Positivity thread

Re: Positivity thread

Gloucester Mute 02 Jun 2020 10:47 am said..

"An obscure Russian tribe given to worshipping tree-stumps" !! Brilliant.

They'd have their time cut-out up in Stinchcombe Woods !!
Nothing wrong with free speech or having an opinion - as long as it matches mine !!
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 02 Jun 2020 11:28 am said..

The foot notes are my favourite bit

One rhyme whitch starts 'Un petit d'un petit..' has the footnote ' the inevitable result of a child marriage '. Priceless.
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Re: Positivity thread

Lurker 02 Jun 2020 21:28 pm said..

I’ve had more messages from Gloucester Rugby in the last week than I have had in my spam folder!!! :D
If the world was a really rational place, it would be men that would ride side saddle
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 02 Jun 2020 22:22 pm said..

Spam tomorrow and spam yesterday, but no spam today.
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 03 Jun 2020 06:57 am said..

from June, William Morris (1834-1896)

O June, O June, that we desired so,
Wilt thou not make us happy on this day?
Across the river thy soft breezes blow
Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away,
Above our heads rustle the aspens grey,
Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset,
No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.

See, we have left our hopes and fears behind
To give our very hearts up unto thee;
What better place than this then could we find
By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea,
That guesses not the city's misery,
This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names
This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 04 Jun 2020 07:53 am said..

Heaven, Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud!-Death eddies near-
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 05 Jun 2020 11:03 am said..

THE FAMILY, Leonard Clark

There came a man out of the straw-coloured country.
Eyes merry and blue, face red as an August plum,
And hands that moved finwise in dry air.
Not seeing him for twenty years,
I had forgotten his trumpeting voice,
The way he mowed down silence with a scythe of words,
His laughter bursting like fire balls on my ears,
But remembered how we raced through western woods,
And roamed all hours of childhood's day and night,
The valleys of our common countryside,
As deep he fished the cloudy waters of old memories
Scooping up gems of time, and place, and incident.
He told me of his four tall sons,
The farm they worked together by the River Wye,
Their mother, feeding chickens in the fields,
And, sonless, heard him populate my barren world.
And when he went from me to stamp his hills again
He left no wall of quiet round my hermitage,
But his four sons loud calling over stubbled land,
Who held my hands and drew me close to them.
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 06 Jun 2020 07:05 am said..

Now, John Masefield

Will moonèd Fortune make the tide to turn?
Does reckoning begin on those whose crime,
In insolence, put back the clock of Time,
To make the World's Soul squalid as their own?

Where the killed victims are, what flags are flown?

What prospect is, that from our banded few,
Pledged unto Death, Earth's quiet will ensue?

The men go forward to a Fate unknown...
O Fortune, spill a brightness from thy urn.

D Day, 6 June 1944
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 07 Jun 2020 07:25 am said..

HYLA BROOK, Robert Frost

By June our brook's run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh bells in a ghost of snow)-
Or flourished and come up in jewelweed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent,
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat-
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.

The Hyla referred to is I think a small frog. I've included this poem for its last line as much as anything else.
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Re: Positivity thread

MarcusRann 08 Jun 2020 08:33 am said..

The High-Road, John Haines (1924 -2011)

The little roads are quaint roads
That wander where they will,
They wind their arms round all the farms
And flirt with every hill;
But the high-road is my road
And goes where I would go,
Its way it wends as man intends,
For it was fashioned so,

The little roads are shy roads
And care not to be seen,
Twixt hedges hid they wind amid
A labyrinth of green,
But the high-roads are bold roads
And stare one in the face,
With banners white in all men's sight
The land they proudly pace.

The little roads are faint roads
And fear to walk alone,
They like the looks of friendly brooks
And cots of county stone,
But the high-roads are proud roads
And Lord it like the King,
They stride the dale the hills to scale,
O'er wasting rivers they prevail,
Nor yield to anything.

To all the little roads I know
Delightful haunts belong -
In hidden state lurks Stanway gate
The Stanway woods among,
The river walk between the Colnes
From Fosseway lies apart,
While Slaughter seems amid its streams
To dwell in willow-pattern dreams
Dreamt by a childish heart.

But give me on an autumn day
That Lordly road to trace
From Charlton Hill to Baunton Mill
And Ciceter market place,
Or back, the way the Romans came
Above a folded world
To Birdlip steep, where in a leap
The road doth to that valley sweep
Where Severn lies unfurled.

The little roads are warm roads
And fine to house within;
They grow great trees, escape the breeze
And nurse the homely inn;
The high-roads are dry roads
For many a thirsty mile,
But their wind and rain
I will face again
As I have done many a while.
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