Jump to content


  • Content count

  • Joined

  • Last visited

About megustaleer

  • Rank
  • Birthday 31/07/1945


  • Location
    Sussex UK
  • Interests
    Reading, Gardening, Grandchildren
  • How did you hear about this site?
    via bookgroup.info

Profile Information

  • Location
    Sussex by the Sea

Recent Profile Visitors

1,424 profile views
  1. Poetic Wanderings

    Remember when in the winter we came to the island? The sea raised an ice-cold drink towards us. The vines on the wall rustled, dropping dark leaves at our footsteps. You were also a small leaf that trembled on my chest. The wind of life put you there. I didn't see you at first: I didn't know that you were walking with me, until your roots pierced my chest, they merged with the strands of my blood, they spoke through my mouth, they flourised with me. That was your unseen presence, an invisible leaf or branch, and suddenly my heart was full of fruits and sounds. You occupied the house that waited for you in the darkness and then you turned on the lights. From Epithalamium by Pablo Neruda
  2. Poetic Wanderings

    I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. The Darkling Thrush, by Thomas Hardy Is this cheating, I wonder?
  3. Poetic Wanderings

    Stars that seem so close and bright, Watched by lovers through the night, Swim in emptiness, men say, Many a mile and year away. And yonder star that burns so white, May have died to dust and night Ten, or maybe, fifteen year, Before it shines upon my dear. Oh! often among men below, Heart cries out to heart, I know, And one is dust a many years, Child, before the other hears. Heart from heart is all as far, Fafaia, as star from star. Fafaia by Rupert Brooke
  4. Thread title altered. Now it is specifically for the one book, A Place of Ecxcution
  5. Poetic Wanderings

    ' ' ' Now just imagine how it feels When first your toes and then your heels, And then by gradual degrees, Your shins and ankles, calves and knees, Are slowly eaten, bit by bit. No wonder Jim detested it! No wonder that he shouted “Hi!” The Honest Keeper heard his cry, Though very fat he almost ran To help the little gentleman. “Ponto!” he ordered as he came (For Ponto was the Lion’s name), “Ponto!” he cried, with angry Frown. “Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!” The Lion made a sudden Stop, He let the Dainty Morsel drop, And slunk reluctant to his Cage, Snarling with Disappointed Rage But when he bent him over Jim, The Honest Keeper’s eyes were dim. The Lion having reached his Head, The Miserable Boy was dead! From: Jim, Who Ran Away from His Nurse, and Was Eaten by a Lion, by Hilaire Belloc
  6. Poetic Wanderings

    Who’ll wear the beaten colours, and cheer the beaten men? Who’ll wear the beaten colours, till our time comes again? Where sullen crowds are densest, and fickle as the sea, Who’ll wear the beaten colours, and wear them home with me? We closed the bars and gambling dens and voted straight and clean, Our women walked while motor cars were whirling round the scene, The Potts Point Vote was one for Greed and Ease and Luxury With all to hold, and coward gold, and beaten folk are we. Who’ll wear the beaten colours, with hands and pockets clean? (I wore the beaten colours since I was seventeen) I wore them up, and wore them down, Outback and across the sea, Who’ll wear the beaten colours, and wear them home with me? We wore them back from Ladysmith to where the peace was signed, And wore them through the London streets where Jingoes howled behind. We wore them to the Queen’s Hall, while England yelled “Pro-Boers!” And sat them over victory while London banged the doors.1 We wore them from Port Arthur round till all sunk in the sea, (Who’ll wear the white man’s colours, and wear them home with me?) I’ve worn them through with gentlemen, with work-slaves and alone, Who’ll wear the beaten colours, boys, and wear them on his own? There’s one would look with startled eyes and shrink while I caressed, Came I not with the colours of the conquered on my breast. And twenty thousand Bushmen would stand with hands behind And scorn in all their faces for the coward of his kind. Who’ll wear the beaten colours and raise the voice they drowned, It may be when we march again, they’ll bear some other sound, Who’ll pin the beaten colours on and drive the beaten pen, It may be other steel and ink when we march out again. Who’ll Wear The Beaten Colours? by Henry Lawson
  7. what is everyone doing?

    No, not a drop of Italian blood - English on both sides, as far back as I can find. I just love tomatoes and climbing beans. I Also like swiss chard and leeks - but have no Swiss or Welsh blood, either,. They are all vegetables that are quite easy to grow , and I do like trying new varieties as they appear in the seed catalogues or garden centres. The Golden Shrimp beans were a new find this year, and so were the Black Opal, Golden Crown and Green Tiger tomatoes.
  8. what is everyone doing?

  9. Introduce Yourself

    The sub-heading to Writers Corner says I think that covers your poems, Edit: It may be that the Writers Circle would be a better place for members own work - but a] It's so long since that was active that I forget quite what it was for. I have a vague feeling that it was for members to post their work-in-progress for the comments of the other members - which brings me to b] It was/is a closed forum, only open to participating members who, it is hoped, would make helpful comments, not to everyone on the board. To that end it is password controlled, and I do not know the password. I will try to find out more, but in the meantime you can use main Writers Corner forum.
  10. What are you watching on TV?

    Mr meg has been glued to that this evening. Not me.
  11. Poetic Wanderings

    She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest. These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells— She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else. She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate. And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same. She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!— He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child. Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights, Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites, Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw! So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands. And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him. And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male. From The Female of The Species by Rudyard Kipling
  12. Poetic Wanderings

    Yes, i know bugle beads - not a pretty look for an eyeball!
  13. What are you watching on TV?

    I was quickly hooked by the recent series of Unforgotten, and wish I had seen the previous ones. Mr meg hates anything fictional, so it's difficult for me to watch more than one drama a week . Currently the one I am watching is Bodyguard. Haven't much enjoyed the gore, nor the sex, but am fascinated by the things going on in David Budd's head. Can't wait to see how he resolves all those conflicting pressures. We are away on the evening of the last episode - and I will be stuck in a Travelodge with Mr meg, with no-where else to send him for an hour! Perhaps he could be persuaded to take a nice long bath? I took an instant dislike to Vanity Fair - or at least to Becky Sharp - many years ago, after reading an extract from it in a children's compendium of assorted literature, but I would have tried the TV series (in spite of having my prejudice reinforced by the trailers). Unfortunately, it coincides with Bodyguard Mr meg does like Fake or Fortune, and I watch it with him, but I am finding it a bit repetitious. We both watch Saving Lives At Sea, and now living so close to the channel coast we have become much more aware of how dangerous it is both on the sea, and the cliffs, I get anxious every time we hear a helicopter flying overheard.
  14. Poetic Wanderings

    "bugle eyeballs"? they don't sound particularly attractive!
  15. Tennis

    So she went through all that medical intervention without a blood transfusion?