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Everything posted by megustaleer

  1. Ruminant pillows! Gregarious soft boulders! If one of you found a gap in a stone wall, the rest of you—rams, ewes, bucks, wethers, lambs; mothers and daughters, old grandfather-father, cousins and aunts, small bleating sons— followed onward, stupid as sheep, wherever your leader’s sheep-brain wandered to. My grandfather spent all day searching the valley and edges of Ragged Mountain, calling “Ke-day!” as if he brought you salt, “Ke-day! Ke-day!” First stanza of The Black-Faced Sheep - Donald Hall The full poem can be found here
  2. 2005 East of The Mountains - David Guterson Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe (R) The Pilot’s Wife - Anita Shreve (R) Small Island - Andrea Levy White Oleander - Janet Fitch The Full Cupboard of Life - Alexander McCall Smith Brick Lane -Monica Ali Eve Green - Susan Fletcher Our Hidden Lives (B) - Simon Garfield The Namesake - Jumpha Lahiri Educating Peter (Bio) - Tom Cox Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell The Seven Sisters - Margaret Drabble The Big Snow (SS) - David Park Walk On (B)- John Goldingay Notes on a Scandal - Zoe Heller The Chimes - Charles Dickens The Magical Maze (NF) - Ian Stewart The World’s Wife (P) - Carol ann Duffey The Ballad of the Sad Cafe - Carson McCullers The Winter Queen - Boris Akunin Let Me Go (B) - Helga Schneider Silvertown (B) - Melanie McGrath The Chrysalids - John Wyndham Highland Journey(B) - Mairi Hedderwick The Eyre Affair - Jasper Fforde (R) Led By The Nose(NF) - Jenny Joseph No Night is Too Long - Barbara Vine We Need To Talk About Kevin - Lionel Shriver All He Ever Wanted - Anita Shreve The Lambs of London- Peter Ackroyd A Study in Scarlet - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle The Power and The Glory - Graham Green
  3. 2004 The Curious Incident of The Dog in the Night Time - Mark Haddon The Snapper - Roddy Doyle Altered Land - Jules Hardy Extra Virgin (B)- Annie Hawes The Siege - Helen Dunmore Dolores Claiborne - Stephen King The Untouchable - John Banville The Children’s Story - James Clavell (R) Notes From a Small Island - Bill Bryson (R) The Curious Incident etc - Mark Haddon(R) Our Street (B/H) - Gilda O’Neill Austerlitz - W.G. Sebald The Book of Israel - Jeremy Gavron The Colour - Rose Tremain A Child Called “It” (MM) David Pelzer The no1 Ladies’ Detective Agency - Alexander McCall Smith Ten Thousand Sorrows (MM) - Elizabeth Kim Morwenna’s Prince(Ch) Margaret Batchelor The Mist In The Mirror - Susan Hill The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold Eats, Shoots and Leaves(NF) - Lynne Truss The Life of Pi - Yann Martel (R) The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera (R) Straw Dogs - Gordon M. Williams I’m Not Scared - Niccolio Amanita The Story of Lucy Gault - William Trevor Family Matters - Rohinton Mistry Bel Canto - Ann Patchett Hamlet’s Dresser (B) - Bob Smith The Wild Island - Antonia Fraser A Glass Half Full (P) - Felix Dennis The Eyre Affair - Jasper Fford Tears of The Giraffe - Alexander McCall Smith Morality for Beautiful Girls - Alexander McCall Smith The Diary of a Nobody - George and Weedon Grossmith Namma (B/Tr) - Kate Kasko The Bookseller of Kabul - Äsne Seierstad The Kalahari Typing School For Men - Alexander McCall Smith
  4. 2003 Prince of the Clouds - Gianni Riotta Knowledge of Angels - Jill Paton Walsh (R) The Surgeon of Crowthorn (B) - Simon Winchester Nathaniel’s Nutmeg (B) - Giles Milton Restoration - Rose Remain My Antonia - Willa Cather (R) Postcards From The Edge - Carrie Fisher The Secret History - Donna Tartt Take Me With You (T) - Brad Newsham Falling Angels - Tracy Chevalier A House Unlocked - Penelope Lively Head Over Heels In The Dales (B) - Gervase Phinn The Bonesetters Daughter - Amy Tan Haweswater - Sarah Hall The House of Stairs - Barbara Vine Waiting - Ha Jin One Minute Stories (SS) István Örkény The Underground Man - Mike Jackson Life of Pi - Yann Martel Driving Over Lemons(B) - Chris Stewart A Word Child - Iris Murdoch (R) If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things - Jon McGregor TheTrue History of The Kelly Gang - Peter Carey Beyond Nob End (B) - William Woodruff Unless - Carol Shields Song of The Exile - Kiana Davenport
  5. From what I have seen on Facebook, the decision has been taken. Will all be lost, or can it be archived in some way?
  6. A little lane - the brook runs close beside, And spangles in the sunshine, while the fish glide swiftly by; And hedges leafing with the green springtide; From out their greenery the old birds fly, And chirp and whistle in the morning sun; The pilewort glitters 'neath the pale blue sky, The little robin has its nest begun The grass-green linnets round the bushes fly. How mild the spring comes in! the daisy buds Lift up their golden blossoms to the sky. How lovely are the pingles in the woods! Here a beetle runs - and there a fly Rests on the arum leaf in bottle-green, And all the spring in this sweet lane is seen. On a Lane in Spring - John Clare
  7. I have just merged two threads for this book, one of which has existed for 12 years under the title "Paper Tiger" (which is not a novel written by Penelope lively). I don't know how the mistake was missed, particularly by the members, including myself, who actually posted comments about 'Moon Tiger' in it. Mended now, but sadly the full discussion of the book as the BGO Bookgroup Summer Read 2010.had been lost.
  8. St George was out walking He met a dragon on a hill, It was wise and wonderful Too glorious to kill It slept amongst the wild thyme Where the oxlips and violets grow Its skin was a luminous fire That made the English landscape glow Its tears were England’s crystal rivers Its breath the mist on England’s moors Its larder was England’s orchards, Its house was without doors St George was in awe of it It was a thing apart He hid the sleeping dragon Inside every English heart So on this day let’s celebrate England’s valleys full of light, The green fire of the landscape Lakes shivering with delight Let’s celebrate St George’s Day, The dragon in repose; The brilliant lark ascending, The yew, the oak, the rose The True Dragon - Brian Patten
  9. Last Easter Jim put on his blue Frock cwoat, the vu'st time-vier new; Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass, That glitter'd in the zun lik' glass; An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole. A span-new wes-co't, too, he wore, Wi' yellow stripes all down avore; An' tied his breeches' lags below The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, An' put his laggens on, an' tied His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, Because 'twer Easter Zunday. An' after mornen church wer out He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about All down the vields, an' drough the leane, Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeane, A-turnen proudly to their view His yollow breast an' back o' blue. The lambs did play, the grounds wer green, The trees did bud, the zun did sheen; The lark did zing below the sky, An' roads wer all a-blown so dry, As if the zummer wer begun; An' he had sich a bit o' fun! He meade the maidens squeal an' run, Because 'twer Easter Zunday. Easter Zunday - William Barnes
  10. The grass never sleeps. Or the roses. Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning. Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept. The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet, and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body, and heaven knows if it ever sleeps. Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn’t move, maybe,the lake far away, where once he walked as on a blue pavement, lay still and waited, wild awake. Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not keep that vigil, how they must have wept, so utterly human, knowing this too must be a part of the story. Gethsemane - Mary Oliver
  11. Not seen or heard that before but It is so how I am feeling nowadays, grumpy old woman that I am! Thanks for posting it.
  12. I think a reduction in traffic is common to a lot of forums. It certainly is among those i frequent. Or maybe it's my presence that blights them
  13. If it continues I will still keep wandering in to post the odd poem, or add to an old thread, and rot do any 'housekeeping' that needs doing. If it closes I will miss it after all these years, and I do still pop in most days to take look at any recent activity. But as I read nothing these days my presence here doesn’t add to its viability, so my opinion shouldn’t carry much weight. edited to remove the draft version which should have e been edited before I posted!
  14. ON a day—alack the day!— Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet! Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiop were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. The Blossom - William Shakespeare
  15. Not sure I understand your point. I took Heather's comment to mean that nothing else is was not the correct link, and that only nothing else appeared in both poems. I was pointing out the position of nothing else is in the poem you linked to. If I misunderstood then I apologise to Heather.
  16. What is the late November doing With the disturbance of the spring And creatures of the summer heat, And snowdrops writhing under feet And hollyhocks that aim too high Red into grey and tumble down Late roses filled with early snow? Thunder rolled by the rolling stars Simulates triumphal cars Deployed in constellated wars Scorpion fights against the Sun Until the Sun and Moon go down Comets weep and Leonids fly Hunt the heavens and the plains Whirled in a vortex that shall bring The world to that destructive fire Which burns before the ice-cap reigns. That was a way of putting it - not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter. It was not (to start again) what one had expected. What was to be the value of the long looked forward to, Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us, Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders, Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit? Extract from East Coker - part II of T S Eliot's Four Quartets
  17. Check again. First line, last verse of A Prayer in Spring = "For this is love and nothing else is love"
  18. bonus points for linking with a complete phrase!
  19. Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year. Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night; And make us happy in the happy bees, The swarm dilating round the perfect trees. And make us happy in the darting bird That suddenly above the bees is heard, The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill, And off a blossom in mid air stands still. For this is love and nothing else is love, To which it is reserved for God above To sanctify to what far ends he will, But which it only needs that we fulfil. A Prayer in Spring - Robert Frost
  20. One from an Irish poet for St Patrick's Day O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! The heaped up sods against the fire, The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown! I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store! I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed and loth to leave The ticking clock and the shining delph! Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there's never a house nor bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house - a house of my own Out of the wind's and the rain's way. An Old Woman Of The Roads - Padraig Colum
  21. On this feast-day—O cursed day and hour!— Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower To Venus' temple, where unhappily, As after chanc'd, they did each other spy. So fair a church as this had Venus none: The walls were of discolour'd jasper-stone, Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head A lively vine of green sea-agate spread, Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung, And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung. Of crystal shining fair the pavement was; The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass: There might you see the gods in sundry shapes, Committing heady riots, incest, rapes: For know, that underneath this radiant flower Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower, Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed, To dally with Idalian Ganimed, And for his love Europa bellowing loud, And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud; Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net, Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set; Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy, Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy That now is turn'd into a cypress tree, Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be. And in the midst a silver altar stood: There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood, Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close; And modestly they opened as she rose. Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head; And thus Leander was enamoured. Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed, Till with the fire that from his count'nance blazed Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook: Such force and virtue hath an amorous look. Excerpt from Hero and Leander, The First Sestiad - Christopher Marlowe
  22. They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young, The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave: But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung, Shall they come with years and honour to the grave? They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slain In sight of help denied from day to day: But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain, Are they too strong and wise to put away? Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide— Never while the bars of sunset hold. But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died, Shall they thrust for high employments as of old? Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour? When the storm is ended shall we find How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power By the favour and contrivance of their kind? Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends, Even while they make a show of fear, Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends, To conform and re-establish each career? Their lives cannot repay us—their death could not undo— The shame that they have laid upon our race. But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew, Shall we leave it unabated in its place? Mesapotamia - Rudyard Kipling 1917
  23. A big mild man is tenderly led to his chair. He has never spoken. His labourer's hands on his knees, he rocks gently to the rhythms of the poems. I read to their presences, absences, to the big, dumb labouring man as he rocks. He is suddenly standing, silently, huge and mild, but I feel afraid. Like slow movement of spring water or the first bird of the year in the breaking darkness, the labourer's voice recites The Daffodils'. The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect. Outside the daffodils are still as wax, a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables unspoken, their creams and yellows still. A few stanzas from Miracle on St David's Day - Gillian Clarke, based on a true event. The full poem can be found here
  24. Not exactly a poem, but I couldn't resist! Along the Queen's great highway I drive my merry load At twenty miles per hour In the middle of the road We like to drive in convoys We're most gregarious The big six-wheeler, scarlet-painted, London Transport, diesel engine, Ninety-seven horsepower omnibus Earth has not anything to show more fair Mind the stairs! Mind the stairs! Mind the stairs! Earth has not anything to show more fair Any more fares? Any more fares? Any more fares? Any more fares? Any more fares? Just a little of A Transport of Delight, lyrics by Michael Flanders the whole thing, with music by Donald Swann can be found here Apologies for any preceding adverts!
  25. Five years down the line I'm delighted to report that The Costa Book of The Year is a poetry book: The Kids, by Hannah Lowe. The rest of this review can be found 'here'
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