POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek

[keithgood838]

Eman, the Irish climate is more temperate than the British
one; however it is the temperate nature of the Matt Monro-loving
Irish that makes them so likeable - let me I put it like this:

EARTH SALT

There is a winsome warmth about the Irish
not readily replicated elsewhere;
a personally generated radiance
that counters stilted coolness in the air.
An eye-twinkle that hints at capriciousness,
and smile equally at home in the eyes;
a laugh at daft political correctness
though the Irish joke comes as no surprise.
Defending their God-fearing keep from swearing,
they inventively marshal euphemisms,
which make the Irish all the more endearing
when allied to disarming Irishisms.

No Peacock syndrome warps the Irish psyche;
such strutting steps no Irish person takes;
perhaps oleaginous traits were banished
when Saint Patrick rid the green idyll of snakes.

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

MISSING MATT'S MAGIC

The following are some lines taken from two of the most exquisite
lyrics in the popular music songbook; songs I wish our Matt had recorded:

If ever I would leave you, it wouldn't be in summer; seeing
you in summer I never would go: your hair streaked with sunlight;
your lips red as flame; your face with a lustre that puts gold to shame ...
... And would I leave you running merrily through the snow, or on a winter's
evening when you catch the firelight's glow ...?

'You are the promised kiss of springtime
that makes the lonely winter seem long;
you are the breathless hush of evening
that trembles on the brink of a lovely song.
You are the angel glow that lights a star,
the dearest wish I know is what you are ...'

Now I can prehear each masterly Monro version
before meeting up in the Shangri-la dimension ...

[keithgood838]

This year Britain's putupon March is the host whose dallying
winter guest has worn out his less-than-warm welcome.
Here Wadsworth describes the month's peevish, resentful side
while my inapt lines seem to portray an unfounded optimism
that the weather may become more kindly disposed towards us:

MARCH

I Martius am! Once first, and now the third!
To lead the year was my appointed place;
A mortal dispossessed me by a word,
And set there Janus with a double face.
Hence I make war on all the human race;
I shake the cities with my hurricanes;
I flood the rivers and their banks efface,
And drown the farms and hamlet with my rains.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

March blows kisses to her Green Man fellow
fresh from his slumber through winter's night,
bestriding the land in green and yellow,
sponsors of shamrock wearing and summer light.

From Calendar Characters

[Eman]

Cool love Longfellow also.

[keithgood838]

The weather here has indeed been cool Eman, virtually since last autumn.
Forgive me for not taking my usual meticulous care with my post, thereby
necessitating a couple of revisions. Very uncool.

[Marian]

Have you been celebrating St Patrick's Day Keith?!!!

[keithgood838]

SUPERFLUITY

Yes Marian, a drop more than enough
of the celebratory black stuff.

[Marian]

Hope you had a great day!

[Lena & Harry Smith]

We spotted a few who had obviously been celebrating in A&E at Northwick Park Hospital on Sunday night.

[keithgood838]

Eman's obvious enjoyment of this forum puts me in mind
of Alexander Pope's lines:

THE CONTENTED CALIFORNIAN

Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Our good friend measures up as such,
content in the sun of San Diego
while staying in entertaining touch
with the magic website of Matt Monro.

[keithgood838]

Now that April has finally managed to wriggle free
of our protracted British winter's icy embrace, let us hope
that the appealingly capricious month will revert to type:

APRIL

I open wide the portals of the Spring
To welcome the procession of the flowers,
With their gay banners, and the birds that sing
Their song of songs from my aerial towers.
I soften with my sunshine and my showers
The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide
Into the hearts of men; and with the hours
Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Soppy April consistently changes,
the chameleon of joy and sadness;
from sporadic showers of tears she ranges
to wreathed in the sunshine smiles of gladness.

from Calendar Characters

[Eman]

Ahhh nothing like Longfellow, Keith.
Here in CA, it's weird, gray gloomy weather a hint of sunshine. I haven't seen any blooming flowers either. Mom's roses haven't bloomed and they would be out just about now. Wonder if this is a sign that this May will be more gray then the past ones. Hopefully the summer months are nice, I want more beach days!!!

[keithgood838]

Here's a 'blooming' rose for your mum, Eman
with my compliments:

THE ROSE

Pale-cheeked, slender-necked,
in a shimmering green-leaf wrap,
the exquisite lady
leads
the all-variety garden show.

Taking her cue
from the nodding stars,
she dutifully bows
and dreams
of heady triumphs still to come.

Washed by the morning dew
or showering in summer rain,
she fills her days
baring her soul to the sun,
and holding the air in thrall
with her subtle scent.

Now, as fades the very beauty
that proved her undoing,
the unfulfilled performer
dies
of disillusion
and a broken heart ...

Keith Good

[Eman]

Awww that's just lovely Keith. I'll give it to my Mum!!

[keithgood838]

I hope she will appreciate it, Eman. The late lovely Marilyn Monroe
was complicit in its creation.
The following lines have lain on my desk recently; I have copied them
for someone unable to cross what Edward Thomas called 'the borders
of sleep, the unfathomable deep forest'. So I thought, 'Why not post them
on this forum?'

STILLNESS

When the words rustle no more,
And the last work's done,
When the bolt lies deep in the door,
And Fire, our Sun,
Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;

When from the clock's last chime to the next chime
Silence beats his drum,
And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time
Wheeling and whispering come,
She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:

Then twittering out into the night my thought-birds flee,
I am emptied of all my dreams:
I only hear Earth turning, only see
Ether's long bankless streams,
And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.

James Elroy Flecker
(1884-1915)