[F.F. Teague]

Hi,

The title of this thread is inspired by Mark Mc's 'Festival'.

Thanks again to everyone who contributed to the thread about fresh poetry in General Talk. I'm going to try to write a few fresh things based on the ideas expressed in the thread, but everyone is welcome to write from alternative perspectives.

On the subject of alt-perspectives, here's my sonnet by the Old Man of Gugh, a standing stone, spruced up since its first outing. I posted it at my international site, where it was well received. Other interpretations of the stone are possible.

Performance note: deep booming voice (my older brother is good).


The Old Man of Gugh

How old am I? Darned rudeness. Twenty-one!
00Yes yes, I know your guidebook has "Bronze Age".
But why not let this fogie have his fun?
00You'd rather that than see me in a rage.
I've been a long time here, on brackened Gugh.
00They stood me up to guard their pottered graves.
I must admit, I like my slanting view –
00the hills and heath, the sand and stones, the waves.
I couldn't stop your Civil Warrers, mind.
00I mean, I glared, but they just tramped on through.
And then that Bonsor, come to make his find.
00"Sod off," I boomed. "There's nothing here for you."
These days, seems folks just want to take my pic.
"Lean in," they joke. If only I could kick!

- - -
Tomorrow: something free verse featuring paint.

[Martin Elster]

Fliss, your sonnet (which I really enjoyed) reminded me of a poem I once wrote about the Kissing Stones.

A Rocky Affair

The Kissing Stones, part of the Wain Stones, are a natural sandstone outcrop. They have been weathered by the unrelenting weather up on Bleaklow, the largest mountain plateau in the Peak District National Park.

At last they meet again to kiss
after a split that seemed for good.
For eons they have longed for this.

Time stops as they anticipate
drawing close together. Whether
they ever will, no one can state

for certain. Not a thing ensues.
Their faces have begun to feel
as dry and coarse as gritstone. Clues

that something will occur are wanting
as Bleaklow’s flanks are short on flora.
Dunlins swirl in hundreds, taunting

the lovers for their wavering,
whose plight is bleaker than the land.
Perhaps these stones are savoring

this moment of expectancy.
Yet don’t they know rain, rough as scree,
will scour them till they cease to be?

Look at their eyes, so unaware
of the herb Robert growing near,
which knows more than this moonstruck pair.

[Ann Drysdale]

Rocks, eh? This is from my very first collection.

The Menhirs at St. Pierre Quiberon

After a long game of follow-my-leader,
stumbling head-down, keeping out of range,
I saw my first “alignments”. Granite chunks,
lumpen, unlovely, slummocked in a queue
like students at a cashpoint on a campus.
Five almost-rows, but not quite half as straight
as teams of first-year infants at PE.
What Yorkshire folk call “neither nowt nor summat”.
A little grandeur, if you looked for it,
but mostly something awkwardly familiar.
I felt at home among the granite ghosts.

That odd one on the left – a little head
balanced on tea-tray shoulders, carefully.
The weatherworn excrescence at its back
suggested a small knapsack, carried high.
Its calculated military bearing
seeming an effort to outpace the shadow
of someone it would rather leave behind.
I knew that menhir. I had followed it,
crestfallen, all the way from Quiberon.

And so it came as something of a shock
to lay a finger on its lichened surface
and not to feel it flinch.

[RCL]

1510

How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears—
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual simplicity—

Emily Dickinson

[F.F. Teague]

Welcome to Freshtival, Martin, Ann, Ralph :-)

Here are some strawberries 🍓 🍓 🍓 and, for each of you, a gift bag 👜 (it contains whatever you wish it to contain).

Martin, thanks for enjoying the sonnet. It's part of a series describing a trip around the Scilly Isles. I like your 'Rocky Affair' (I've googled), particularly for the dunlins but also for 'savoring / this moment of expectancy', which puts me in mind of Keats's 'Grecian Urn'. The 'herb Robert' is a pleasant addition too :-)

Ann, I've googled these menhirs and I enjoyed reading your poem. I like the Yorkshire folk and all the similes. Yes, rocks and stones; and one of my next pieces happens to be about trees...

Ralph, thanks for sharing this. I haven't read much Emily Dickinson; there's loads to stuff I want to read, bit the schedule keeps filling up, unfortunately. Sometimes I can listen to poetry things while coding, formatting, referencing, however. I love the 'Coat of elemental Brown' :-)

Here's syllabics/song written almost a decade ago as part of my sculpture series ('his-tor-ry').

Sliced Log Star

A man cuts down a tree,
his aim to play the sleuth,
detecting growth and history,
which he terms 'inner truth'.

A wooden star is sawn,
a monumental art,
and round its flanks the live oaks mourn
the taking of a heart.


And here's a new thing:

Thanksgiving

As his son speaks,
I see Grandad
during our last time together –
sage slacks, white shirt, beige cardigan,
blue eyes twinkling as he leans on his cane.

She, one of the stepdaughters,
muddies his smart clothes
and sets his eyes to reddening.
He wobbles and blurs, unstable.
Where did my Grandad go?

Thankfully,
Grandad returns in glory
with Dad's closing voluntary:
his clothes are sparkling
and his blue eyes gleam.

- - -
Tomorrow: possibly a trip.

[F.F. Teague]

Trip time...

This poem describes the first of three attempts to bandage my broken leg; Bro. A. (Adrian Teague) and Tess (my PA/carer) accompanied me into A&E on Saturday 13th June last year. I've posted the poem on 'Poemusicals' too, with musical accompaniment.


Trip 1 of 3

The trolley-bed awaiting me is close yet miles away.
I start to rise, get on my feet. 'Come on, come on!' I say.
The spasms start again. I scream, I roar. The pain is wild.
I want my mum. I'm 41 and suddenly a child.
I grab the bed and sit. 'No, sweet. Get on it properly now.'
I try. I scream. They grab my leg. I cry, 'Ow-ow-ow-ow...'
'What's going on?' A voice outside the curtains, soft and clear.
'They're [sigh],' Bro. A. explains. Then something else I can't quite hear.
A yellow pipe appears. It smokes. 'Inhale, good girl,' says Chong.
I breathe in breathe out, play the pipe. My woodwind lungs are strong.
The nurses blur, the spasms shrink. The curtains sway and part.
Bro. A. and Tess are here. Tess holds her hand against her heart.
'Hey yous!' I say. They hold my feet. She's left and he is right.
They raise and shift. They watch my face. We're spinning through the night.
I start to sing, of Mol' Malone, fair Dublin, pretty girls,
the cockles, mussels turn and turn in rushing rainbow whirls.
Now Brother A. is saying, 'Partly Irish', to a nurse
and Chong has finished bandaging. 'Good! Now it won't get worse.'
The spinning's slowing. Brother A. and Tess have left the room.
My clothes come off and I'm re-dressed in square-print gown of gloom.
The pain again. My nails are knives. I stab my wrist, my palm.
I whimper. Teddy Teague appears. He whispers, 'Just keep calm.'
'To AMU!' says Chong. 'Good luck,' he adds and pats my hand.
We ride to station no. 2 in Gloucester Hospiland.

- - -
Tomorrow: myth-kitties...