tehomet: (Danny <3 Steve)
The Orange by Wendy Cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange-
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave-
They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.

tehomet: (View of rain and a tree)
It's Remembrance Sunday today.

Sean Bean reads Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen. I've read this poem a zillion times but this reading gave me a new appreciation for and of it.

This is part of a series of short films featuring actors reading poetry from the World War One period. In the same video, Gemma Arterton reads a poem by Wilfred Owen too, and Sophie Okonedo reads one of Rupert Brooke's.
tehomet: (Default)
Medicine Woman

Medicine Woman
holds tools for healing in her magic basket.
Medicine Woman
dances in the moonlight and sings her prayers.
Medicine Woman knows herbs and signs, seasons and stars.
Medicine Woman is old - is young
is in between maiden and mother, mother and crone.
She is the part in each of us that knows deeply.
That sees clearly. That listens between words.
She moves between worlds.
Medicine Woman cannot be domesticated, at all. ever.
Even when we don't recognize her,
She is there. Always. Calling.
She has butterflies in her hair.
She has on red cowboy boots.
She can be found at the movies
with teenage girls on Saturday night.
She may get a tattoo of the Guadualupe
on her bicep in downtown San Franciso.
Or rollerskate through Central Park at 7 am.
She may teach workshops on tantra
or accounting or raw food or revolution.
She definitely runs with wolves and wolfey women.
She is fierce about many many things.
She is compassionate about, well, almost everything.
She plays hard. She takes action.
She tree sits and marches and prays.
She may paint glitter on her toe nails
and let her armpit hair grow, and her mustache too.
She is not one way, we cannot say,
oh yes, that is how she is.
Because she is the changing one.
She is the place within us that wants it all.
And wants to give it all up. And live simply.
She swims naked in the ocean.
She rides a motorcycle up the coast.
She paints, she writes, she dances, she dreams, she runs businesses.
She is medicine woman.
She heals the unexpressed in us.
She asks the question -
Who are you not being?


© Shiloh Sophia McCloud 2007

the 11th

Nov. 11th, 2010 11:55 pm
tehomet: (The Crow)
Here's a poem Carol Ann Duffy wrote when the last British veterans of the Great War died in 2009.

Last Post


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.


If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud...
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.
You walk away.

You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.

You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.

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