RSS Feed

Daily Archives: April 12, 2015

Grapes -Your favourite poem


SO many fruits come from roses
From the rose of all roses
From the unfolded rose
Rose of all the world.Admit that apples and strawberries and peaches and pears
  and blackberries
Are all Rosaceae,
Issue of the explicit rose,
The open-countenanced, skyward-smiling rose.

What then of the vine?
Oh, what of the tendrilled vine?

Ours is the universe of the unfolded rose,
The explicit,
The candid revelation.

But long ago, oh, long ago
Before the rose began to simper supreme,
Before the rose of all roses, rose of all the world, was even
  in bud,
Before the glaciers were gathered up in a bunch out of the
  unsettled seas and winds,
Or else before they had been let down again, in Noah’s flood,
There was another world, a dusky, flowerless, tendrilled
And creatures webbed and marshy,
And on the margin, men soft-footed and pristine,
Still, and sensitive, and active,
Audile, tactile sensitiveness as of a tendril which orientates
  and reaches out,
Reaching out and grasping by an instinct more delicate than
  the moon’s as she feels for the tides.

Of which world, the vine was the invisible rose,
Before petals spread, before colour made its disturbance,
  before eyes saw too much.

In a green, muddy, web-foot, unutterably songless world
The vine was rose of all roses.

There were no poppies or carnations,
Hardly a greenish lily, watery faint.
Green, dim, invisible flourishing of vines
Royally gesticulate.

Look now even now, how it keeps its power of invisibility!
Look how black, how blue-black, how globed in Egyptian
Dropping among his leaves, hangs the dark grape!
See him there, the swart, so palpably invisible:
Whom shall we ask about him?

The negro might know a little.
When the vine was rose, Gods were dark-skinned.
Bacchus is a dream’s dream.
Once God was all negroid, as now he is fair.
But it’s so long ago, the ancient Bushman has forgotten more
  utterly than we, who have never known.

For we are on the brink of re-remembrance.
Which, I suppose, is why America has gone dry.
Our pale day is sinking into twilight,
And if we sip the wine, we find dreams coming upon us
Out of the imminent night.
Nay, we find ourselves crossing the fern-scented frontiers
Of the world before the floods, where man was dark and evasive
And the tiny vine-flower rose of all roses, perfumed,
And all in naked communion communicating as now our
  clothed vision can never communicate.
Vistas, down dark avenues
As we sip the wine.

The grape is swart, the avenues dusky and tendrilled, subtly
But we, as we start awake, clutch at our vistas democratic,
  boulevards, tram-cars, policemen.
Give us our own back
Let us go to the soda-fountain, to get sober.

Soberness, sobriety.
It is like the agonised perverseness of a child heavy with
  sleep, yet fighting, fighting to keep awake;
Soberness, sobriety, with heavy eyes propped open.

Dusky are the avenues of wine,
And we must cross the frontiers, though we will not,
Of the lost, fern-scented world:
Take the fern-seed on our lips,
Close the eyes, and go
Down the tendrilled avenues of wine and the other world.

D. H. Lawrence



Souls – Promote Yourself


Last night you left my body
To soar through dull lit streets
You fly and float to miles away
I’m lightened in my sleep

You meet again in starry skies
And dance your night away
While we sleep calm and still alone
Until our turn to play

The moon shines on your silhouettes
You find another city
Prance and skip across the sea
Ghostly, fast and pretty

Endless nights of pure bliss
Waltzing, making clouds
Hand in hand till sleeper’s wake
The sun is yours to shroud

You feel the heat against your skin
And know that day has broken
Hold on tight, one more goodbye
No words are ever spoken

My body waits for your return
Curled into my sheets
One more day away from love
Time for daylight sleep.

Jessica Ray

Poets Guilt -Promote Yourself

NPG 1857,William Wordsworth,by Benjamin Robert Haydon


Flying high. – Promote Yourself

We are the rescuers’ who fly through the skies’ we help the people as we go by’ through the dangers at every turn ‘ we may go ‘ to reach the injured ‘ as you know.
We are the rescuers’ that we are ‘ we never travel as by car’ we fly through the skies at great speed’ to reach the people who are in need.
We are the rescuers’ that flies through the air ‘ to help the people ‘ every where.
We are the unseen heroes ‘ that we are ‘ we help the people ‘ no matter how far.

I dedicated this poem to all those lost   ‘ there lifes in the plane ✈ crash.

Patricia Bourne WordPress 2014.

No Guarantee


Life has no guarantee

It doesn’t come with a manual

Life can be very complicated

And sometimes it’s very hard to untangle


We sometimes are influenced by family

Although we are all of a different kind

We all stumble along life’s highway

Knowing that life can sometimes can be blind


We learn from our everyday experiences

Of things we should and should not do

But life is an exciting adventure

Learning things old and new


But being human is very exciting

Learning new skills every day

Trying to unravel the meaning of life

That’s when our mind gets in the way


I don’t think we will ever find the answer

For that knowledge is out of our league

But I feel within our being

Is planted that spiritual seed.

Malcolm Bradshaw

Daffodils and Eggy Bread – Promote Yourself


Yellow daffodils
Friends at the pub
Four spoons
Sharing a pud
Young lad
Answering back
I take a gamble
And tell him off
As a son
He laughs
Pure enjoyment

You might be lucky

Serious matter
Cheese toastie
And eggie bread
On the same plate
Tomato ketchup
Or brown sauce
Serious Friday discussion
Office four pm
Until united
By manager
Talking about
And welsh rarebit

Cheryl Bhagwandin

%d bloggers like this: