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Wristwatch - John Cooper Clarke. Text's in the video.



Finding it more and more appropriate these days.

I'm also a great admirer the works of Dylan Thomas, Ivor Cutler, Bill Shakespeare, Bertolt Brecht, John Donne, Spike Milligan, Lord Byron, Bill Yeats, Adrian Henri, Philip Larkin, T. S. Eliot, Rudyard Kipling, Friedrich Schiller, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and William Blake.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.



My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.



He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.



The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Afraid I'm a bit traditional in such matters.

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Mary had a little lamb
it followed her to sleep
the lamb grew up into a ram
and Mary had a sheep

:face:

How To Eat A Guava - Cate Kennedy

first rinse the fruit, rub the skin and inhale
make an incision with the eye tooth
a bite with a seesawing motion to break
that curved yellow moon surface
eat it
like you would kiss a longlost lover
like you would taste the flesh behind an ear
you cannot worry
about juice
separate the seeds from the flesh with your tongue
sift them down your throat
recall custard in expensive affair-soaked hotels
lemon mouse drowning the mouth in reckless garden sunsweat tussles
eat it
like you would plunge into a river in moonlight
like you would open your mouth and let the river in
like you would eat a stolen pear, a hot fig lush as a lovebite
eat it
like you crush onto skin, roll on a bed
confusing perfume with texture, tasting scent
under a collarbone, like you would lick a line of sweat up a spine
eat it
like you are ravenous
parched, gluttonous, flushed with secrecy
eat it slowly
lick your fingers

- last year in Lit we were analysing Australian poetry, and this was the one poem that forever stuck in my mind.

Avarice wrote:

'It's bad enough with another race, but fuck me, a monster from outer space...'

From all the generations of past roses,
Disintegrated in the depths of time,
I want one to be spared oblivion--
One unexceptional rose from all the things
That once existed. Destiny allows me
The privilege of choosing, for the first time,
That silent flower, the very final rose
That Milton held before his face, but could
Not see. O rose, vermilion or yellow
Or white, from some obliterated garden,
Your past existence magically lasts
And glows forever in this poetry,
Gold or blood-covered, ivory or shadowed,
As once in Milton's hands, invisible rose.

"A Rose and Milton" by Juan Luis Borges, translated by Alexander Coleman

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Fae - have ever you seen or read WOMEN IN LOVE? I think you'd enjoy it.

Re Borges. Nice pick, Harms. I urge everyone interested to get Borges SELECTED POEMS, edited by Alexander Coleman.

Sharky wrote:

Fae - have ever you seen or read WOMEN IN LOVE? I think you'd enjoy it.

Nope.

I don't read a lot of poetry in general unless for school.

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Avarice wrote:

Fae wrote:

Sharky wrote:

Fae - have ever you seen or read WOMEN IN LOVE? I think you'd enjoy it.

Nope.

I don't read a lot of poetry in general unless for school.

It's a novel.

Bloody good film too.

Avarice wrote:

Fae wrote:

Sharky wrote:

Fae - have ever you seen or read WOMEN IN LOVE? I think you'd enjoy it.

Nope.

I don't read a lot of poetry in general unless for school.

It's a novel.

Well that clearly demonstrates why I haven't seen or read it.

Sharky wrote:

Re Borges. Nice pick, Harms. I urge everyone interested to get Borges SELECTED POEMS, edited by Alexander Coleman.

It's wonderful stuff.

Gwen Harwood.

I'm in love, I do believe.

But seriously I do recommend you all checking out her stuff. An Impromptu To Ann Jennings is a favourite of mine ... as is Late Works.

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I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble,'
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.

-Sheamus Heaney, Mid-Term Break

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Interesting poofile pic.

You calling him a poof?

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Obviously, that should have said profile. Santa doesn't drink.

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Yeah yeah, heard all the Santa jokes a million times.

Need to amend previous post: will in fact be drinking tonight. Quite a lot. Just to keep warm, obviously.