"tankards" poems
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
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What Inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar Traveller comes?
Who is the Landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth—
No brimming Tankards flow—
Necromancer! Landlord!
Who are these below?
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I taste a liquor never brewed—
From Tankards scooped in Pearl—
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air—am I—
And Debauchee of Dew—
Reeling—thro endless summer days—
From inns of Molten Blue—
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door—
When Butterflies—renounce their “drams”—
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—
And Saints—to windows run—
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the—Sun—
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There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;
legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
In fair Stratford-on-Avon
Is where we set our stage,
This town where
Our Bard was born,
The man for all ages.
In The White Swan
John's son, Will,
Was rightly being toasted.
Young Will had a way with words,
And used his quill
To turn girls' heads
Toward his finest,
His best bed.
Halfway down Market Street,
Just before the Barber's,
Lived the Hathaway girl, Ann.
Some locals called her Cougar.
Will didn't know how old she was
For she didn't look her age.
A few months on,
Her belly grown
They held a cross-bow wedding.
Ensuing vows
The reception crowd
Filed into The White Swan,
Raised their tankards
To toast the couple
With this Avon song:
*Shakespeare hath
His will with her,
But Ann hath-a-way.*
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
I heart Blackpool, engraved tankards
Little old men & full kit wankers.
Bracing wind with rain & sleet
******* blowing in the street.
In Blackpool.
Kiss me quick & squeeze me slow.
Madame Tussauds, pier-end show
Grubby track-suits, baseball caps
Homeless people search for scraps.
In Blackpool.
Sun and rain, blue & grey.
All four seasons in one day.
Drug ravaged transients dressed in rags.
Haggard old women smoke their ****
In Blackpool.
Flashing lights & lots of noise
Flirty girls & drunken boys
Abba tributes, yesterday’s stars,
Rattling trams & clapped out cars.
In Blackpool.
Penny arcades & bingo halls.
Amusement rides & market stalls.
Drag Queens flaunt with macho men.
Stripper seduces drunken hen.
In Blackpool.
Rooms by the hour, rooms by the night.
A £1 burger & a £2 pint
Rolling sea & golden sand.
Lowest life expectancy in the land.
In Blackpool.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 5:37 AM UTC
This is all a big joke
You and I are just passing time
Until extinction
I have teeth of pig iron
And my back is a mountain
When I stretch in the sunrise
Oak trees snap and echo strangely
In the valley of my spine
A she bear walked upon my knees
Scraping her claws against my thigh
Birds soar about my forehead
Great whales swim in my mouth
Wolves hunt in the kingdom of my belly
And howl as I kiss the full face of my moon
Foxes learn the twists and curves of my palm
Rabbits burrow in my chest
Deer graze upon my feet
And the green bulbs of my eyelash
Bloom white blossoms
I reached up
With calloused hands
I felt the delicate slumber of stars
I cast them to the earth
And crushed them beneath my great bare feet
I ate the earth
Much like a green apple
And put the nickel core In my pocket
I put Sol in my mouth
And the universe was dark for a while
I grow tired of sleep
And I dream madly of the road again
Women wear long silk gowns
They whisper words and grab my arms
They open my mouth and pour in tankards
Of dark drink
Burning
Burning down in my belly
They slept in the crook of my arm
And the long black hair tickled my face
They were silent when they awoke
And my slumber was deep
They cut my throat ear to ear
Laughing as my blood poured into the cauldron of the sea
Laughing as they snip my hair with scissors
Laughing as they remove my left eye
*We are fate your body is beautiful
Oh King, give us your turqoise eye
We have a knife/a good sharp knife!
We can feast forever on a sliver of your skin
And will build the earth again with your sinew*
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
.
*O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command
On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed
Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap
When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me*
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
The horse and cart slowly meander along the cobbled village lane,
as smoke projects her pungent and spiraling emissions from thatched rooves - casting her grey contrast as she penetrates the menacing darkness and caresses the trees of the ancient forest, in her journey of elemental consummation.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and tankards of ale abound at the candle-lit inn, where the curvaceous ******* and buttocks of the wanton ***** are roughly groped in medieval lust.
Her shrieks of surprise are an expression of unleashed restraint, that release a shower of blazing embers of interconnectedness, which prohibitively fertilise the barren land of depleted social mores.
Let us now share explicit and superstitious tales around the crackling moonlight fire tonight, as the screech of the owl shatters the eerie silence of Olde English folklore.
Look at the children as they gaze wondrously with sleepy eyes and open mouths, in a state of nocturnal slumber.
The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
Viva la morning sun
Midnight, dark night, no light, can’t go.
So dark, so quiet, so I guess the neighbours are not home.
Waiting for sleep to arrive, but it never does on time.
Still waiting to permanently close my eyes;
But match sticks under baggy eye lids,
Will not show me the peaceful dreams I need to find.
Brain storms while outside it is silent.
Not a raindrop in the air.
Sun will rise shortly, as will the neighbours;
They all arise without a care.
I will hear their alarms and the beeping of their cars
And each and every door they all slam, God ****
Muffled music drives away and I am left with clinking milk bottles.
How I hate to hear the milk man moving in full throttle.
The bin men arrive flashing their ‘vehicle is reversing’ lights.
I close my eyes, but they peek around the curtain…sigh.
People are busy nattering and I am left sinking;
There is no calling for the postman singing.
The birds have not even got their song books out yet,
Because there is too much noise, for all their rehearsing.
Now I arise from the deep pit in which I dwell.
The zombie arisen, the power button pressed, another day of Hell.
In a state of half-dress the violins begin,
Quietly at first, but soon a full orchestra of noise;
A cup of tea is soon ready to drink.
This symphony would wake the whole neighbourhood,
If it wasn’t for all the toys and work, which mean they are already up.
The din would be said to be deafening, ironic,
If I cared to hear those muggles out there, but today is supersonic
And the strings are rising up to the top of the planet,
And I am drifting within the music’s magic.
I am taken away to a classical age,
Where maidens play while in-waiting in castles.
The beer is served in tankards,
Meat ripped with fists and soldiers prepare for battle.
This warrior mind has no strength for a Queen,
The zenith passed, the air up here is so clean
And now the end of the song approaches
And with a whimper, I remember, the line of forgotten roaches…
I raise to my height, now at full length, a citizen.
Viva la revolution! I am at one with creation.
Hello Earth and morning sun!
Let me feel your warmth…my morning divine, my elation.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
The tankards rest on the table as at an inn,
People sit and eat bread and it's noisy.
I fumble with my new shoes and jerkin
With a muffin cap that I don proudly.
I'm newly dressed in old borrowed clothes
And I run outside and see the Dance Macabe in rags.
While the Faire's parade comes close,
I can see the clouds in the sky blow like white grey flags.
Surrounded by endless hubbub my face beaming
Like the sun shedding light,
I'm smiling from ear to ear
As the man in the moon does at night.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC