When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am 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 the 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 pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts 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 practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Friday, 10 February 2012
Budget Food: Tortilla - Spanish Omelette
Ingredients:
1 medium onion 6.5p
1 medium potatoes 10p
3 eggs 39p
1 knob of butter 20p
seasoning to taste
Preparation:
Finely chop a medium onion and gently fry it in a frying pan. We want it to soften and not go brown.
Peel two small or one medium potato and slice it as thinly as possible. Add this to the onion in the pan and cook both of them gently until soft. Depending on the potato, this should take between 10-20 minutes. If the potato is not cooking, then add a splash of water and simmer with a cover until done.
In a bowl, break three eggs and beat together. Add seasoning to taste.
When the onions and potatoes are done, and slightly cool, transfer them to the egg and mix.
Wipe the pan and add some butter or oil. Add the whole egg, onion and potato mixture and cook gently for around 20 minutes. Turn the mixture over and cook on both sides until the egg is completely cooked.
Total cost 75.5p
1 medium onion 6.5p
1 medium potatoes 10p
3 eggs 39p
1 knob of butter 20p
seasoning to taste
Preparation:
Finely chop a medium onion and gently fry it in a frying pan. We want it to soften and not go brown.
Peel two small or one medium potato and slice it as thinly as possible. Add this to the onion in the pan and cook both of them gently until soft. Depending on the potato, this should take between 10-20 minutes. If the potato is not cooking, then add a splash of water and simmer with a cover until done.
In a bowl, break three eggs and beat together. Add seasoning to taste.
When the onions and potatoes are done, and slightly cool, transfer them to the egg and mix.
Wipe the pan and add some butter or oil. Add the whole egg, onion and potato mixture and cook gently for around 20 minutes. Turn the mixture over and cook on both sides until the egg is completely cooked.
Total cost 75.5p
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
Poem about being taken for Granted
There is a bag on the floor.
It is staring at me with its zippered eyelashes surrounding its mono eye.
Winking at the only one it knows will PICK IT UP!
Will zip it up and hang it up upon the hook which was put there JUST FOR IT!
This hook which hangs upon a DAY of arguments and shields the fragile silence which befell after the BANGING of the hook up on the wall.
This hook is the result of FIFTEEN YEARS.
Of silently following the wake of possessions like a little tug boat.
Flotsam and jetsam on the living room floor...
And bathroom floor...
And bedroom floor...
And kitchen floor...
Fifteen whole years and just one day
Of 'OK! Stop nagging! I'll do it!'
One tension-filled day, and then...
One EMPTY hook.
Copyright Survival Jones 2012. You are welcome to reproduce any or all of this poem, but please include an attribution and a link back to this page.
It is staring at me with its zippered eyelashes surrounding its mono eye.
Winking at the only one it knows will PICK IT UP!
Will zip it up and hang it up upon the hook which was put there JUST FOR IT!
This hook which hangs upon a DAY of arguments and shields the fragile silence which befell after the BANGING of the hook up on the wall.
This hook is the result of FIFTEEN YEARS.
Of silently following the wake of possessions like a little tug boat.
Flotsam and jetsam on the living room floor...
And bathroom floor...
And bedroom floor...
And kitchen floor...
Fifteen whole years and just one day
Of 'OK! Stop nagging! I'll do it!'
One tension-filled day, and then...
One EMPTY hook.
Copyright Survival Jones 2012. You are welcome to reproduce any or all of this poem, but please include an attribution and a link back to this page.
Monday, 30 January 2012
Invictus by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley (1844-1903)
Thursday, 12 January 2012
The Dash Poem by Linda Ellis
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end.
He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke of the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own,
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard;
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect
And more often wear a smile,
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
© 1996 Linda Ellis
www.lindaellis.net
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning to the end.
He noted that first came the date of her birth
And spoke of the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own,
The cars, the house, the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard;
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect
And more often wear a smile,
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
© 1996 Linda Ellis
www.lindaellis.net
Friday, 6 January 2012
Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden
This is another one of my favourite poems. It so perfectly portrays Grief!
TWO SONGS FOR HEDLI ANDERSON
in
Selected Poems of W.H. Auden
by W. H. Auden
Vintage
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
© Copyright The Estate of W. H. Auden, 1976, 1991. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system now or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
TWO SONGS FOR HEDLI ANDERSON
in
Selected Poems of W.H. Auden
by W. H. Auden
Vintage
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
© Copyright The Estate of W. H. Auden, 1976, 1991. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system now or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
The Epitome of How to Survive: If by Rudyard Kipling
Many people are familiar with this poem by Rudyard Kipling and I think, once read, much of it stays with you for a long time.Each part of it has a resonance with some stage of most people's lives. Which part do you most identify with and why?
 |
| Rudyard Kipling 1865 - 1936 |
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
To read more inspiring articles based around this poem, please visit All Things If
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
To read more inspiring articles based around this poem, please visit All Things If
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