poemsandpaths.blogspot.com

Poems and Paths

Wednesday, 2 November 2016. Spurn - a view from the edge of the world. Spurn – a view from the edge of the world. The coast of the East Riding of Yorkshire, from Bridlington down to its culmination at Spurn Point, is a raw and often bleak stretch of edgeland, constantly being eroded and changed by the sea. Under the waves there are the remains of numerous villages and towns that are now merely names on old maps: Auburn (coincidentally, also the name of Goldsmith's Deserted Village. Winifred Holtby’...

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Poems and Paths | poemsandpaths.blogspot.com Reviews

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Wednesday, 2 November 2016. Spurn - a view from the edge of the world. Spurn – a view from the edge of the world. The coast of the East Riding of Yorkshire, from Bridlington down to its culmination at Spurn Point, is a raw and often bleak stretch of edgeland, constantly being eroded and changed by the sea. Under the waves there are the remains of numerous villages and towns that are now merely names on old maps: Auburn (coincidentally, also the name of Goldsmith's Deserted Village. Winifred Holtby’...

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Poems and Paths | poemsandpaths.blogspot.com Reviews

https://poemsandpaths.blogspot.com

Wednesday, 2 November 2016. Spurn - a view from the edge of the world. Spurn – a view from the edge of the world. The coast of the East Riding of Yorkshire, from Bridlington down to its culmination at Spurn Point, is a raw and often bleak stretch of edgeland, constantly being eroded and changed by the sea. Under the waves there are the remains of numerous villages and towns that are now merely names on old maps: Auburn (coincidentally, also the name of Goldsmith's Deserted Village. Winifred Holtby’...

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poemsandpaths.blogspot.com

1

Poems and Paths: November 2013

http://poemsandpaths.blogspot.com/2013_11_01_archive.html

Sunday, 24 November 2013. THE VOICE OF TREES. This is something a bit experimental. The Voice of Trees. With the voice of trees. With partial or oblivious minds. While in the gentle flickering. Of sun through leaves. In time to the primordial tune. O, lovely dancer,. Moving with the grace of years,. The singing of the trees. You learned your steps. With that sound ringing in your ears;. You moved in sempiturnal harmony. With the spirit of the woods,. Sat and watched from the shadows. That might come to us.

2

Poems and Paths: April 2013

http://poemsandpaths.blogspot.com/2013_04_01_archive.html

Tuesday, 23 April 2013. THE TRAIL OF FOXES. The Trail of Foxes. Today, I tried to take the trail of foxes,. Slyly following marks engraved. On powerful terrain, made over years. Under the half-closed eyes. Of dubious and fitful moons. I felt the overwhelming need. To creep in surly, inauspicious places,. For, just like those who follow gypsies,. I am greedy to uncover,. Things I’ve never been allowed to see. But armed and vicious gate-keepers of briars. Stabbed and stopped my curious advance,. Take up th...

3

Poems and Paths: September 2013

http://poemsandpaths.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html

Friday, 27 September 2013. THE TIME OF PARTING. The time of parting. Now is the time to leave the hills. And the summer shades of woodland. Where we have lived by shadows,. Searching for rare gods. On paths of our own making. We are no longer bound there. To the earth that holds our dead. Now is the time of parting. From that half-imagined land. Where the very act of speaking. Places us apart –. We, the outsiders,. Looking in upon a world. Where we do not belong. Returning to the garden,. Still we long f...

4

Poems and Paths: BEYOND THE PALE. Rewilding Psychogeography.

http://poemsandpaths.blogspot.com/2015/11/beyond-pale-rewilding-psychogeography.html

Thursday, 5 November 2015. BEYOND THE PALE. Rewilding Psychogeography. As a change from poetry, but related to it, here's an article I wrote about that wide-ranging and imprecise activity, psychogeography. Beside an old church in the pretty village of Rudston, in the heart of the Yorkshire Wolds, a vast needle of stone, said to be the tallest single megalithic standing stone in Britain, bursts out from the earth and pierces the broad sky. F or the Situationist,. But for me,. In 1955, Debord, whilst parad...

5

Poems and Paths: March 2013

http://poemsandpaths.blogspot.com/2013_03_01_archive.html

Sunday, 17 March 2013. I heard tell of a timeless oak. That for centuries has stood. By a long-forgotten path. Where once, they say, there was a wood. The old ones call it Wyre Oak;. Its age is such that no-one can. Tell me how it came by that. Or when the legend first began. It was inevitable, I knew,. That soon we would be called to meet,. So on a strange, snow-sprinkled day. When startled Spring and Winter greet. Each other with cold courtesy,. But neither of them can yet agree. Have you stood firm up...

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poemsandpaths.blogspot.com

Poems and Paths

Wednesday, 2 November 2016. Spurn - a view from the edge of the world. Spurn – a view from the edge of the world. The coast of the East Riding of Yorkshire, from Bridlington down to its culmination at Spurn Point, is a raw and often bleak stretch of edgeland, constantly being eroded and changed by the sea. Under the waves there are the remains of numerous villages and towns that are now merely names on old maps: Auburn (coincidentally, also the name of Goldsmith's Deserted Village. Winifred Holtby’...

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What if poems could be symphonies, and people their orchestra? June 16, 2015. Who ‘neath the dark of ego’s monument,. Has’t prayed to god both of peace, of war,. But I, none other; too what reason for. Than to save a self from its own descent,. Who amidst drunkards and harlots spoke. Of the virtue in wine, the vices of a virgin. But I, before faith; falling prey to burgeon,. Bearing the bastards of our heaven as yolk,. Of remorse; a thistle and solace; its garden. I give unto ye, then unto ye I surrender.

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Friday, September 9, 2016. By Jorge Luis Borges (translated by Alastair Reid). Daylight leaks in, and sluggishly I surface. From my own dreams into the common dream. And things assume again their proper places. And their accustomed shapes. Into this present. The Past intrudes, in all its dizzying range-. The centuries-old habits of migration. In birds and men, the armies in their legions. All fallen to the sword, and Rome and Carthage. The trappings of my day also come back:. Labels: Jorge Luis Borges.