jazzy_dave | Jun. 11th, 2016

Jun. 11th, 2016

Bit of a muggy day with thunderstorms expected.Sunny but hazy at the same time so not perfect sun tanning weather. Taking the day off infact and catching up on LJ of course.

I did some washing this morning in the facilities at the hostel. I hoovered my room as well, and from a resident from the same block as i am in said that they do have WiFi there but they do not like to advertise it. I logged in straight away and hey presto! have access to the net whenever i please. How awesome is that!

I have also rejoined the library so i can use my laptop in the library as well.

Last night Phil joined me for a beer at the Spoons pub after he finished work. This was sometime after nine and we had a couple of pints. I then walked down to the big M before they closed at midnight for a tasty spicy chicken wrap and a free coffee from the loyalty card.

Slept like a log. Actually do logs sleep?

Current Mood: happy

Unwanted callers and trolls beware -

This is how i felt this morning -

You can be my flower girl any day Alyssa Milano -

When i did my arts and humanities courses way back in the late seventies Tony Harrison was one of the modern poets we studied , and in fact i wrote an essay on him . Here is a couple of his poems , the first was the one we studied in the O.U. course.

Marked With D.

Poem by Tony Harrison

When the chilled dough of his flesh went in an oven
not unlike those he fuelled all his life,
I thought of his cataracts ablaze with Heaven
and radiant with the sight of his dead wife,
light streaming from his mouth to shape her name,
'not Florence and not Flo but always Florrie.'
I thought how his cold tongue burst into flame
but only literally, which makes me sorry,
sorry for his sake there's no Heaven to reach.
I get it all from Earth my daily bread
but he hungered for release from mortal speech
that kept him down, the tongue that weighed like lead.
The baker’s man that no one will see rise
and England made to feel like some dull oaf
is smoke, enough to sting one person’s eyes
and ash (not unlike flour) for one small loaf.

Turns

Poem by Tony Harrison

I thought it made me look more 'working class'
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.
My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair:
You're every bit as good as that lot are!)

All the pension queue came out to stare.
Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR) ,
his cap turned inside up beside his head,
smudged H A H in purple Indian ink
and Brylcreem slicks displayed so folks migh think
he wanted charity for dropping dead.

He never begged. For nowt! Death's reticence
crowns his life, and me, I'm opening my trap
to busk the class that broke him for the pence
that splash like brackish tears into our cap.