Dancing Eyes

A friend at work (Jo) was asked by her brother to do a reading at his wedding, she could choose something and then read it.

 

Apparently she spent some time looking for something that would say what she had in mind - but was unsuccessful.  So, she gave up looking and wrote her own words.

 

She showed it to a few people to see what they thought (all liked it), but said that she'd just found it on the internet.  A week before the wedding she was contacted for a copy of her reading for the order of service - still she didn't come clean, she submitted her piece with the author listed as 'anonymous'.

 

On the day of the wedding she struggled to read the piece, emotion overcame her and someone had to take over.  But it was very well recieved by all, and her brother and his new wife asked again where it had come from - Jo had to be honest!

 

I think she should be VERY proud of what she wrote, and I hope that you like it.  She very kindly allowed me to type it out (she only had her handwritten notes), and I wanted to post it here.

 

Dancing Eyes

And he knew at that moment she was the one. He was sure from the dance in her eyes when she looked at him, the smile that shone from their very depths.

He could picture them in 50 years sat side by side on a bench watching the sun set over the sea.

He knew they would be content and happy with what they had supported each other to achieve in life. They would have challenged each other to grow to be better people.

They would be happy with how they had weathered life; small showers through to larger tempests all unexpected and unimaginable but surmounted by their love and patience for each other.

Over the years they had shared together there would be many moments too precious to articulate but known, remembered and shared.

In their later years they would still reduce each other to giggles with the raise of an eyebrow and listen with patience and kindness.

He knew at that moment he was one of the lucky ones who had found the love of his life and realised it.

He was certain their love and fondness could only grow.

The unfurling of this love would be the biggest adventure of their lives.

Poem 28

One of the boys (Bear) rashly posted on his FB wall that he'd write a poem for anyone that liked the post - things got a little out of hand, he had to call a stop to it as he said his brain was hurting!

Luckily I got in just before the cut off, here is mine (sorry about the bad language!)

Thank Fuck this is My last POEM
the lady i'm writing about has been decorating her HOME
although to be fair its mainly the KITCHEN
when it's all finished it will surely look BITCHIN
when she's not wandering around the cooker with a Roller in HAND
you can find her on the flat track looking rather GRAND
either it's blocking or jamming for SSRG or being a CRUCIBELLE
you can be sure she will give them TOTAL HELL
I doubt her Moto has ever been YOLO
and she sure does take a mean PHOTO
ask her nicely she will take your PIC
she's asked me to warn off Phally flashing her his DICK
She loves nothing more than a bloody good QUOTE
she also once auditioned for the stage play DEEP THROAT
all these fucking poems have taken their TOLL
so this is the end I hope you like it MS MOLL

POEM 28 thankfuckitsfinished

Vision

Marmalade

Originally uploaded by amandabhslater.

Vision by May Theilgaard Watts


Today there have been lovely things
I never saw before;
Sunlight through a jar of marmalade;
A blue gate;
A rainbow in soapsuds on dishwater
Candlelight on butter
The crinkled smile of a little girl
Who had new shoes with tassels
A chickadee on a thorn-apple;
Empurpled mud under a willow,
Where white geese slept;
White ruffled curtains sifting moonlight
On the scrubbed kitchen floor
The underside of a white-oak leaf;
Ruts in the road at sunset;
An egg yolk in a blue bowl.


My love kissed my eyes last night.


John sent me the above poem handwritten with a fountain pen on lovely cartridge paper, so romantic.  He suggests it refers to when we were first together, and the fact that photography (ways of seeing) got us together.

Counties

Friday is Letter Day!
Originally uploaded by Emerald2810.

I'm not a big fan of Carol Ann Duffy's poetry, it's just not my thing, but on the occasion of the post office announcing that they aren't going to be continuing to use county names in postal addresses, she's really hit the mark for me.

I like, and use, counties. I'm proud to living South Yorkshire, I've also lived in Leicestershire, Gloucestershire, Buckinghamshire and Hertfordshire amongst others.

As a way of marking this crazy idea The Guardian asked various writers what they thought, and they commissioned Duffy to write the following -

But I want to write to an Essex girl,
greeting her warmly.
But I want to write to a Shropshire lad,
brave boy, home from the army,
and I want to write to the Lincolnshire Poacher
to hear of his hare
and to an aunt in Bedfordshire
who makes a wooden hill of her stair.
But I want to post a rose to a Lancashire lass,
red, I'll pick it,
and I want to write to a Middlesex mate
for tickets for cricket.
But I want to write to the Ayrshire cheesemaker
and his good cow
and it is my duty to write to the Queen at Berkshire
in praise of Slough.
But I want to write to the National Poet of Wales at Ceredigion
in celebration
and I want to write to the Dorset Giant
in admiration
and I want to write to a widow in Rutland
in commiseration
and to the Inland Revenue in Yorkshire
in desperation.
But I want to write to my uncle in Clackmannanshire
in his kilt
and to my scrumptious cousin in Somerset
with her cidery lilt.
But I want to write to two ladies in Denbighshire,
near Llangollen
and I want to write to a laddie in Lanarkshire,
Dear Lachlan ...
But I want to write to the Cheshire Cat,
returning its smile.
But I want to write the names of the Counties down
for my own child
and may they never be lost to her ......
all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire ....

Storm

fairy in a snow storm
Originally uploaded by munks2804.

Storm is a 9 minute beat poem by Tim Minchin. But that short description doesn't do it justice.


It's a hilarious tirade of words that Minchin delivers, with music, to explain his feelings towards all the things he finds so unpalatable about those who believe in herbal medicine, complimentary therapies and esoteric teachings.


Storm is set at a dinner party, where Minchin and his wife are introduced to a mutual friend called 'Storm' - she was a tattooed fairy! They obviously have differing ideas about medicine and science.


Anyway, I've known about the poem for sometime, and was interested to hear that it was going to be turned into an animated film.


So last night we went along to Skeptics in the Pub to hear the film maker speak. And unlike a number of other Skeptics meetings the speaker was good and the talk, punctuated by slides and snippets of animation, was very engaging.


Unfortunately the film isn't finished, but when it is (November), I'll be sharing a link here.

For the love of an Archaeologist....

I found these poems amongst a load of papers -

The Passionate archaeologist to his love

Come dig with me and be my love,
And we will lots of theories prove;
On hill, in valley, dale and field
We'll find out what each site will yield.

And we will scrape among the rocks
Where Bronze Age man once fed his flocks;
In Roman cities, by whose walls
Melodious birds now make their calls.

We'll camp beside an ancient cot
And stick together bits of pot,
Or work beside some murky becks
While freezing rain runs down our necks.

We'll dig in sun, in sleet and rain
And Neolithic data gain;
In anoraks against the cold
We'll scratch for flints and dig for gold.

With frozen hands and muddy knees
We'll trench our way from Thames to Tees;
If you can cook on pressure stove,
Then dig with me and be my love.

And when there's nothing else to date
In sleeping-bags we'll love and mate.
If these delights they mind may move,
Then dig with me and be my love.

The Archaeologist's Lass Replies

What makes you think I'd be your love
And all those doubtful pleasures prove
To dig in sleet while fingers freeze?

And do you think I have the will
To scape away half of Silbury Hill,
Or on a frosty day to sit
In some old Roman refuse pit?

Why ever should I give a jot
For Neolithic sherds of pot,
Or single out with loving care
And mark your bits of Samian ware?

But I confess I'd be content
To share with you your humble tent
And in a sleeping-bag to lie
Watching the racing clouds go by.

Such thoughts, I own, do me console,
I'd even hold your ranging pole:
I'll cook your meals on pressure stove,
And dig with you and be your love.

Written by Ken Wilson (with apologies to Christopher Marlowe)

Peace

matthew at sea
Originally uploaded by Mckarash.

Peace of the running waves to you,
Deep peace of the flowing air to you,
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you,
Deep peace of the shining stars to you,
Deep peace of the shades of night to you,
Moon and stars always giving light to you,
May Deep Peace be always with you.

I love the photo above (posted by my dear friend Nigel - he works on the ship), and I found the poem on a piece of paper in Mum's kitchen.

Wait

Wait

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't theycarried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give themthe need for other hands.
And the desolationof lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired.
But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into
total exhaustion.

by Galway Kinnell

Liz saved this out of this of the paper for me - think the glove reference made her think of me!

A poem

≈ 2 sKy hEaRtS ≈
Originally uploaded by Jennifer Esperanza.

This poem was sent to me years ago by a boyfriend, written especially for me. It MAY NOT be reproduced anywhere else.

If by your smile the highest peaks of the world
diminish in scale
And if by your touch
the axis of the globe gently shift
and realign themselves
What does this mean?

If a thousand volcanoes burn to black
with the soft close of your eyes
and the silk tease of your hair
pulls the dumb stars earthward
with desperate longing
Is there an answer?

If an ocean between us can
be dismissed easily, by slight
of hand and the tectonic plates
made to grind their hips to
our sensuous rhythm
What truth is there here?

And if in my dreams you must die
and in witness of your last breath
the universe collapsed inward
and upon itself, that
all was brought to nothing
Would this mean I could forget you
or does it simply mean
I will love you always.
even unto the end of time.

Lovely don't you think?