In the Chinese calendar, the year of the rooster starts today, 28th January 2017, so it seems a good reason to have some cockerels, roosters and chickens on the blog this weekend.
The photo at the top was taken at the Bristol Balloon Festival some ten years ago. I feel it’s a bit cartoonish to go with this poetry vignette of dawn breaking in the Spanish pueblo where I used to live, but I don’t seem to have many photos on file that are right for the topic. Continue reading “home to roost”
I’ve been thinking about the presidential inauguration and wondering if I might be able to work a neat pun into this post. Something based on the prefix in being combined with the root augur – that the inaugural can’t augur well.
But that seems a little contrived, so let’s move swiftly on and talk about poetry.
The last two inauguration ceremonies – and, frankly, the only two I’ve really paid much attention to, presumably because of the live reporting via the internet – have both included poets reading their work; but it turns out poems have featured in only five presidential inaugurations. Continue reading “auguries”
Never mind the blackberries and michaelmas daisies, the conkers and chrysanthemums, the reddening maples, yellow leaves crunching like cornflakes underfoot and whirling like russet butterflies overhead, Autumn must be the most confusing of the seasons when it comes to saying when it actually begins. Continue reading “are we there yet?”
It’s April 23rd and there are a number of things to celebrate, so, I’ve gathered together some bits and pieces from the blog archive. First of all, it’s World Book and Copyright Day. So, a book-themed poem:
A spotless Stephen King
sits opposite Dostoyevsky
on the metro. The Russian
looks a little down-at-heel:
his jacket, once expensive leather,
is now worn and shabby. Sadly,
he is only a translation. Beside him,
a paternal-looking businessman
holds tight to Harry Potter, while,
further down the car, a little girl
in a blue frock, frets and scuffs
her round-toed sandals. Defiantly,
her bare arms clutch Lewis Carroll
to her undeveloped chest.