You were noon sunshine, no, a heatwave’s blast
That stormed a myriad moons ago
And flooded all my thoughts with monsoon rains
Conspiring youth’s mild innocence to fade
What cyclone’s surge could dim that radiant glance?
What calmed the crashing jet streams of those hours?
Did gathering clouds obscure those flashing eyes
Or grey monotony depress those lighted waves?
I am an epicurean. Or at least that is how I think of myself, based on a quick perusal of the Wikipedia page that deals with epicureanism (not the Freedictionary definition). (It’s a topic I would be happy to pursue if anybody is interested. But that is not what I want to write about just now.) My lifestyle affords me the freedom to visit bookshops and browse a range of publications covering a variety of topics. One such book that I came across today and subsequently purchased, is titled, somewhat confusingly, ’50 Ideas you really need to know the future’.
One of the ideas discussed is that of ‘Gamification’. I confess that when I saw the title I envisaged a discussion on the merits of the hanging of pheasants: 1 day or 7. Of course it was nothing of the sort. Continue reading “Winners, non-winners and losers”
I am cold, no matter how I warm
Or clothe me;
O Winter, greater bards have sung
I loathe thee!
Final stanza from “To Winter” by Eugene O’Neill
The theme for your literary gems this time is Weather: any poetic form is acceptable. May I please have your entries by midnight on the 11th March 2013.
Just add your entries to this thread or link your own posts.
Sorry to be a little late, but I was called away to lend a hand with a new baby and only returned, rather shattered yesterday : tired but happy.
There were very few entrants to both competitions: in fact only one in the short story section. But what a story, Mr Royal! I’ll never be able to see a giraffe again without thinking of you.
SO, although you had no competitors, you are the worthy winner of the short story competition, and I look forward to a theme set by you for the next round.
There were a few more entrants for the photography side of things – I had expected photographs of little hands clasping larger hands, hands undertaking tasks, such as cooking, knitting, painting…. but no, you had other ideas…
OZ had this contribution: viar amoozing take on the ‘hands’ theme, and viar topical on the equine theme!
Ara posted this a beautifully side lit picture of Alice, Duchess of Suffolk who resides in her resting state in the church where PapaG was Christened, no less!
Christopher posted this, though sadly the hands were not very clear in the size of image.
Last, but not least, JM posted here with a vair amoozing piece, full of puns and several pictures – (the bananas nearly won, hands down, but for the misplaced figure in the background which to my eye spoiled the composition)
But in the end the prize does go to JM for the most unusual take on the theme: the graffiti handwriting of Clarice Cliffe (nee Shorter).
So I hand the baton to you, John: your turn to set the next photography competition.
Oxfordshire sunset, tonight
All Rise! Well that’s what they shout here when the judge arrives in the chamber.
All you who entered should be rightfully proud of yourselves.
We had THREE quick entries from Janus, first a muse on the word including some lions, then a brief visit from Jane A. without prejudice and finally a modern bit about football. All as different as chalk and cheese and all well up to his usual high standard. Then Soutie arrived with his pride handing out some summary justice in poetry. Araminta stepped back to Jane’s era also with her tale of the debutante tripping the light fantastic before the inevitable fall. Finally and with minutes to spare John Mackie offers us a personal take on the little enjoyed but undoubted advantages of Scottish Presbyterianism.
I liked them all but I best liked Ara’s take on the coming out (or coming down) of her deb, a finely crafted piece that had just the right flavor of pride before the fall.
So well done Araminta and over to you for the next.
Our handsome lady proudly struts and pats her curls in place;
Clad in frills and furbelowed, a smile upon her face.
Her small, soft hands are clad in kid, her shoes are made of silk,
Her eyes a sparkling cornflower blue, her skin as pale as milk.
We awoke to a white world, with the snow still falling. It wasn’t forecast until tomorrow, I thought. By late morning it was sleeting, and finally it turned to drizzle. There’s very little snow left now – just a line at the bottom of the car windscreen where it had gathered more thickly. From the kitchen window I could see the bushes decorated with sparkles of melted snow.
It’s about 2c out there, but it’s a ‘wet cold’ which gets through to your bones – (the sort of day my Ma always called ‘raw’) – and I am disinclined to go out and take my daily walk. But I should really. Maybe if I put on the heating (which I had only just returned to its usual ‘morning and evening only’ setting) and know I can come back to a warm house, I may then be less disinclined?
Hands up those who are planning to put in a picture or a short story…. closing date on 15th.
See links at right hand corner of the page.
Our boys dunn good on Wembly nite
And gev them uvver lads wot for.
O cors they neely spoild the game
Wi’ all that silens just befor.
Oo wonts to fink about Man U,
An sum ole plane crash years ago?
Or niteclub deaths or Bobby Mor?
We came ere for the game – dint you?
Our Jack and Theo shode the way –
The Gunners – we noe oo we are!
So stuff them Chelsea mob and Spurs.
Av you got sumfin els to say?
Scarcely a week left and only one from each Janus so far.
Here’s something to encourage your muse, it’s a Gene Weingarten sonnet again from The Washington Post (you should be able to do better than this). Do so now and post it here.
Pride – the Blonde and the Jigsaw
I knew one time a yellow-headed bawd
And gave to her a puzzle made of wood.
The pieces were in shapes both small and odd
For her to reassemble (if she could).
Set she right down to solve it true and fast
But days of work did no solution bring
Soon fortnights, months and seasons also passed!
And still she labored with the blasted thing.
It took twelve months, but fin’lly it was done
She seemed unbowed — discouraged not, nor sick
I asked her if the puzzle’d brought her fun
She said it had! She felt she’d done it quick.
With pride, she smiled and toss’d her golden locks:
“See – four to six years‚ says it on the box!”
The cacophony of passing strangers was wearing me down. Their random snippets of speech jarring my ears as they stride past me. The random fragments of their stories that will be forever unknown to me, unfinished Schubert conversations
“Tomasz Wrzesiński wins Gold for Britain,” howls the newspaper vendor.
Living in an over-populated urban metropolis means that when outdoors there are very few moments for quiet reflection. The bustle of crowds and the usual noises emanating from a big city environment are contributory factors to the dearth of good pastoral poets in this neighbourhood. The only one that made an impact in the literary scene was B. Keeper but he was the exception. Continue reading “The Beaten Track”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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