Mending Wall Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. That sends the frozen-grown-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun…. Robert Frost I know the poem is about “Good fences making good neighbours” or maybe it’s about freedom – about not building walls or fences at all. For me it’s about […]
For rainy day people, maybe, although this is not a Gordon Lightfoot song. It is a forgotten poem, now remembered, from another one of my favourite poets. I often refer to my favourites – Dylan Thomas, W. B Yeats, Gerard Manly Hopkins and e.e.cummings as wordsmiths. They hammer out the most delicate poetry from the
The Land of Heart’s Desire (somewhat)Come Fairies, take me out of thisdull world, for I would ride withyou upon the wind and danceupon the mountains like a flame!W. B. Yeats. W. B. Yeats is one of my favourite poets. Today I went for coffee with a friend. We talked of keeping diaries (weblogs) and what
Today the sky was the colour of ballpark mustard. I decided not to ask the score. I was a little concerned though and thought of calling a neighbour because maybe this is the apocalypse and I had somehow missed the notice. You know that generic letter from an unnamed source which starts: Dear Resident of
I live this poem often in the evenings when I sit in my garden after dinner and read, listen to music or just marvel at the “inventions of summer.” Right now, I’m reading another walking book “A Time of Gifts.” It’s the first of a trilogy by Patrick Leigh Fermor, who walked in 1933 at
Today was a difficult day. I had to work at being happy. Yesterday I walked 15kms with a group of pilgrims. The Camino has been calling. It starts quietly without pressure. I think March might be a good month. It’s vague; nothing has been formulated. Today I think that maybe I could go for three
Pied Beauty Gerard Manly Hopkins I have just finished reading “Landmarks” by Robert MacFarlane. It is a requiem to lost words. The author has tried to slow the slipping away of words particularly words for nature by listing them in his book. The belief is that once you lose a word, you lose a part
The Windover To Christ Our Lord I caught this morning morning’s minion, king- dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
I came across this poem on FB today. The author is Hanna Shebar. Letters You Will Never Read One lifetime isn’t enoughhow am I to open a cafe´in Paristo make art in Berlinto surf on the coast of Californiato write books in a Scottish cottageto pick wild flowers in the Crimean mountainsto eat pizza in
