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We came across this very old inn, And pondered a while, before we went in. I thought we had got onto a boat, Not able to stand, when it is afloat. People laughed at the look on our faces, I clung on to my husband braces. We ordered two drinks and went to sit down, And old man looked at me, with a frown. I had spilled my drink on his head, We both drank up quickly, then fled. — Gillian Reid |
The crooked house
The Moscow state circus
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Roll up, the circus is in town, We can go and see the clowns. Monkeys, horses, elephants too, It’s just like visiting a zoo. Cages arrived, with lions and tigers, Then came horses, with riders. Children laughing, having fun, squealing with delight, Trapeze artists gave them such a fright. Soon it was time for the circus to end, They all went home, with family and friends. — Gillian Reid |
The years passing by
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We look back on the year with a sigh, Watching the birds passing by. We saw spring with flowers so gay, Walked for miles on a sunny day. Then Summer came with skies of blue, Holydays, crazy night dreams coming true. Now it’s autumn, what can I see, leaves falling, berries so ripe, Ready to eat such a delight. Now it is time for winter, the year almost gone, I hear a robin, singing his sweet song. Children writing letters for Santa to read, Hoping he will deliver the gifts they need. — Gillian Reid |
Gaîté désespérante
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Si nous ne voyions autour de nous que des gens joyeux, la gaîté finirait par devenir d'une tristesse désespérante. — Pierre Dac |
Les usines
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Se regardant avec les yeux cassés de leurs fenêtres Et se mirant dans l'eau de poix et de salpêtre D'un canal droit, marquant sa barre à l'infini, Face à face, le long des quais d'ombre et de nuit, Par à travers les faubourgs lourds Et la misère en pleurs de ces faubourgs, Ronflent terriblement usines et fabriques. Rectangles de granit et monuments de briques, Et longs murs noirs durant des lieues, Immensément, par les banlieues; Et sur les toits, dans le brouillard, aiguillonnées De fers et de paratonnerres, Les cheminées. — Emile Verhaeren |
Poème : Les Usines (extrait)
Writer’s Block
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Its so annoying to capture a great photo shot,
Winning competitions and awards it fills a top spot,
But no matter how hard I stare and try to be inspired,
Words fail to fill my head; my poetic thoughts have expired.
Unable to gain insight into the great natural reflections,
Still autumn waters refuse to conjure up literary connections.
Three arches rounded off like tunnels burrowing into the earth,
Brown and golden leaves fall sadly, trees awaiting spring’s rebirth.
Visions of past locals crossing these arches; farmers droving their cattle,
Soldiers, newly recruited, marching to defend their nation’s honour in battle,
Young lovers rendezvous secretly, savour their passionate tryst,
All of these characters my writer’s block forces me to miss.
Trout swim below observing their unique fish eye view,
Otters construct their holts and coypu prosper too,
So I study this photo, my attention on it’s poured,
Hang on a moment!
All my poetry above means my writer’s block is now cured.
— Philip Wood |
Pigeon-vole...ra plus tard
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L'eau coule Le temps s'écoule Les pigeons roucoulent Ils s'aiment Chez eux, point de haine De la paix ils sont l'emblème Il fait trop chaud pour s'envoler Mieux vaut ne pas bouger Bientôt le jour va décliner Car chaque instant Efface le précédent Apprécions le temps présent. — Gérard Miro |
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