, a total grouch
I really don't think it's such a laugh
How much I pay the osteopath
He works my glutes - and I scream "Ouch!"
How I laughed at others stretching
When after hill sprints I was wretching
Now I admit the sorry truth
I'm not the runner of my youth
Oh, how I wish I'd done me stretching!
Oh, I wish I’d done me stretches
Copied the figures in my physios sketches
I used to run so many races
But now can't bend to tie my laces
Oh, I wish I'd done me stretches
I wish I'd not chosen to ignore
When they said to work your core
Not me; I did a speed session
My one concern: PB progression
Strength work to me an utter bore
When I used to race for hours
Through sun and snow, and wind and showers
No time I had for a pre-race jog
Instead was queueing for the bog
The need to pee would overpower
My coach, she told me no end
"What doesn't break, won't have to mend"
I was young then, didn't listen
New running shoes had I to christen
No need for me to stretch or bend
Yoga and Pilates were never done
As for strength work not begun
Rarely thought of lifting weights
No cross training for me awaits
Not worth the time when I could run
If to the future I could see
Plantar fasciitis, runners knee
My shin splints and a dodgy hammy,
Would combine for a quadruple whammy
I'd do my stretching - yes siree!
So I lie here on a massage couch
Can't run no more, a total grouch
I really don't think it's such a laugh
How much I pay the osteopath
He works my glutes - and I scream "Ouch!"
How I laughed at others stretching
When after hill sprints I was wretching
Now I admit the sorry truth
I'm not the runner of my youth
Oh, how I wish I'd done me stretching!
