Well you gave me the choice to turn
And in grace not lose the voice that
I brought from my face
That howled in the wind
Of the afternoon opera
Well you gave and I took it
You gave the choice to turn
And in the grace I must learn
To embrace the new
While I release the old
That is the only life that is true
Move on, move on he said
And the snow winds blew
On the mountain tops head
And it was new and oh so true
That Scotland was the way ahead
I knew
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Are these ties, strong enough to bind?
Are these eyes open enough to find
The one truth hiding amongst all the debris
After the explosion crying out let me free
Are these feet strong enough to walk
The thousand footsteps on the path of forks
And will their soles choose left or right
On the road of choices, on the path of light
How can you say you don't believe me
When I know it is you
Who is lying to me
Oh give me a choice, throw me a frizbee
Let me sound my voice, I want to be free
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Down, down into the deep
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
It was first on the windowsill in my home
That I lie in the sun on a stone slab
And I thought I am Jesus Christ and some
Mystical power came and gave me a jab
You might say that I had it coming
That Bodhisattvas had my back
But Karma is a killer and here is the craic
Why does God's voice sound like beat of distant drumming
Or perhaps it's just the sound of pain leaving the body's rack
I knew you later on when we were in High School
The Dalai Lama rose upon my map
I thought long and hard that I might be a monk
But couldn't remove the good book from my lap
And I learnt about redemption and the redeeming God
I learnt about atoning for our sins
And that Protestants think we must earn our salvation
While others think it's all just predestined
You see I thought I had it coming
as a Catholic,
For we all start off with original sin
It means we're predisposed to some evil acts
But we don't have to listen to the devil within
And then I learnt they had it easier in the Orthodox Church
That everyone is born with a clean slate
No problems are inherent and we have free choice
We just better not wait too long to use our voice
Or it will be too late
So I thought I had it coming
But now I learnt it could be reversed
That I am not bridled with inherent vice
That if I follow correctly a protestant work ethic
And always follow other people's good advice
Maybe I'll earn the merit to make it to heaven's gate
And by the power of free will
It may not be too late
Then I heard of the Vedic traditions of India
And it all made sense in a colourful life
Blue demons and Angel figures in a mandala
Revolved in Karmic wheel pinned by a knife
And you walk its edge between life and death
And you must give your thanks with prayer of your breath
And even the Kama Sutra leads like a thread
Of the right path to nirvana
Well I thought I had it coming
Then the Hiniyana gave me hope that I could live
And walk upon the water of the lake of Dharma
And maybe through Karma learn to give
Because what comes around goes around
And we are all incarnated into the living beings we deserve
If kind hearted actions and not harming others
Came top of your list then you'll preserve
Your current status or climb to a hiatus
But hatred and cruel malice you lived by then
you'll drop back down to earth
For Paradise is a place that we all have in our hearts
It's a place that we protect and must serve
Like guards protecting king and queen in the royal palace
We must forgo our dreams in order heaven to preserve
Yes I thought I had it coming then I learnt of God
And Jesus Christ who is love
And I knew just then that he could keep me in his bosom
And I would be forever his peace dove
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I had a hurt that came to me
It came like a roaring flower
It spoke of love's inconstancy
It spoke of love's great power
It let the yelp of timeless plea
That fall like the passing hour
No I said stop in your tracks
Don't fight in the burning tower
More shall calm the raging sea
More shall charge than cower
For hearts are bold on the aging quay
That waits like the rocks turned sour
And salt and kelp flow in my mouth
My eyes they see sea foam
Caught between the north and south
No direction have I home
The love that was strong did turn the key
To unlock the door of the prison
And I saw the prisoner mad to be free
And let him have his freedom
Oh I spent ten years a wandering on
Where the voice of life grew faint
And I heard my heart that called me on
To the canvass I should paint
And love like a lion did roar on
Down the darkened ruins of time
I leant upon the turnstile gate
And drifted to the tower
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Danube girl, on the banks of a brand new world
Making waves with your hand shoe twirl
In the sand by the river
Danube girl, I want to swim with you in the curls
Of the water as you dive for pearls, on the bed of the river
Can you hear me, singing through the sea
Did you hear the voices of a Europe that was free
Danube girl, some where upstream,
Where they make your dreams
Come true like in magazines
Trying find a new world
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I was at death's door
Knocking to come in
Cryin' what about love and what about Sin
Well I knocked so loud cried:
Won't you let me in
I was at death's door knockin to come in
They said
Have you bent your ear
Or taken it on the chin
When I was at death's door
Knockin'
to come in
Well I cried so loud
There's a wolf out here
And he's howlin' loud
Won't go away
But they said keep that wolf at bay
I cried how
They said hey
Won't you tell me what I can do about that?
I said aloud
But my voice fell flat
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The dirge was heard
In an echo
Of faceless voices
Down the tunnel escaping choices
On a single track minded train
Robber barons, and braids are framed
In forget me not knots
That tie down your friends
On the rails, down the line to freedom
Some signal man says you must change tracks
And hoops are thrown, like star jacks
To catch on the back of my hand
Like maps
I know so well, yet there's something I lack
A compass stored away
A needle on my lap
To follow the flow of flowers
down wild winding tracks
I see the gods of Ash collapse
In the leaves of their prayers
Their devotees, picking through snapped branches
Like grasping knobbly fingers of old witches
The skeletons of women trees
Who's men folk have wandered too far
Skeletons soon to be but ashes
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
So this is England
Walking down the High Street of a Somerset town
Shops are closing down
Or shut up already,
Walking with a dry mouth, parched
But The pub at the end
It hearkens no laugh
The bar is a dark place
The bar stools stand
Empty as a pocket
In an empty land
So this is England
I hear you say
What I had come to love
Has soon been blown away
In a wind of change
As across the motorway
The dust of dry fields
The corn storks decay
But this is Autumn, the voice of reason calls
And anyway what's the season, we
Still have the market stalls
And Artists crying treason
Writing written on the walls
Who's sold off this lovely land
The politicians or the fools?
Who voted for them in the first place?
In this government of crows
This murdering of Parliament
This place where no hope grows
And yet and yet I hear you say
This is Winter, it goes that way
Perennial seasons, people trying
To reclaim
The name of the rose
So this is England
Dig in your own garden and look after your own lot
Put up notices, beg for pardon
Give whatever you've got
Give as good as you get
And forget to pick forget-me-nots
For suckling bees at flowers
Could not count all of their stock
Store it in piles in larders
Fill up the honeypot
And save for a rainy day
For you know that happens a lot
Though we never spend
Even though today is no day to save
Gather it in at your wedding
Give it away at your grave
Yes this is England,
Hoarding your plot
And marking out the lines
Where you go
Where you do not
And never throw a stone at a crow
Never break the glass houses
Because we've built them out of stone
And we've tied them on necklaces down blouses
Caught in the cleavage gap
Between two breasts boom and bust
Crying I must, I must, I must improve my bust
Yet leverage of whale bones, never
Moved the beached body off the beach
We saw the mermaids waving in the surf
We gave it a pauper's grave and tears of grief
This great flotilla of what was once our dreams
That came up for air once
But heard only screams
Yelling go back, go back
And warning us of the sand banks
But it was too late as The hull
Hit ground and broke the cranks
Yet this is England
We've landed
This place of our dreams
This isle of forever
Forever down flowing streams
Water, water everywhere, flowing down the sink
Water, water everywhere, and only beer we drink
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Could it be that I lay dying
Could it be that I've been slain
All I see as I am lying
Are the ones to whom I blame
I hear the sounds in the cathedral
Mystical voices raised in praise
Of the one who keeps on shining
Though the days be numbered and are named
I see the fog lift from the river
I see the lights of dawn appear
And if you call me by my number
Behind the bars I my face sees clear
Just lock me up
Just unlock me
My heart is blocked
By immoral grease
I search for absolution
Wash me clean
Purify my release
All along the cold horizon
Warm sun rays begin to reign
Like a king in gold and iron
Shining out in His name
I see my light come shining
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Blue caesars
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Cry me with flowers
With hours of wasted love
Cry me with willows
Which sway
Cry me with your voice
Which breaks, gives way
Cry me, but cry you today
Cry me with ribbons
And Angels in towers
Cry me with Gibbons
Cry me with all your super powers
To move the Gibbous moon
But Cry you as too, so soon
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
This is taken from Radiolisting.org about Radio 3's words and music programme tonight. I'm sharing some of the links to extracts and music that can be freely found on the web.
SUN 17:30 Words and Music (m001j4rv)
The Emperor's New Clothes
Jane Austen’s Catherine in Northanger Abbey wonders what she should wear to the
ball, while Dickens’s Miss Havisham still wears her wedding clothes years after
she was ditched. Aldous Huxley considers the folds in his trousers, and
Diogenes folds his cloak in two for summer. Jenny Joseph threatens to wear
purple when she is old, and the Emperor parades without any clothes at all. And
in London Fashion Week we celebrate the wild and wonderful life and work of the
late Vivienne Westwood. There’s music from Prokofiev’s Cinderella, Richard
Strauss’s Salome, Anoushka Shankar, PJ Harvey and JS Bach. Our readers are
Julia Winwood and Jonathan Keeble.
Producer in Salford: Nick Holmes
You might be interested in a discussion on Free Thinking about a poetry
exhibition inspired by fashion at the National Poetry Library at London's
Southbank Centre. Shahidha Bari discusses the display of writing by Gwendolyn
Brooks, Stevie Smith, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath and Audre Lorde with the
exhibition organisers Sarah Parker and Gesa Werner.
02 00:01:25
Jane Austen
Northanger Abbey. Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
04 00:05:35
Charles Dickens
Great Expectations. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:01
She was dressed in rich materials,—satins, and lace, and silks,—all of white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about. She had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on,—the other was on the table near her hand,—her veil was but half arranged, her watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some flowers, and a Prayer-Book all confusedly heaped about the looking-glass.
It was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though I saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose had shrunk to skin and bone.
"Who is it?" said the lady at the table.
"Pip, ma'am."
"Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close."
It was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of the surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped at twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.
"Look at me," said Miss Havisham. "You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?"
05 00:06:33 A Hawk and a Hacksaw
Bury Me in the Clothes I was Married In
Performer: A Hawk and a Hacksaw
Duration 00:00:02
06 00:09:04 JS Bach
Sonata No. 2 for violin solo in A minor, BWV 1003 - Andante
Performer: Sigiswald Kuijken
Duration 00:00:05
07 00:10:06
Anne Carson
Father's Old Blue Cardigan. Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
08 00:14:32
Gertrude Stein
Tender Buttons (A Long Dress). Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
09 00:15:07 Jay Livingston
Buttons and Bows
Performer: Dinah Shore
Duration 00:00:02
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8vTvCZzBRQ
10 00:17:09 Arthur Bliss
The Lady of Shalott
Orchestra: BBC Concert Orchestra
Conductor: Martin Yates
Duration 00:00:04
11 00:17:23
Alfred Lord Tennyson
The Lady of Shalott. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:01
ALFRED TENNYSON, LORD TENNYSON
The Lady of Shalott
PART I
ON either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To
many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.'
12 00:21:34 Anoushka Shankar
Naked
Performer: Anoushka Shankar
Duration 00:00:04
13 00:21:55
Martin Jenkins
Diogenes the Cynic. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:04
Socrates,
who died when Diogenes was an infant, had also tried to live a simple life. He
usually went barefoot (although he would wear sandals when the occasion
demanded it) and he wore shabby old clothes; but he had a house and a family.
Walking through the market, Socrates famously said, “How many things I don’t
need!” Diogenes took Socratic simplicity to its logical conclusion, so much so
that Plato, Diogenes’ contemporary, allegedly called him ‘Socrates gone mad’.
The story goes that Diogenes saw a mouse eating the crumbs from the coarse
bread on which he had been dining, and was inspired to reduce his own life to
the bare minimum. So he reduced his clothing to a single cloak that he could
fold in two, making him cool in summer and warm in winter. He
consistently went barefoot. He carried a knapsack for such possessions as he
needed – basically his food. He lived by begging, but was willing to be invited
to dinner – though he once refused to dine a second time with a host whom he
felt had not been properly grateful for his presence the first time round. He
had no house, but notoriously slept in a large ceramic jar (which has often
been called a ‘barrel’). Another story about his austerity is that he had a
wooden cup but threw it away when he saw a lad drinking out of a cupped hand,
and realised that he already had what he needed for drinking.
14 00:23:35
Kahlil Gibran
On Clothes. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:01
On Clothes
Kahlil Gibran - 1883-1931
And the weaver said, Speak to us of Clothes.
And he answered:
Your clothes
conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful.
And though you
seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a
chain.
Would that you
could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your
raiment,
For the breath of
life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.
Some of you say,
“It is the north wind who has woven the clothes we wear.”
And I say, Ay, it
was the north wind,
But shame was his
loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread.
And when his work
was done he laughed in the forest.
Forget not that
modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean.
And when the
unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the
mind?
And forget not
that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with
your hair.
15 00:25:40 David Bowie
Fashion
Performer: The Sunburst Band
Duration 00:00:03
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPHF4933h4w
16 00:25:47
Hadley Freeman
Vivienne Westwood, Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
Vivienne Westwood has become what she never wanted to be: a national treasure,
the status conferred by a V&A retrospective, which celebrates the work of
the punk icon with a strong sense of tradition.
I’ve never really felt that Vivienne Westwood was for me.
But then, the feeling was probably mutual. Certainly the one, brief and pretty
unmemorable time that we met, the designer with a notorious penchant for
eschewing airkissing for brutal honesty gave that impression. It was at one of
those annoying “mwah-mwah, dahling, dahling” kind of fashion parties a few
years ago. In all honesty, we both looked equally bored, but that was where the
similarities ended. A well-meaning but patently misguided PR (is there any
other kind?) attempted to introduce us and make us the best of friends:
Westwood, in an enormous draped crinoline evening gown, replete with
gallumphing bustle, took a skating glance at my typical couldn’t-care-less
attire of jeans, Converse and blouse, and turned away. Westwood was not for me,
and I was not for her.
Think about Vivienne Westwood’s clothes and the word “high”
comes to mind: high octane, high cleavages and very, very high heels. For those
of us with a more timid approach to dressing, such in-your-face style can seem,
at best, as intimidating as the lady herself. Yet the woman who once proclaimed
that she “never wants to be a national treasure” has been given the final
confirmation that she is just that, with a retrospective of her work at the
Victoria and Albert museum.
17 00:27:51
Veronica Horwell
Vivienne Westwood.Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
No fashion designer ever had a Paris show like the one staged by Vivienne
Westwood in 1991. Although she was by then 50 and had been making clothes for
sale for 20 years – and the British Fashion Council had named her designer of
the year – she stitched much of that collection on her own sewing machine in
her shabby south London flat, hand-finishing it in the van that transported
her, and the models, to France, where the couturier Azzedine Alaïa had invited
her to guest-show. Despite those limitations, the collection was a major
success.
The life of Westwood, who has died aged 81, was like that,
both rackety and responsible.
18 00:28:53
Billy Collins
Taking off Emily Dickinson's Clothes. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:01
Taking Off Emily
Dickinson's Clothes
First,
her tippet made of tulle,
easily
lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the
back of a wooden chair.
And her
bonnet,
the bow
undone with a light forward pull.
Then
the long white dress, a more
complicated
matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons
down the back,
so tiny
and numerous that it takes forever
before
my hands can part the fabric,
like a
swimmer's dividing water,
and
slip inside.
You
will want to know
that
she was standing
by an
open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless,
a little wide-eyed,
looking
out at the orchard below,
the
white dress puddled at her feet
on the
wide-board, hardwood floor.
The
complexity of women's undergarments
in
nineteenth-century America
is not
to be waved off,
and I
proceeded like a polar explorer
through
clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches,
straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing
toward the iceberg of her nakedness.
Later,
I wrote in a notebook
it was
like riding a swan into the night,
but, of
course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.
What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.
So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset
and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.
19 00:30:12 Richard Strauss
Salome: Dance of the Seven Veils
Orchestra: City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra
Conductor: Andris Nelsons
Duration 00:00:09
20 00:39:38
Katherine Mansfield
A New Hymn.
Sing a song of men's pyjamas,
Half-past-six has got a pair,
And he's wearing them this evening,
And he's looking such a dear.
Sing a song of frocks with pockets
I have got one, it is so's
I can use my `nitial hankies
Every time I blow my nose.
21 00:39:59 Erik Satie
Les Valses distinguees du precieux degoute no.2; Son binocle
Performer: Alan Marks
Duration 00:00:01
22 00:41:25 Lee Hazlewood
These Boots Were Made for Walkin'
Performer: Emilie‐Claire Barlow
Duration 00:00:03
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mHjVyU_h690
23 00:41:25
Benjamin Zephaniah
Vegan Steven's Vegan Clothes. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:03
Remember that vegan called Steven
Yes he would not kill for no reason,
Well I saw him today
Wearing nothing I say
But some cabbage leaves
With a few peas on.
Benjamin Zephaniah
24 00:45:17 Bryn Terfel (bass baritone), Annette Bryn Parri
(piano) (artist)
La Bohè me; Act 4; Vecchia Zimarra, Senti
Performer: Bryn Terfel (bass baritone), Annette Bryn Parri (piano)
Duration 00:00:02
25 00:47:14
Hans Christian Andersen
The Emperor's New Clothes . Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:01
The Emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the procession,
through the streets of his capital. All the people standing by, and those at
the windows, cried out, “Oh! How beautiful are our Emperor’s new clothes! What
a magnificent train there is to the mantle; and how gracefully the scarf
hangs!” No one would admit these much admired clothes could not be seen because,
in doing so, he would have been saying he was either a simpleton or unfit for
his job.
“But the Emperor has nothing at all on!” said a little
child. “Listen to the voice of the child!” exclaimed his father. What the child
had said was whispered from one to another. “But he has nothing at all on!” at
last cried out all the people. The Emperor was upset, for he knew that the
people were right. However, he thought the procession must go on now! The lords
of the bedchamber took greater pains than ever, to appear holding up a train,
although, in reality, there was no train to hold, and the Emperor walked on in
his underwear.
Clothes of Sand
Nick Drake
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oE6PfDsYVjA
Who has dressed you in strange clothes of sand?
Who has taken you far from my land?
Who has said that my sayings were wrong?
And who will say that I stayed much too long?
Clothes of sand have covered your face
Given you meaning, taken my place
Some make your way on down to sea
Something has taken you so far from me
Does it now seem worth all the color of skies?
To see the earth through painted eyes
To look through panes of shaded glass
See the stains of winter's grass
Can you now return to from where you came?
Try to burn your changing name
Or with silver spoons and colored light
Will you worship moons in winter's night?
Clothes of sand have covered your face
Given you meaning taken my place
So make your way on down to the sea
Something has taken you so far from me
27 00:51:00 Ottorino Respighi
Three Botticelli Pictures: The Adoration of the Magi
Orchestra: City of London Sinfonia
Conductor: Richard Hickox
Duration 00:00:09
28 00:52:33
Aldous Huxley
The Doors of Perception. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:01
29 01:00:11
L. M. Montgomery
Anne of Green Gables. Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
After two hours of smoking and hard reflection Matthew arrived at a solution of
his problem. Anne was not dressed like the other girls!
The more Matthew thought about the matter the more he was
convinced that Anne never had been dressed like the other girls--never since
she had come to Green Gables. Marilla kept her clothed in plain, dark dresses,
all made after the same unvarying pattern. If Matthew knew there was such a
thing as fashion in dress it was as much as he did; but he was quite sure that
Anne's sleeves did not look at all like the sleeves the other girls wore. He
recalled the cluster of little girls he had seen around her that evening--all
gay in waists of red and blue and pink and white--and he wondered why Marilla
always kept her so plainly and soberly gowned.
Of course, it must be all right. Marilla knew best and
Marilla was bringing her up. Probably some wise, inscrutable motive was to be
served thereby. But surely it would do no harm to let the child have one pretty
dress--something like Diana Barry always wore. Matthew decided that he would
give her one; that surely could not be objected to as an unwarranted putting in
of his oar. Christmas was only a fortnight off. A nice new dress would be the
very thing for a present. Matthew, with a sigh of satisfaction, put away his pipe
and went to bed, while Marilla opened all the doors and aired the house.
30 01:01:49 Cole Porter
Silk Stockings
Singer: Don Ameche
Duration 00:00:02
31 01:03:55
Robert Herrick
Upon Julia's Clothes. Read by Jonathan Keeble
Duration 00:00:02
32 01:04:17 PJ Harvey
Dress (demo)
Performer: PJ Harvey
Duration 00:00:01
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVbgYf5CUKs
Put on that dress
I'm going out dancing
Starting off red
Clean and sparkling, he'll see me
[Verse 2]
Music play, make it dreamy for dancing
Must be a way that I can dress to please him
It's hard to walk in the dress, it's not easy
I'm swinging over like a heavy-loaded fruit tree
[Chorus]
If you put it on, if you put it on
If you put it on, if you put it on
[Verse 3]
It's sad to see
Lonely, all this lonely
Close up my eyes
Dreamy, dreamy music, make it be alright
[Verse 4]
Music play, make it good for romancing
Must be a way I can dress to please him
Swing and sway, everything'll be alright
But it's feeling so damn tight tonight
[Chorus]
If you put it on, if you put it on
If you put it on, if you put it on
[Bridge]
"You purdy thang," my man says
"But I bought you beautiful dresses"
"You purdy thang," my man says
"But I bought you beautiful dresses"
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[Verse 5]
Filthy tight, the dress is filthy
I'm falling flat, and my arms are empty
Clear the way, better get it out of this room
A falling woman in dancing costume
[Chorus]
If you put it on, if you put it on
If you put it on, if you put it on
If you put it on, if you put it on
If you put it on, if you put it on
33 01:06:08 William Walton
As You Like It: The Forest of Arden
Ensemble: English Serenata
Conductor: Guy Woolfenden
Duration 00:00:01
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEvicAAH-ew
34 01:06:21
William Shakespeare
As You Like It, Act I Scene III. Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
Rosalind
Why, whither shall we go?
Celia
To seek your father in the forest of Arden.
Rosalind
Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
Celia
I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire
And with a kind of umber smirch my face.
The like do you. So shall we pass along
And never stir assailants.
Rosalind
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand, and — in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will.
Celia
What shall I call thee when thou art a man?
Rosalind
I’ll have no worse a name than Jove’s own page,
And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
36 01:11:23
Jenny Joseph
Warning. Read by Julia Winwood
Duration 00:00:01
Warning
Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
37 01:12:50 Gogol Bordello
Start Wearing Purple
Performer: Gogol Bordello
Duration 00:00:01
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkkIwO_X4i4
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Champagne white buffalo
Flowing
Down over the plains
Champagne white Buffalo
Go against the herd
I hold you like a rainbow
No now that's absurd
Champagne white Buffalo
You are bound to cross the line
Some farmer is gonna kill you
Time after bloody time
Keep running white buffalo
Way across the plains
There's no fence can stop
You
And Oh the guns unheard
Find within the shadow
The voices of the past
Find with the rainbow
Your eternal mask
oh white Buffalo
I know you're gonna last
Run on white Buffalo
Through the chains held fast
Farmer come running
He's gonna get his gun
Run on White Buffalo
Til your race is done
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Clink clang
shh shh
Clink clang shh shh shh
shh shh shh shh
Can you hear us coming
Working round the bend
Pick axes cracking stone
Clearing debris in the den
Shh shh, shh-shh
Hush and listen a while
Hear the sound the ground makes
It will make you smile
Sh-shh, shh-shh, like voices at the station
Ghost passengers waiting for their locomotion
Slash slash at station Rd
Bells ring out on Hitchin lane
Sh-shh, shh-shh, clang clang
As hammer on iron rang
Steaming through the tunnel
At Mendip Vale
I can hear the ghost train coming
pale rider, pale
Shh-shh, shh-shh
Then the signal man
Let his flag down
The Beeching cuts began,
slash slash
Slash, slash we go with billhooks
All these years later
Read about steam trains in history books
Slash, slash go the hedge layers
Bending down the trunks
Laying down the cycle path on old rocky bunks
Clearing the valley floor of debris and junk
Heave ho, heave ho, hand over hand
Passing up the rumble, clear through station stands
Coming under Cannard's grave
Clearing through the sidings
Picking up the thread near Mill lane
Dungeon farm and keep winding
Shh-shh, shh-shh, what's that I hear?
Not the sound of clanging metal
But the sounds of changing gear
Children's voices laughing
Families pedalling for joy
Laying down the cycle pathing
Steam train whistle sounds like a child's toy
Toot-toot
The racing and the Whirring
Faster now, faster still
shh-shh -shh, shh-shh-shh
We're steaming up the hill
Our legs are the crank shafts
The pistons pumping blood
Our boilers filled with sandwiches
As we go riding through the mud
Picking up the trail
Just near the Dinder Quarry
Then out under Dulcote
Early or late you needn't hurry
There's just the stars in the night sky
That make up the constellations
Just like the lights of the past don't die
All along the Strawberry line stations
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I've got to tell you about how it came about
The nails were clawing
And the claw hammer did shout
On the snare drum appalling
The singers voice was flat
Then flouting indifference
In a hat after that
I must also mention he loved me
She said
The wood in the garden
Lawn mower in the shed
The eyes of an eagle circled above
But the property ladder was a
Tight fitting glove
Stair way to heaven
And a staircase in Clevedon
And Portishead predicted
The slow rebirth
The steamers were steaming
Ferries crossed the Severn
Chains were hauled by dockers
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
She had the face that launched a thousand buses
Mrs T and her entourage of Big Brew Nurses
Rehearsing the flag pole march of the trusses
She came from Mars with her drink of Champions
And all you need is two dozen teas a day
The Doyens of the tea drinking fraternity say
But oh brother these sisters will have their way
So drink up your cup on the national day
They'll drop a penny down the wishing well
And care for you like you care to tell
So champion the weak, make them strong as hell
And drink your cuppa up as you say farewell
I came to see the giants of industry
And their towering ships of commerce stand
Around Bristol docks like Captains of business
But then you let go of my hand
I fell behind in the swell of the crowd
I was swept up in the riots that flowed down the street
And they toppled old giants that fell at their hands
And rolled like Ozymandias down at their feet
Then one pulled me up to my full stature
She gave me a tea to revive me and capture
The spirit of old times as the nation's bells chimed
From the cathedral on old college green
She said here's a picture of all you have seen
Here's an old record cover of the yellow submarine
And here is another mother in the city streets so mean
But then I saw buses, then I saw buses race round my head
I heard beauty birds twitter, I heard voices that said
This is the face that launched a thousand buses
This is the hand that picked me up when I was down
And this is the drink that will help you recover
So donate your money now to the charitable gown
Come spend your pennies in old Bristol town
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
A long way off in space lies Mars
The spirit of the caves spoke:
Who is that with the eyes of gold shining down her face?
The Sun said -
It is I, Sun Queen, don't you know it is to me you owe your grace
The Spirit cried:
no, for millions of years you've dried and scorched this place!
The Sun said:
no my dear, it was the doing of your Martian race.
They tried to build ladders up to the sky,
They reached beyond their reach
And from that pride they would surely die
It was as the Martian prophets preached
To try to touch heaven is a mark of pride
So many have done it failed and died
But what they missed in the offing was
To hold on tight to their cherished land
The spirit of the cave looked sad,
How can this be, that they never knew what they had?
Tried to stretch when they should have stayed still
Tried to fetch the impossible will
What destiny has taught them
Is to remain where water still runs in rills
The chorus of the Martian sand dunes
Then all sang in choir:
Oh what has happened to our promised land?
Oh look what has befallen us!
Take heed ye giants and heroes of other planets
Not to follow the example set by us
The water spirits who once lived on Mars are now sleeping in the sand
Take heed, take heed they sing anon in their water lost song
Water water nowhere,and not a drop to drink
The ice fox and polar bear, are unbearably white in ink
The turtle and the whale who once swam our seas
Are lost in the sands of time
Rolled under the rug of memory
And folds of slime and unbegotten mud layer the deep Martian plain
Like an ocean these desert dunes roll on
Swept by the red winds of a planet's pain
Blood red in autopsy of the crime
The all seeing moon Phoebus sings:
My eyes are filled with red, from the blood planet's suffering
I lost my rings, have you found them?
I lost my wedding bells
They lie broken in the sandy ground
No more do their joyous songs sound
I saw destruction from my cold height
But I was hot with rage
Oh these Martians caused the onset
Of the next ice age
How when they had plundered the Martian crust
For all it was worth they turned their greedy eyes abroad to rust
And rest on Mother Earth
But in building their starships
They were taken ill in toil
And famine, pestilence and starvation
Crept upon them like a relentless snail
But it did catch them in the end
For finally their mission failed
With the loss of resources came the fight for land
And wars sprang up across the globe near and far at hand
Which none could hope to solve or understand
They fought until every last Martian soon was bleeding their blood
Into the ground
Then my eyes turned red to see the flood
Of blood leave its gruesome trail
Abandoned of its life the planet gave up too
And gravity a friend to so many, now became
a bind for two
The last two souls left alive Martian Adam and a Martian Eve
And they left the planet on the last transport
Out to a distant reprieve
abandoned now the planet turned in its red sunset sinking way,
out across the solar field for forever and a day
Then Mother Earth spoke
Her voices sounded shrill
As the yelp of a pup:
Help, help the whelp
They're doing the same to me
My forest fires are burning
Polluted are my seas
My whale's song is drowning
In the dirty tides of misery
The men in their factories
The women in their yards
Building suiting and soldering
Robots for iron hearts
And doing their bidding
And bidding them well
Though they know not their nature's
Are in artificial hell
Developed and exploited
By the few who smell
Money at the bottom
Of the wishing well
Take heed, take heed the Angels cried
From a top the mountains
The well is drying, soon no more
Will flow the fountain
Take heed take heed the wolves howled
Take heed the bears baulked
Take heed the foxes spouted
Take heed the Herons squarked
Listen to mother nature
For she is whispering quietly to us
Press your ears to the ground and feel her cries
Of pain and anguish
No pain no gain cried the fat factory controller
No gain, no rain cried the weathermen
No money no honey cried the cockerel in the morning
Who was following the weather vein
No Sun no flower cried the honey bee
Who was shivering and dying
In an acid rain shower
No love no money cried the woman to the man
Ain't it funny hunny, cried the man back again
And the sworded word fish darted through the shallows
Because that was getting to be all that was left to him
And he looked up through his silver scaled eye
And saw the moon
The moon reflected the sun
Said - I am the voice of all mysteries past
What I have seen has come and gone so fast
I never forgot and I never laughed
Because I have seen life come and go
And I always will last
A reflected glory is what I am
I tell my story to the little lamb
Who comes into this world bleating and damned
To be another leg of mutton
But I shine on like a button
Lost in the endless threads of space
In the sewing basket of a pin cushion sky
That shines with a trillion pin pricks
And I say we are lost like a needle in a haystack
And all this mystery is fantasy
And all this fantasy is mystery
And what I am I am
And can be no other
Brother Sun and sister moon
I look upon the Earth gone soon
And at my back goes red Mars
Streaking a bloody horizon
Sister Sun and brother moon
The yin and yang
Of the silver balloon that floats above
But the big bang
Will soon cause a mighty implosion
Up and down in and out
The breathing fire
Of inward doubt
The cave spirit rushes
From hole to hole checking nightly
For the water vole
She was here I swear I saw a mouse
Creeping through my dark red house
But low and behold the water ran out
And then so too did the little red mouse
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
He went up dale, round tail
Round the garden and round the bend
In the planter, out the schooner
In the everafter, baby boomer
Tin cantatta, left out laughter
Voices chanting Karma Sutra
Dim sim barter, outward bounder
Yes he lead me on a Wild goose Chase
Goosey gander, little panda
Piecemeal sander, colonels sanders
Rabies horses, beet root beater
Baby courses, in stepwise seater
Trammled and trailed
Traipsed and trooped
Booted and suited
Even Chicken cooped
But he was smarter
Some late starter
Yes he lead me on a wild goose chase
Railing rioters
And beat up outsiders
Inward darma
Of Buddhist mantra
Goosey gander
Crispy fryer
Don't look but duck
Chinese good luck
Up town down town
In the lady's chambers
Yes he led me on a wild goose chase
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.