Thursday, 8 October 2009

National Poetry Day

Today is "National Poetry Day" and a theme for today is Heroes and Heroines. A hero of mine is the poet and author Thomas Hardy. I wrote this short poem about him.

Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy
Cider and Ale
Summer Winter
Sunset and Gale

Man of letters
Darkling Thrush
Schoolteacher crush

Shorn of Emma
Seeking her ghost
Trudging homeward
Wafer thin toast

Stone-bred mason
Critics pet hate
Jude then Obscured
Novelist's Fate

Dorset's dreamer
Touching nature's
Urge to frolic

Poet's Corner
Funeral Cart
Wessex Pastures
Grow from his Heart

Sunday, 4 October 2009

"Splice the mainbrace!"

As someone who enjoys a drink, I found this answer to a query in an old Boy's Own Paper of interest and thought I'd share it.

W. A. BOOTHROYD. – To splice the mainbrace is a long job that does not require doing very often and is generally thought worthy of an extra drink – hence the phrase. In a big ship the mainbrace, where it runs through the block and is worn, is generally turned end for end, and used till another bit of it is worn before it is thought worth while to splice it.

Well, now I know!

Thursday, 1 October 2009

The Friday Night Movie

I've just been reading on facebook a discussion by some friends about favourite Horror Movie stars. Some time ago I wrote a jokey little poem about the old Friday night horrors I would watch as a young teenager on the TV at about half-past-ten at night. I dedicate this poem to Chris and Tonya.

The Friday Night Movie (for Chris and Tonya)

Essssh!! Lee's teeth and the flame in his eyes.
Flesh pastures of breast as an innocent dies
To the bleating of lambs, and the torment of flex
Cutting into the strands of a weakened sex.

Pictures of infamy, horror and shame
In England's sweet gardens of lusty game.
Vampire circuses, the occasional dud,
Arboreal acting and theatres of blood.

Long shot of mansion, then cut to a coach
The lashing of horses, a cliched approach.
Interior showing the lead, photogenic.
A wintry landscape in long shot scenic.

Compendium stories of journeys to hell,
On a train with Roy Castle is that sulphur we smell.
A gaunt Peter Cushing reminds us to be wary,
As the ten-year-old boy finds his Friday nights scary.