Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Poetry Wednesday






I’m posting a Clerihew - thanks to Michael (Shouting at Streetlights) on Blogger!!

Frustrated Barbara
Is looking for a harbor
In which to dump her computer
Because it isn’t acting as it oughta’

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Poetry Wednesday It is Dark




It’s dark
Very, very dark
Let me sleep
Let me sleep
Off the pain
The feeling of gloom
Of hopelessness
That embraces me

It’s light
Very, very light
Let me sleep
Continue to sleep
To stave off
The pain the doom
The hopelessness
Still embracing me

The dark
Of the night
Brings no peace
The light
Of the day
Is not enough
To quell
My uneasy spirit

In the dark
Should I sleep
And hope for
Dreamless peace?
In the light
Should I wake
And hope for
Soothing calm?

Friday, June 5, 2009

FFFF Pigeon Point Tobago

FFFF Pigeon Point Tobago




After exams and a few days off from work, my daughter went to Tobago for a couple of days last week. We have lived in Trinidad since 1992 but never made the time to go over to the beautiful holiday island where the eccentric Sir Norman Parkinson (Parky), photographer extraordinaire of royalty and famous models made his home long before anyone other than Tobagonions lived there. He set up a pig farm in Tobago and marketed "Porkinson's Bangers' supposedly because he missed real British sausages commonly known as 'bangers'.


However this is not about Parky. This is about the foto my daughter's took of the spot that is used all over the world, to market the Caribbean. The famous Pigeon Point.




Copyright NML Tobago 2009




Pigeon Point Heritage Park is often considered Tobago's most beautiful beach and is home to the famous thatch-roofed jetty which has become an internationally recognized signature of Tobago. The resort includes a long stretch of white sand beach with warm aquamarine waters.


The photo below (not taken by my daughter) is how it is portrayed on many a brochure.

.

Hope I haven't broken the rules of FFFF

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Poetry Wednesday Tarantella

magnify
Joseph Hilaire Pierre Ren̩ Belloc (27 July 1870 Р16 July 1953) was an Anglo-French write and historian who became a naturalized subject in 1902. He was one of the most prolific writers in England during the early twentieth century.
Belloc was born in La-Calle-Saint-Cloud, France to a French father and English mother and grew up in England. His paternal grandfather was the painter Jean-Hilaire Belloc and his mother Elizabeth Rayner-Parkes was also a writer, and a great-granddaughter of the English chemist Joseph Priestley.
Tarantella is another of my favourites. I did not have to learn this by heart for exams but rather for recital on Parents Days! A group of us, with coaching from a professional, would stand on the stage and lift the roof of the assembly hall as we recited this. I don’t think I ever understood it at that time. The Tarantella is a southern Italian couple folk dance in 6/8 time accompanied by tambourines. Although the school I went to had two orchestras we were not accompanied by tambourines but we recited it in 6/8 time. And, I can still do it!!!






Tarantella
DO you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:But the boom:
Of the far waterfall like doom.






Hilaire Belloc


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