The Poetry Bus

Here's a recurring nightmare!
I was ever a dreamer.

The School Bus

I am dawdling
And the mother's voice
Cries out
The old refrain.
"Have you got your beret,
Got your satchel,
Got your homework diary?"

I am waiting
At the bus stop,
And it's just begun
To rain.
There's no shelter
And as usual
I'm not exactly early.

Bus is crowded
Full of children
So I'm
Standing up again.
Getting glances
Some smug glances
From a seated
Little girlie!

Still, I'm first off.
And I'm running
Through the gardens
Through the pain.
For the prefects
For the mistresses
The masters
Will be surly

If I reach
The gates of High School
Of the rugby-playing
Fame.
And I'm late there
For the roll call
For the class room-
Where's the class room?
What's the subject?
Who's the teacher?

Ah I'm dreaming once again!

A Poem for Thursday

We had a week in Florence in a mad guest house, where we had to make our own breakfast and sometimes the owner's as well. The lights were off in the evening as we think she didn't pay her bills. But the madness of it all left us with this daft romantic feeling for Florence. And a love for the narrow streets where we got lost.

.

 Florence

On the fourth day

A star shone in the midnight sky

above the olive tree.

Red wine and pasta memories,

and I wept.

On the fourth day

We walked the via Proconsole.

An Italian Glaswegian

Kissed my hand

and called me precious,

and I wept

On the fourth day

We lay on crisp white sheets

In an Italian afternoon.

Lovers as always

Whispering memories

and I wept.

On the fourth day

We were lost in a maze

Of dark streets and broken containers.

And love found us

In a room with thread

and compassion

To sew us together.

And I wept.

On the fourth day

Giotto and Duccio painted

With pink and orange

purple and blue.

Covering over eight years

and healing memories.

And I wept.

poetry from the third generation.

This is a poem by my wonderful oldest grand daughter who goes under the name Severus. You can see her profile here.
I think that this poem would be a good one for the Poetry Bus this week. I hope that they accept it as it is.nt mine. you can find the poetry bus on Enchanted Oak.blogspot.com.

Imperfect

Posted by Severus at Tuesday, August 17, 2010

I'm no where near perfect,

Of that there's no doubt.

I often get angry,

And occassionally I'll shout.

I'm not exactly skinny,

And my hair never goes right.

My voice is very tinny,

And I have issues with my height.

Perfect! That I'll never be!

I fall for guys who are no good,

And I turn it into fantasy.

I complain about the nieghbourhood.

I fall out with my friends,

And I argue with my sisters.

I make sure every rule bends,

And the sun gives me blisters.

I don't always listen to my parents,

And I'm sorry to say I make them stressed,

Then everything becomes tense,

And we all put our patience to the test.

My skin isn't flawless,

And my writing's very scrawly.

I can be quite gormless,

And I scream at anything crawly.

But maybe I am perfect.

As much as anyone can be.

Because I'm me completely!

And no one else will ever be,

Perfectly me!

2 comments:

Natasha said...

Love it Kate!



17 August 2010 22:47

Gerry Snape said...

This is wonderful poetry . Get it on the F.B.


18 August 2010 12:22



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A Poem for Thursday

I bought a book from the shop last time I was at the McWilliams Gallery in Banbridge N. Ireland.
F.E. McWilliams was a sculptor associated with many other well known 20th C. sculptors, including
Henry Moore and Barbara Hepworth.
We, that is Rosie, Alan and myself were there primarily to let Alan see the sculptures, but there is usually a good exhibition of paintings in the other gallery rooms as well.
But this book caught my interest as soon as I saw it.
The poet is Paul Yates and the artist Basil Blackshaw.
Basil Blackshaw's work I knew,  from exhibitions that I had been to with Rosie. But Paul Yates was a new name to me. Together they have produced a book of magic that  captures the essence of the area of South Down that is "MOURNE". [published by Tom Caldwell Gallery Belfast]
Here is one of the poems that struck a chord with me, although obviously it was the Ladies Toilet and at Donaghadee!



GENTS TOILETS
KILKEEL HARBOUR
for Graham and Jude


A
Moog synthesis of oil skin glazed terrazzo acoustics, discotheque
Timpani of flushing stained steel urinals and the relentless air raid
Jazz of flies hunting in packs, psychedelic sun flare automatic
Writing on the walls; And
Through the open window, squalls of swozzled Swahili from
Squabbling gulls, the scream of a car tyre turning suddenly on the
Spot, the kind of sizzle silence makes when it touches against an
Ocean.

Paul Yates.

More Camels!

Two more camels in the studio.
Another has it's boots on but the other thinks it really is The Ship of The Desert  actually the ships of the desert!

They are waiting in the kiln room to be fired to biscuit.

I think that they probably feel a bit above the other fellows waiting on the shelf.

Camels have that look...don't they?

From A Railway Carriage [with many thanks to R.L.Stevenson].

Last week the family treated us to a day out on the Heverthwaite Steam Railway, in Cumbria.
There were lots of serious men with even more serious cameras who seemed to have gathered there from the four corners of the earth. And they were examining the tracks and the carriages and all the accoutrements of the wonder of steam locomotives.
But I was taken back in my memories to outings that took me with Aunt Helen, on the train up to Portstewart and the north coast of Ireland . Then even further back to the age of five and the very first day that I was introduced to the joy of rhythm and rhythme. I walked through a door, egged on by my mother, who possibly wanted an hour or two for herself on a Saturday morning, and was confronted by a gaggle of five year olds all sitting in a row facing one way and Mr. Graeme Roberts [teacher] reciting this with gusto!
So here is the updated version courtesy of family.

" Quick get in the carriage before it goes"

" All aboard"

"

Off we go.

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses,

hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle,

All through the meadows the horses and cattle;

All of the sights of the hill and the plain

Fly as thick as driving rain;

And ever again, in the wink of an eye,

Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

All by himself and gathering brambles;

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

And there is the green for stringing the daisies!

Here is a cart run away in the road

Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill,

and there is a river:

Each a glimpse and gone forever!

So we reached the end of the line and all got off the train,

 and went to see the driver,

 and the fire in the belly of the engine .

And then it was off to the next bit of the adventure.

But that is a story more for Swallows and Amazons and it would take a better man that I am to tell it!

The Poetry Bus

I hope that I'm still in time to get on this week. I've gone for the summer memories and feelings.

Messina

They walk in pairs

       along the edge

      And diamonds sparkle

 in the blue.

              While thin winged swallows

  race across

                  the early moon.

   And scream for joy.