"ruskin" poems
Remember the long ago when we lay together
In a pain of tenderness and counted
Our dreams: long summer afternoons
When the whistling-thrush released
A deep sweet secret on the trembling air;
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows,
Black rose in the long ago summer,
This was your song:
It isn’t time that’s passing by,
It is you and I.
— Ruskin Bond
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
The rigger journeyman was city bred,
But Cumberland was in his bones,
He saw the hills above the doors,
He saw the fells above the roofs
And when the great pain came,
His eyes belonged to them again.
By Ruskin Street he stopped to choke
At forty six, his wife beside,
My father's line revealed to me,
A farming, rigging family tree.
His place of death recorded so,
Not 'in' or 'at' but 'by' they wrote,
Impressionistic, vague, but true,
Or careless hand for riggers, who
In city great of small account
By Ruskin Street,
Out for the count...
The journey ends
And Benson, male,
No sails will mend.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.
2.4k
Love has come Again
At a halt on our path
a field-scape lies.
The sky downcasts
a beige blankness
tucked into the horizon.
It is a scene, still of movement.
Then in an abrupt cloak of berries
the sudden plumage of a pheasant
erupts from its hedgerow covert,
a most vivid proclamation
of the season’s palette.
In these silent wolds winter’s wheat
has already sprung its green blade
from the buried grain . . .
only now to wait,
to wait in the cold earth
at our feet, to wait, then flower.
Love is Come Again the carol sings.
This is nature’s promise,
and yet hidden from sight
the story tells itself
again. And yet again
we pause and wonder
at its telling . . .
even as the light fails us
and a darkness falls
against this frigid land.
La Serenissima
There it was, high on an outer wall
of San Giovanni Battista in Bragora;
the church where Vivaldi was baptised.
Ruskin would surely have brought
suo scala a pioli to come close
and so sketch this tableau in relief
of Mary, her son and the Magi three.
But with il telebiettivo
its detail becomes forever mine,
and so is pinned during Advent
to my studio notice-board:
a ****** purissimo,
un bambino divine,
my Christmas gift
from La Serenissima.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Realm Piercing lives
“You may either win your peace or buy it; win it by resistance to evil buy it by compromise with evil” John Ruskin: The Two Paths.
We forget we were born out of revolution another war is known by all ignored by the majority
Take tentative steps yes but take the steps why because you’re missing your rightful advantage
Look down your ordinary street it leading somewhere not just along common paths its rarity
There are gates in common lanes made of light fused glass this is the portal to new understanding
Why are people bored morose disgusted they forgot they were created by a creator dreamer
First thing people do is follow the herd mentality it doesn’t fly in fact it crawls in a hole and stays there
You put ten people together the potential is mind boggling if only they thought so you need a redeemer
Not just the spiritual but a natural one fix your eyes on the impossible then work and achieve it
You were made for feats not the fears we surrender to and let the best of life recede into nothingness
When I see children they live in magical wonder they are wise beyond their years trust their secret
Their responsibility is that they are on the greatest journey one of discovery it only takes willingness
You are the sureness that makes it all possible as you embrace joy and it shows they are enlarged
You give up childlike fantasy and you’re limiting all roads that were made and lead to success
The morning is the bow this hidden bridge will carry many a load into a knew and unknown land
Stand tall within the rich shadows of those who built empires they only show the way to access
They proved the inaccessible heights are reachable by any one determined and brave enough to try
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
and so it goes ....
No my dear son
Today no longer will I
imprison you in my dreams
but let you find your wings
and your own private skies...
But once in a while
let me gloat over your "A"s
and mull if its a steth
you will pick
or a robot
you will make
No my dear son
no longer will I
crush you with my hopes
but let you blow
your own young bubbles
in expanding varied shades
But once in a while
or maybe for a day
or two let me
lecture you
on the wise management
of your time.
No my dear son
No longer will I
****** my ambitions on you
But let you hit goals
on your muddy foot ball ground
But once in a while
when you are curled up with Archies
let me brood
if only for a little while
if its Ruskin Bond
you should be reading instead
Or maybe...
just let me offer you
a slice of my dreams
a pinch of my hope
and a very tiny speck
of my ambition
After all...
I too need to breathe.
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 8:48 AM UTC
"I disagree.
Writers who write for free are making it harder for us.
These companies have the money they say they don't have." She says —
Infuriated.
Slowly pulling myself away from fabricated corporeality,
I realize my tongue tastes of bitter beer.
Walking upstairs the other day
I caught my toe in my long checkered pajamas and tripped.
Graceless young lady who writes for free.
I chuckle.
"I asked them for what I deserve and they refused
so I left."
I hear her say and I'm thinking
about how sad I will be when Ruskin Bond dies.
A signed book, an untouched hello is a recipe for disappointment,
so I would never meet the man.
He once wrote,
about the rain drumming on
his corrugated tin roof.
How it helped him lie awake
and at the same time,
didn't keep him from sleeping.
I fall in love at the thought.
"And they wouldn't hire writers
because people waste their time and write for these companies
for free!'
Her voice brings me back to this restaurant
and the cold
condensation on the table.
Her boyfriend calls, and I want to go home.
How long have I been here?
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC