Ann could really make an entrance. She could walk into any office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
More memories.......
breakfast
STOP IT NOW! I am beginning to believe you. Do you have children? It is your duty to fail for the greater pleasure of others. Other parents are competitive. I teach my kids to lose with style and grace. Who cares about winning. Winning is for losers.lizzytysh wrote:C2 ~ I just said it 8 times and stopped out of boredom. I guess it's because I've never stapled my tongue to the wall that I'm able to do it.
Booooooooy, I'll say ~ I went with one once [a poofy lawyer].
He never could say Irish wristwatch, either. Maybe it's a lawyer thing ~ or a thing with people who deal in the legal field, at all.....or staple their tongues to walls ~ that makes it so tough for you two.
~ Well, okay, if you insist, go ahead and role model losing with style and grace for us.
He never could say Irish wristwatch, either. Maybe it's a lawyer thing ~ or a thing with people who deal in the legal field, at all.....or staple their tongues to walls ~ that makes it so tough for you two.
~ Well, okay, if you insist, go ahead and role model losing with style and grace for us.-
Byron
- Posts: 3171
- Joined: Tue Nov 26, 2002 3:01 pm
- Location: Mad House, Eating Tablets, Cereals, Jam, Marmalade and HONEY, with Albert
The trouble is Elizabeth, some people have absolutely know idea which way they lean......
I've seen them on the Mersey ferries. Most confusing!
I've seen them on the Mersey ferries. Most confusing!
"Bipolar is a roller-coaster ride without a seat belt. One day you're flying with the fireworks; for the next month you're being scraped off the trolley" I said that.
pay attention! I do it constantly already.lizzytysh wrote:Booooooooy, I'll say ~ I went with one once [a poofy lawyer].
He never could say Irish wristwatch, either. Maybe it's a lawyer thing ~ or a thing with people who deal in the legal field, at all.....or staple their tongues to walls ~ that makes it so tough for you two.
back to packing....
.
.]-
Snow (retired)
- Posts: 158
- Joined: Thu Jul 14, 2005 11:18 pm
Joe Way wrote:
>Corso is buried in a grave plot in Rome across from his beloved Percy Bysshe.
Dearest Joe,
Thank you for the Corso poem, and your appreciated remarks. It must be quite an honour, posthumous or otherwise, for one writer to be acclaimed in the very title of another's work. This happened in the Stephen Scobie poem: 'You kill me Leonard, you really do'. If you have not seen it I can probably find a copy on my hard-disc.
One of my three daughters has just given me a third grandchild, the first male born in my family for many years - and he is very handsome. I tell you this because they are to call him 'Josef'. My half-sister is terminally ill with breast cancer, so I see both hands of the Creator.
Yes, Shelley is buried in Rome - or at least symbolically. In truth his ashes were mostly blown along the sand after the fire burned out. Trelawny had ripped out the heart with his bare hands, and it was wrapped in a sheet of paper taken from the 'Adonais' manuscript - or so the story goes. The macabre souvenir was found amongst Mary's belongings after she died - and buried with her in Bournemouth.
But all of this is an enormous subject - I have a whole library of old books on this alone. Thank you once again, Joe. I am glad to see you back home.
>Corso is buried in a grave plot in Rome across from his beloved Percy Bysshe.
Dearest Joe,
Thank you for the Corso poem, and your appreciated remarks. It must be quite an honour, posthumous or otherwise, for one writer to be acclaimed in the very title of another's work. This happened in the Stephen Scobie poem: 'You kill me Leonard, you really do'. If you have not seen it I can probably find a copy on my hard-disc.
One of my three daughters has just given me a third grandchild, the first male born in my family for many years - and he is very handsome. I tell you this because they are to call him 'Josef'. My half-sister is terminally ill with breast cancer, so I see both hands of the Creator.
Yes, Shelley is buried in Rome - or at least symbolically. In truth his ashes were mostly blown along the sand after the fire burned out. Trelawny had ripped out the heart with his bare hands, and it was wrapped in a sheet of paper taken from the 'Adonais' manuscript - or so the story goes. The macabre souvenir was found amongst Mary's belongings after she died - and buried with her in Bournemouth.
But all of this is an enormous subject - I have a whole library of old books on this alone. Thank you once again, Joe. I am glad to see you back home.
Dear Geoffrey,One of my three daughters has just given me a third grandchild, the first male born in my family for many years - and he is very handsome. I tell you this because they are to call him 'Josef'. My half-sister is terminally ill with breast cancer, so I see both hands of the Creator.
You are very wise to accept the fair coin of our joys and sorrows. The white radiance of eternity is diminished without its stains. Your family is fortunate to have you walking together with them now.
I am so glad that you are writing here after these many years. This tavern parliament needed your voice and we are all the better for it.
Thank you also for the reminders about the circumstances of Shelley's internment. Corso also went to the Protestant Cemetary in Rome as ashes. His daughter, a nurse from Minneapolis, who cared for him during his last illness accompanied them along with a group of friends. It took a strong effort to get them to allow his ashes to be buried there near his heroes, Shelley and Keats. Anne and I already have our burial plot reserved-not that we think about it much. I've heard it said when someone breaks into a cold sweat that someone has just stepped on one's grave. I tried it but it didn't work, but maybe it doesn't work when it's your own-or perhaps I'll be lost at sea. I stepped on Anne's to see what would happen, but she only cuffed me-I should have known better-she's a sensible woman with little patience for my shenanigans.
Take care, dear friend-
Joe
P. S. Yes, I would love to see Scobie's poem about Leonard.
-
Byron
- Posts: 3171
- Joined: Tue Nov 26, 2002 3:01 pm
- Location: Mad House, Eating Tablets, Cereals, Jam, Marmalade and HONEY, with Albert
You turn men into dust
and say: 'Go back, sons of men.'
To your eyes a thousand years
are like yesterday, come and gone,
no more than a watch in the night.
Our lives are not long. They are as short as the blink of an eye.
Andrew Marvell wrote a piece To his coy mistress about how short life is and how they should not waste time. His words are so true. He and his mistress have been dead for over 400 years.
Eternity is unimanginable for the human mind.
What I'm attempting to say is that we have to be thankful for the short time that our friends and lovers are with us, and us with them.
and say: 'Go back, sons of men.'
To your eyes a thousand years
are like yesterday, come and gone,
no more than a watch in the night.
Our lives are not long. They are as short as the blink of an eye.
Andrew Marvell wrote a piece To his coy mistress about how short life is and how they should not waste time. His words are so true. He and his mistress have been dead for over 400 years.
Eternity is unimanginable for the human mind.
What I'm attempting to say is that we have to be thankful for the short time that our friends and lovers are with us, and us with them.
"Bipolar is a roller-coaster ride without a seat belt. One day you're flying with the fireworks; for the next month you're being scraped off the trolley" I said that.
Dear Geoffrey ~
I'm not familiar with the literary content of your and Joe's postings, but I do know about loss. I'm very sorry to hear that you are having to painfully watch your half-sister endure this ending. I know it's little consolation that you both are having the time to say goodbye. I'm very sorry.
On the life-affirming end of this spectrum, congratulations on the entrance of a new male into your family. I'm sure that everyone, including your half-sister, is very happy with this truly, blessed event.
~ Elizabeth
I'm not familiar with the literary content of your and Joe's postings, but I do know about loss. I'm very sorry to hear that you are having to painfully watch your half-sister endure this ending. I know it's little consolation that you both are having the time to say goodbye. I'm very sorry.
On the life-affirming end of this spectrum, congratulations on the entrance of a new male into your family. I'm sure that everyone, including your half-sister, is very happy with this truly, blessed event.
~ Elizabeth
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Fljotsdale
- Posts: 800
- Joined: Sun Aug 07, 2005 1:27 am
- Location: Birmingham, UK
I posted the poem in Other Poetry if anyone wants to read it. The thread is Andrew MarvellByron wrote: Our lives are not long. They are as short as the blink of an eye.
Andrew Marvell wrote a piece To his coy mistress about how short life is and how they should not waste time. His words are so true. He and his mistress have been dead for over 400 years.
Eternity is unimanginable for the human mind.
What I'm attempting to say is that we have to be thankful for the short time that our friends and lovers are with us, and us with them.
I love 'To His Coy Mistress'; makes me laugh.
Only just found this video of LC:
http://ca.youtube.com/user/leonardcohen?ob=4" target="_blank
This one does make me cry.
http://ca.youtube.com/user/leonardcohen?ob=4" target="_blank
This one does make me cry.
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Snow (retired)
- Posts: 158
- Joined: Thu Jul 14, 2005 11:18 pm
Joe Way wrote:
>Yes, I would love to see Scobie's poem about Leonard.
Dear Joe,
I cannot stay at the moment. I have a plateful of scampi and chips on my lap, which I'm eating for breakfast. I've put 'Tuffy Tape' in one of my tyres and still have the other one to do - and there's a red-headed woman here called Alfhild who is in the front room.
I will try to call back tonight, as there are some things I want to say. Meanwhile here is Professor Scobie's poem. If I hear that he objects to it being here I will return and erase it using the edit option that you brought to my attention before you went away.
I cannot remember which of his books the poem comes from, but I believe it was during the late 1970s or early 1980s. Never appeared on internet before, though. I'm probably going to get shot for this. Please, don't anybody copy it onto your hard-discs until we know for sure he doesn't mind it being made available.
Geoffrey.
---------------------------------------
FOR LEONARD COHEN
- a poem by Stephen Scobie
Leonard you kill me
you really do
you and your chain gang songs
you and your butterfly women
with seventeen names
and anonymous bodies
you really must be joking
Leonard you must be joking
parading round these pages
wearing your heart on the sleeve
of a hospital smock
a medical specimen torn apart
in an intern's clumsy dissection
or else on the sleeve
of a torn old uniform
the dusty coat of a dusty man
who has just come back from the war
tra-la
Leonard we know where you've been
some lover has left her mark
all over your forehead
it glows in the dark
a sputtering neon
saying Cain saying Adolf
saying God
Leonard you say that you love me
like all of your readers
it's hard to believe any poet
who's been living in Greece for too long
someone will soon send around
officials in long rubber coats
to torture the suntan
away from your skin
Leonard what is this shit
a perpetual diary
locked with a golden clasp
oh yes, and a silver pin
which has been mislaid
(abandon the pun)
out there on St. Catherine's highway
Leonard I know you're the one
I looked at the sun
I broke the corrective lenses
now everything is in eclipse
the page is getting dark
the page is getting white
Leonard where are you
I'm in need of a fix
I'm in need of salvation
if you don't show up soon
I'll put an end to the movies
I'll play all of my old
Bob Dylan recordings
I'll sideswipe my car
against my own chimney
I'll swallow the ice
I'll swallow the fire
Leonard you owe me
the price of your soul
© Stephen Scobie
>Yes, I would love to see Scobie's poem about Leonard.
Dear Joe,
I cannot stay at the moment. I have a plateful of scampi and chips on my lap, which I'm eating for breakfast. I've put 'Tuffy Tape' in one of my tyres and still have the other one to do - and there's a red-headed woman here called Alfhild who is in the front room.
I will try to call back tonight, as there are some things I want to say. Meanwhile here is Professor Scobie's poem. If I hear that he objects to it being here I will return and erase it using the edit option that you brought to my attention before you went away.
I cannot remember which of his books the poem comes from, but I believe it was during the late 1970s or early 1980s. Never appeared on internet before, though. I'm probably going to get shot for this. Please, don't anybody copy it onto your hard-discs until we know for sure he doesn't mind it being made available.
Geoffrey.
---------------------------------------
FOR LEONARD COHEN
- a poem by Stephen Scobie
Leonard you kill me
you really do
you and your chain gang songs
you and your butterfly women
with seventeen names
and anonymous bodies
you really must be joking
Leonard you must be joking
parading round these pages
wearing your heart on the sleeve
of a hospital smock
a medical specimen torn apart
in an intern's clumsy dissection
or else on the sleeve
of a torn old uniform
the dusty coat of a dusty man
who has just come back from the war
tra-la
Leonard we know where you've been
some lover has left her mark
all over your forehead
it glows in the dark
a sputtering neon
saying Cain saying Adolf
saying God
Leonard you say that you love me
like all of your readers
it's hard to believe any poet
who's been living in Greece for too long
someone will soon send around
officials in long rubber coats
to torture the suntan
away from your skin
Leonard what is this shit
a perpetual diary
locked with a golden clasp
oh yes, and a silver pin
which has been mislaid
(abandon the pun)
out there on St. Catherine's highway
Leonard I know you're the one
I looked at the sun
I broke the corrective lenses
now everything is in eclipse
the page is getting dark
the page is getting white
Leonard where are you
I'm in need of a fix
I'm in need of salvation
if you don't show up soon
I'll put an end to the movies
I'll play all of my old
Bob Dylan recordings
I'll sideswipe my car
against my own chimney
I'll swallow the ice
I'll swallow the fire
Leonard you owe me
the price of your soul
© Stephen Scobie