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Monday Jazz Selection
Sep. 12th, 2017 12:24 amTime for some music - a selection of jazz -
Herbie Hancock - Hang Up Your Hang Ups
( More jazz here )
Enjoy.
Herbie Hancock - Hang Up Your Hang Ups
( More jazz here )
Enjoy.
Sep. 12th, 2017
Another Sunny Morning
Sep. 12th, 2017 11:42 amAnother sunny morning and yet i am full of cold hence the hot curry last night to sweat it out. Thankfully i only have one visit today ..which will be a food and drink visit.
I also drunk a hot toddy last night of hot milk,ginger stem and dashes of whisky in it. Well,at least if it cures good and if not it was still a good night cap to sleep on.
At the moment listening to some folk music before i head of to Canterbury.
I also drunk a hot toddy last night of hot milk,ginger stem and dashes of whisky in it. Well,at least if it cures good and if not it was still a good night cap to sleep on.
At the moment listening to some folk music before i head of to Canterbury.
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Poems of The Week
Sep. 12th, 2017 11:58 pmA couple of poems -
The Shell
by Molly Drake
Living grows round us like a skin
To shut away the outer desloation
For if we clearly mark the furthest deep
We should be dead long years before the grave
But turning around within the homely shell of worry, discontent and narrow joy
We grow and flourish and rarely see the outside dark that would confound our eyes
Some break the shell
I think that there are those who push their fingers through the brittle walls and make a hole
And through this cruel slit, stare out across the cinders of the world with naked eyes
They look both out and in
Knowing themselves and too much else beside.
Ice
by Andrew Motion
When friends no longer remembered
the reasons we set forth,
I switched between nanny and tartar
driving us on north.
Will you imagine a human hand
welded by ice to wood?
And skin when they chip it off?
I don't think you should.
By day the appalling loose beauty
of prowling floes:
lions' heads, dragons, crucifix-wrecks,
and a thing like a blown rose.
By night the seething hiss
of killers cruising past -
the silence after each fountain-jet,
and our hearts aghast.
Of our journey home and the rest
there is nothing more to say.
I have lived and not yet died.
I have sailed in the Scotia Sea.
The Shell
by Molly Drake
Living grows round us like a skin
To shut away the outer desloation
For if we clearly mark the furthest deep
We should be dead long years before the grave
But turning around within the homely shell of worry, discontent and narrow joy
We grow and flourish and rarely see the outside dark that would confound our eyes
Some break the shell
I think that there are those who push their fingers through the brittle walls and make a hole
And through this cruel slit, stare out across the cinders of the world with naked eyes
They look both out and in
Knowing themselves and too much else beside.
Ice
by Andrew Motion
When friends no longer remembered
the reasons we set forth,
I switched between nanny and tartar
driving us on north.
Will you imagine a human hand
welded by ice to wood?
And skin when they chip it off?
I don't think you should.
By day the appalling loose beauty
of prowling floes:
lions' heads, dragons, crucifix-wrecks,
and a thing like a blown rose.
By night the seething hiss
of killers cruising past -
the silence after each fountain-jet,
and our hearts aghast.
Of our journey home and the rest
there is nothing more to say.
I have lived and not yet died.
I have sailed in the Scotia Sea.
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