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You're daring enough to have ventured into the night,
he sounded delirious in the wispy light.

Half a mile across the lagoon
moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows
would be digging holes in the sands
to lay their lives for posterity
away from the phosphoric melody
leaving the orphaned to find their way
once the shells cracked under silica.

They look like a procession of mourners,
the man whispered between strokes of oars
sloshing the rising tides of the channel
his deft hands rowing the fastest
cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay.

The night ripened enough by that time
unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea
slowing time in frameshot motions
of rows of celebrating marchers.

Dead of night the stars were burning out
and I called out to the boatman.

To this day I don't believe what I heard.

None was ever ferried back by the boatman.
With her grandchildren on the seashore
where the sky has mingled with sea
a rumbling she hears over waves’ roar

this was the beach she was supposed to be!

The boy rained kisses her eyes had poured
she was breaking so breaking within
cut her bones the splintered dreams
couldn’t take it the girl of eighteen!

Though parting for now will be in your reach
when the full moon makes tides wildly rough
please be that day on the Cuthbert beach


passed thirty years to cross the gulf!

She doesn’t regret wonders to this day
if really the boy caught the moon
standing alone on the crags of the bay
hearing the gulls’ mournful croon!
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
King James demands a Scottish play
and believes in witches three
Look close and see they are the fates
that set our destiny

I can't write about his mother
or the ****** of her clerk
One whisper about Darnley
and we'll all be out of work.

After that unhappy business
about Essex and the Queen.
I won't risk another incident
no abdication scene.

Keep the text, in time to come
it will prove rare like gold
I kept it shorter than King Lear
your attention span to hold.
Shakespeare responds to his publisher who has rejected his draft of MacBeth
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
"I bagged this one
out in In-di-A!"

...the braggart's boast.

"It's a very rare
( these days)ALGERNON!"

And indeed, an Algernon
bares his teeth

above the roaring fire's
mantlepiece.

He looked startled as
he had been shot just that second.

"The head is splendidly mounted
complete with handlebar moustache

...& monocle.

One feels that one could
pop next door and there

would be ha ha...the rest of
Algernon

sticking out the other side.

The glint in the eye
the sneer just so

...right.

"And to the right of the Algernon
is a genuine Cuthbert.

Again from 1901 or there or
thereabouts."

"It is indeed a perfect specimen of
the good old chap..."

the white rhino brags yet again
of what he calls his baggings.

White Rhino's
collection of colonials

is the envy of
all the other animals.

"Some more hot *** old chum?"

But the White Tiger
puts a paw over his glass.

Declines.

The fire's flickering
leaping up the wall.

The shadow making
the humans almost

come alive

as if the Cuthbert
could turn to the Algernon

and say
"OH...I SAY!
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Wulf and Eadwacer
anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 960 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My clan’s curs pursue him like crippled game.
They’ll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.

Wulf’s on one island; we’re on another.
His island’s a fortress fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They’ll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
It is otherwise with us.

My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained—how I wept!—
the boldest cur grasped me in his paws.
Good feelings for him, but for me, loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.

Originally published by Measure

"Wulf and Eadwacer" may be the oldest poem in the English language written by a female poet. It has been classified as an elegy, a lament, an early ballad or villanelle, a riddle, a charm, and a frauenlieder or "woman's song." This famously ambiguous poem is hard to pin down!

Keywords/Tags: Wulf, Eadwacer, Anglo-Saxon, Old English, translation, wolf, pack, ****, whelp, baby, child, dogs, curs, hounds, island, fens, woods, sacrifice, song, sever, severed



Bede's Death Song
ancient Old English/Anglo-Saxon lyric poem, circa 735 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Facing Death, that inescapable journey,
who can be wiser than he
who reflects, while breath yet remains,
on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains,
since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way
after his death-day.

Bede's "Death Song" is one of the best poems of the fledgling English language now known as Old English or Anglo-Saxon English. Written circa 735 AD, the poem may have been composed by Bede on his death-bed. It is the most-copied Old English poem, with 45 extant versions. The poem is also known as "Bede's Lament." It was glossed by a 13th century scribe known as the Tremulous Hand of Worchester because of the "shaky" nature of his handwriting.

Was the celebrated scholar known and revered as the Venerable Bede also one of the earliest Anglo-Saxon poets? The answer appears to be "yes," since Bede was "doctus in nostris carminibus" ("learned in our song") according to his most famous disciple, Saint Cuthbert.

Cuthbert's letter on Bede's death, the "Epistola Cuthberti de obitu Bedae," is commonly taken by modern scholars to indicate that Bede composed the five-line vernacular Anglo-Saxon poem known as "Bede’s Death Song." However, there is no way to be certain that Bede was the poem's original author.

Bede (673–735) is known today as Saint Bede, Good Bede and Venerable Bede (Latin: Beda Venerabilis). One may thus conclude that he was held in extremely high regard by his peers. The name Bede may be related to the Anglo-Saxon word for prayer, "bed."

Bede was a English Benedictine monk of the Northumbrian monastery of Saint Peter at Monkwearmouth and of its companion monastery Saint Paul's in Wearmouth-Jarrow. Both monasteries were at the time part of the Kingdom of Northumbria. Bede, a distinguished scholar, had access to a library which included works by Eusebius and Orosius, among others. His most famous work, "Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum" ("The Ecclesiastical History of the English People"), has resulted in Bede being called "the Father of English History." Bede has also been called the "Father of the footnote" because he was "the first author in any language to rigorously trace his sources, and as a result he set a precedent of scholarly accuracy for writers across the range of disciplines." He was also a skilled linguist and translator whose Latin and Greek writings contributed significantly to early English Christianity.
stephen mastel Nov 2015
C-"Come baby come" that,s my soul calling
U- Unconditional love in my heart its flowing
T- Take my heart baby L.O.V.E is its code
H- Hold it with care its the 9th wonder
B- Because its the only archive that your heart is treasured
E- Every tourist come looking for it but like a
R- Rite it is protected in my blood streams
T- Taking it to another level and romance is its interest rate
'. If anyone competes as an Athlete  he does not receive the victors crown unless he competes
according to the rules 2 Timothy ch 2 v 5

I watched from the hallway of 19 Cimla Creasant ,my Gran with her Bible praying by herself .
Just Gran and God , her daily act of obedience unto thee.
' Call yourself a Christian ? '. My Grans rebuke of some mischevious deed ,
For all I knew were scorcher comics and superman books , and sooty and sweep
Squashed in a cupboard .
Yet Gran has her victors Crown her wreath of golden bronze , She ran her race with Gods
Good grace , and at last seen Christ face to face ' well done my good and faithful servant . '
Green shield stamps coop books , ham salads and cups of tea .
To look out over skewin and see the night lights shine as if just for me .
Then there was rusty the dog , and the odd 50 p from Aunty Jane in our grateful hands
For an Ice cream for being good as gold ,
We would listen for the coo coo bird on the hour and like trumpton take a bow .
My Grandads shed where My Father as boy would hammer nails on wooden floor ,
And the scarey cracked old mirror at the very back of the wooden floors.
Of walks to Opels for fish and Chips with white wet hanky at hand .
Sudden stops , just to listen to her grand children talk  and walk down the Cimla again .

Jesus Christ has risen today , Gran took us to her church one Easter
To sit in pews and sing nice hymns , to smile and be polite ,
no Barlymagrew as yet I knew Cuthbert Dibble doubt.

To the knoll we walked ,past river stream , and woodland ,
A cross was marked in some rock along the way ,
Is this where Jesus died , was crucified  , hung up on a tree ?

The book I read on mothers stairs  this man in comic strip ,
When i was 10 years old ,
The same man who died for me  torchered on a tree .
Would it be tie a yellow ribbon , or the ****** red Barron from Germany ?

We used to pray in Chennestone  hands up all to see
a peek to see who's looking
We  listened to Griegs Morning , and sung  there's  no discouragement to be a Pilgrim .

Then one day God came calling on the Isle of Wight.
On  Covie camp on blended knee i opened my heart to thee .
Oh the lion may roar from time to time ,
Gods grace is still enough for me
poet-on-the-roof Jul 2020
“They are an inexhaustible spring of delight. Their diversity corresponds to our most varied moods, from the state of quiet content in which all we ask of art is entertainment, exquisite rather than deep, the exuberance of animal spirits, the consciousness of physical and moral health, to melancholy, sorrow and even revolt, and to an Olympian serenity breathing the air of the mountain tops. The comparative uniformity which we notice between them at first sight disappears with closer scrutiny. The feeling is never the same from one to the other; each one is characterised by a personality of its own and the variety of their inspiration shows itself ever greater as we travel more deeply into them.”

Cuthbert Girdlestone

Mozart and his Piano Concertos, 1939
https://standpointmag.co.uk/issues/may-june-2020/mozarts-infinite-riches/
Not only must we save ourselves
we must save others from themselves,
this is the time to be brave, to be bold,
this is the time and you're never too old,
I'm fukin ancient but I'll get out there and
lend a hand if a hand could be all that it takes.
A lopsided smile,
a twinkle in his eyes.
Towering stature,
with his messy curls shining in the light.
A hint of teasing
in every word that he spoke.

But
you sure missed the softness of
those hazel eyes,

   Anne
Shirley-
                       Cuthbert.
ANNE OF GREEN GABLES is a FANTASTIC book!
She sits there in a pinafore
sewing seagulls on parachutes
to help win the war,
waiting for Cuthbert who's in
the light infantry
I wish she was sat there
waiting for me.

— The End —