 |
Orange tulips against a pure blue sky, Complimentary colours each other gratify, To capture I must on my stomach lie, As crowds of sightseers pass me by, Only I, This beautiful angle espy. — Philip Wood |
Worm’s Eye View
Ondes
 |
Chaque vaguelette est une crête, contingente, occurrente. Addition abstraite, cime concrète, intangible mais sensible. L’eau et les minutes crapahutent, elles passent, disparaissent. Comme notre conscience se tricote, d’occurrences, co-errantes. — Eleonore Sur |
Visual Turmoil
 |
So many mirrors! Reflections bouncing back to me, Its hard to tell what I’ve left behind, And what’s still yet to see. Question my perceptions, Dreams and fantasies confuse, Irrational perspectives, Easy your sanity to loose. — Philip Wood |
Mediterranean Seduction
 |
Flowers’ sweet aroma, Enchanting strains of Dylan’s music, Stir in hot Italian sunshine, Irresistibly romantic! — Philip Wood |
Mélodie du soir
 |
Quatre nuagettes, quatre soprano... d’un bleu-coquette se faisaient écho. Un nuageon Rose-bienveillant Grand baryton Les égayant. C’est la voix basse Bien en retrait, D’un gris-audace Qui les portait. Coiffant les cimes Vocalisant, Les nuages riment Mélodieusement. |
Projections
 |
Devant la porte elles se tenaient, Dans la pénombre elles hésitaient : Ouvrir, entrer et disparaître ? Se fondre au noir qui régnerait ? La vie d’une ombre est toujours courte, Nos trois princesses le savaient. Mais qu’y avait-il derrière la porte ? D’autres comme elles qui hésitaient ? La pleine lune en un instant, Par des nuages fut masquée. Les jeunes ombres malheureusement N’eurent pas le temps de décider. Projections éphémères, Origamis de lumière, Les ombres vont et viennent Mais ne sont jamais les mêmes. — Eleonore Sur |
Mary Along the Watchtower
 |
Optical illusion, Or just a different angle of view? Possibly the biggest deception in history, Conceivably immaculate truth to you. — Philip Wood |
The French Few
 |
A darker shade of red, Resistance warriors bled, Occupied, but unconquered and defiant, Refused Pétain’s orders to fall compliant. Dark silhouettes emerging from the trees, Destroying civilisation’s enemies, Prepare the ground for the Allies’ victorious path, Knowing well the price of surrender’s aftermath. Fought underground for a future blue sky, Aware that many of their corps will die, A liberated unified Europe did from their valour stem, We will eternally remember and honour them! — Philip Wood |
La moyenne et le général
 |
En moyenne, les arbres sont de taille moyenne et les jours de longueur moyenne Mais en général, les arbres sont grands ou petits, jeunes ou vieux, feuillus ou chauves. En général, les jours sont courts ou longs, beaux ou pluvieux, dégagés ou nuageux. En moyenne, la nuit, les étoiles sont les mêmes… Et en général elles sont là ! Même cachées, masquées ou diffuses, en général, elles sont là. Là. Quel réconfort une certitude ! (en général). — Eleonore Sur |
My Beauty from the Hood
 |
Together raised, born of the same street, Destined to be Filton’s proudest, You graduated whilst I was yet ten, I watched your every move, Beautiful, sleek, with angels’ wings, Taking London, Paris and New York by storm, Faster than the wind whistles, Everyone loved you. Tripping over yanky discarded junk, Burning candle lit the De Gaul sky, Crashed and burned in more ways than one, My heart sank, my beauty from the hood now gone, I will never admire your grace and lines again. |
Graffiti
 |
Intelligence sans bornes et démarche informe, le poulpe des villes sur nos murs se faufile. Épaisse atmosphère de ruines et de mystère, il sème sur son chemin déprime et chagrin. Les rues abandonnées de nos quartiers en danger: son territoire aqueux progresse sous nos yeux. |
Tourist Blight
 |
Family holidays to Tenby or perhaps the south coast, A school trip to London once a year at the most, Where ever we went we always had a great view, But the three billion I was born into, has become seven point two. Destinations I visited when a student in my teens, Were traveled to by hitching, I hadn’t other means, They were exotic and special, visited only by a few, Then the travel industry took over, expanded and grew. Today those same places are a hellish tourist trap, Oh! if only they had kept their secrets under wrap, The visitors who crowd in to see something rare, Are destroying the very thing that they’re visiting there. Flash fades classic frescoes, touch discolours artifacts’ brass, Clambering over ancient ruins to snap selfies, so ironically crass, Traffic jams of gondolas filled with Venetian sight seers, Tourist blight is a growing curse with the passing of years. The locals feel alienated by superficial foreigners they host, The airlines jet them in, liners dock at the coast, Growing affluence means more tourists are set to arrive, Our old cities and monuments will struggle to survive. So we search to find new venues where no-one else goes, Then Palin or Lumley feature that gem on their travel shows, Even on a Himalayan trek it’s sure that you’ll find, Previous climbing parties’ trash naively left behind. |
Camargue
 |
Salines disputes dans les marais malins Soudaines et abruptes, dérives du matin Patientes minutes les jumelles aux mains Regardant les flamands comme un beau dessin — Eleonore Sur et Ella |
Wikiphilia
 |
In poetics, stresstime, is any empirical model, that fuses, the three dimensions of stress, with the one dimension of rhyme, into a single, four-dimensional, asylum. — Eleonore Sur |
The lost cat
 |
The day you came into my life, You was so thin, ill and in strife. I gave you food, water, shelter in the barn, But I could not keep you, the dogs would cause you harm. You started to purr after a while, To see the change in you made me smile. I could not take you into my home, The dogs would not leave you alone. So, I put your picture on the Internet, Saying you would make a wonderful pet. A lovely lady answered my plea, She took you home, now you are happy and free. — Gillian Reid |
White Bottoms
 |
Cute babies’ bottoms, so smooth and pure white, English girls sunbathing, in bikini thongs so tight, Renaissance marble sculptures, displayed to public delight! — Philip Wood |
Devilish Games
 |
Bored and looking for something to do? We could play around to see the afternoon through, Pin a tail on the donkey is always so lame, Let’s instead go and create a new game, Winding up dogs so they bark to annoy, Go bully the weak little orphan boy, Chase pigeons and squash them flat with your foot, Catch a white cat and cover it with soot. Play knock up ginger on the old widow’s door, Pinch a few sweets from the newspaper store, Keep a watch out for the boys dressed in blue, Otherwise they will surely collar you. Ride in a wheelie bin down the steepest street, Playing with matches will turn up the heat, Slashing some tyres is a deflating event, The world is our playground; heavenly sent. — Philip Wood |
It never did happen
Thiepval Memorial, Somme
|
When our kids attended junior school we were assured, That typing skills will no longer be required for the keyboard, Our intelligent electronic friends would respond to our voice, Most of the time they would choose for us our best choice. Who will need cash which displays the Queen’s head? Plastic and websites we’ll use easily instead, Swipe and mouse clicks will replace our loose change, But demand for the folding stuff continues unrestrained. Turning the pages of your favourite book, Is so 20th century, so to Kindle we’ll look, Its never caught on, folk still prefer novels in paper, A real volume in your hand; on the bookshelf for later. Disaster will strike, software can’t cope with a two, Planes will fall out of the sky, markets crash too, How many times did we actually suffer, Because the millennium bug caused our computers to stutter? Inventions and machines will make our lives more relaxed, Recreation time will increase, whilst our wealth is enhanced, Everyone’s still flat out working a full week, Stress levels and exhaustion continue to peek. “The war to end all wars”; a lost generation were misled “Peace in our time”; Munich's promises we were fed, “Tear down this wall”; the Cold War continues its dance, The price of true peace will always be eternal vigilance. — Philip Wood |
Electron planet
 |
The scale of life is relative to all, What is large to an ant, to us is small, Our planet shrinks with each year that passes, But what if it was so small we’d need microscopic glasses? If our solar system was merely an elementary atom, This Earth of ours would be an insignificant orbiting electron, The galaxy we know maybe just a complex molecule, Of some much grander genetic pool. Billions of galaxies exist beyond our viewing, Maybe all contributing to some humungous being, Perhaps a massive form of me surrounds our outer space, E=mc² could ultimately prove to be just at snail’s pace. — Philip Wood |
L'arbre excentrique
 |
Ces branches qui partent dans tous les sens, ne dirait-on pas des danseuses ? ou une divinité de l'Inde ? ou des serpents qui ondulent ? L'arbre nous fait-il des signes ? Un arbre pensant ? Serait-il habité par des esprits ? Un chaman pourrait peut-être nous renseigner ? Et si le grand Pan n'était pas mort et rodait dans les parages ? A moins que cet arbre ne se contorsionne pour tenter de s'échapper de l'endroit où il est enraciné et qu'il n'a pas choisi, après tout ! Un arbre qui s'échappe pour aller visiter la forêt, ce serait original. Cet excentrique serait peut-être même capable, à la fin, de venir se placer au premier plan et nous dire : « Méfiez-vous de l'arbre qui cache la forêt. » |
Sur les vitraux colorés
 |
Le poète est semblable au prince des nuées. Dans un concert de silence, Sa voix inonde la cathédrale Mais seul l’écho de ses mots Glisse sur les vitraux colorés Et se perd en un chant monocorde Sous la voûte de lumière À l’ombre des arcades. Semblable à l’artiste peintre, Le buveur de lettres dessine À l’encre de Chine Des pleins et des déliés, Au cœur de la dentelle de pierres. Comme une symphonie de notes Qui noircit le ciel tourmenté Il déclame ses vers enchantés Le regard bercé par la prière. Quand l’horizon disparaît, Son âme libérée s’envole Vers un crépuscule solennel. — Sylvie Brugeal |
Passion
Le baiser de Rodin aux Tuilleries
|
Peindre ton corps, Sublimer ta voix, Ébaucher nos lendemains, Dessiner avec ferveur Notre amour pastel Sur la route du bonheur. Tracer les symboles De l'alchimie de nos âmes Sur le livre ouvert de la vie. Conjuguer l'algèbre De nos différences Pour respirer l'espoir De fusionner les teintes Du bonheur retrouvé. Décliner à l'infini La palette des couleurs De notre rencontre, Des prémices du jour Aux portes de la nuit. — Sylvie Brugeal |
All you need is love
 |
What is love when life is a struggle Hundreds of people in all sorts of trouble Animals left alone, no-one to care They give lots of love, but no-one to share. Old people trying to cope alone Forgotten or left in homes No wonder the world is in a mess When nobody cares for other stress. People fighting in the streets When you go out your heart beats We live in fear, and terrible dread Thousands dying, not being fed. What has happened to our beautiful world Death and destruction, I have no words We need love to restore our futures Good things like art and culture. Be kind, not bad, make people happy not sad Be proud to live in a good world not bad. Remember the Beatles song: All you need is love. |
Absence
 |
Les murs fissurés de l'enfance Opacifiés de nuances gris-bleu, Sous un linceul de souvenirs Se meurent sous le lierre jauni. L'histoire d'une vie Se perd dans l'écho du silence. Les rires des enfants Remplis d'insouciance Se sont envolés Vers d'autres contrées. Le passé a dilapidé Leurs éclats sonores, Teintes anachroniques Du bonheur enfui. Les îles éparpillées De la mer turquoise Jettent un regard détaché Sur le continent, Échappant au désordre Du monde. |
Adieu
 |
Aux lueurs de l'aube, Les corps muets des amants Écrivent en lettres de sable Leur ultime histoire d’amour. La plage se recueille Devant leur insolence. La mer respire le parfum De leur bonheur fragmenté En mille soupirs. Échouée sur la grève, Leur passion d’un jour Meurt devant l’éternel. — Sylvie Brugeal |
La réclamation
 |
(10h00) « Allo ? » (musique)... « Ne quittez pas, nous allons donner suite à votre appel » ... (musique)... (10h05) « Ici Robot téléphonique BBIWY1984, à votre écoute ; dans le cadre de notre démarche qualité et formation, votre appel est susceptible d'être enregistré » Ah !, c'est une machine... « Euh!... C'est pour une réclamation… » « Nous avons compris que vous téléphonez pour une réclamation ; si c'est exact, dites OUI ; sinon, dites NON » « OUI... » « Après le bip sonore, la communication vous sera facturée un Euro la minute... » (10h07) « BIP » « Pour une première réclamation, tapez 1, Pour le suivi d'une réclamation, tapez 2, Pour toute autre demande, tapez 3... » « Nous n'avons pas compris votre réponse... Pour une première réclamation... » (etc.) (10h13) « Vous allez être mis en relation avec un conseiller » ...(musique)... (10h20) « Tous nos conseillers sont actuellement en ligne, veuillez renouveler votre appel ultérieurement TUT, TUT, TUT...» (venant de la pièce à côté) : « tu n'as rien de mieux à faire qu'à passer ta vie au téléphone ! » |
Man in black
 |
Did you
spot the man in black?
Was he
waiting for aliens to come back?
Or maybe
just enjoying the views,
He could be
searching the trees for clues.
People felt
safe with him around,
Guiding
people round the grounds.
Every-one
had a lovely day,
And the man
in black just faded away…
|
Tug-o-war
 |
Heave ho! Heave
ho!
Look what I
did, when I had a go.
Come on
mates, hang on tight,
So we can
celebrate tonight.
Tug-o-war
is a tough man’s game,
And if you
win, you get a good name.
Come on
guys. Keep on pulling,
The beers
are ready, and the wine is mulling.
Suddenly a
cheer goes up,
Hooray! our
team has won the cup.
|
The resistance fighters
 |
These men and
women were so brave,
Look at all
the lives they saved.
Fearless to
the very end,
Though I
don’t know them, they are my friends.
They are in
my heart and in my soul,
And I welcome
their spirits to my fold.
The sun has
cast light on the shadows,
Over the
fields and green meadows.
Farewell my
friends, I have to go,
Thank you
for the bravery you showed.
|
The lucky spider
 |
Hello Mr. Spider, what a pretty web, You will catch a lot and keep well fed. I like the pattern you have chosen, It will glisten when it’s frozen. You are well hidden amongst the leaves, Down in a hole beneath the trees. I hope lots of insects come your way, It will keep you busy through the day. Maybe a female spider will arrive, And join you over the winter nights. When spring comes with the sun, Your little spiders can have some fun. You and your mate can venture out, The kids will leave the home no doubt. You have all the summer to enjoy your life, Then return for winter, with your wife. |
Autumn walks
 |
Let’s walk through the woods with sunlight beaming through the trees, Listening to the humming of the bees, Leaves rustling in the breeze. Deer calling for their mates, Cattle and sheep behind field gates. We continue down the lane, Back through the woods then out again, We watch the birds fly on the wing, Hearing the lovely songs they sing. We see berries growing on bushes, They look so plump and delicious. Look squirrels gathering nuts for winter, Buzzards flying above, searching for dinner. If you are feeling lonely and blue, Take a walk in the woods, it will enlighten you. — Gillian Reid |
Méli-mélo
 |
Assemblage hétéroclite De poutres métalliques De verticales et d'obliques De sangles et de câbles électriques Des crochets, une grue bleue Et en bas, des pneus Un peu de rouille, par endroits Un moteur de bateau, côté droit Beau sujet, ce méli-mélo Pour qui voudrait imiter Picasso. — Gérard Miro |
Les zozos
 |
– « ça me démange, gratte-moi dans le dos... » – « J’ai bien peur qu'on ait avalé du Machinchose dans le champ de maïs... si c'est ça, on est fichus! » Ainsi parlaient ces deux coléoptères et ce furent leurs dernières paroles. Un entomologiste passant par là Aperçoit leurs cadavres et hop, les ramasse et les expédie au musée... Maintenant, les visiteurs se pressent : « Oh, regarde comme ils sont beaux ces insectes ! dommage qu'ils soient en voie de disparition ! » Mais, parmi eux, combien de zozos qui demain, mine de rien, mettront encore du Machinchose dans leur jardin ? — Gérard Miro |
Mars’ Grasses... A Valentine Confession
 |
What would you do, If the sky ceased to be blue, turned a darker shade of red, Instead? Grass no longer light green, as we’ve previously seen. Pampas seed tips bright orange glow, to vividly fluoresce the lane-side hedgerow. Psychedelic-show! What conclusions would you draw, if vegan lions munched on straw? Pelicans alight at the zebra crossing sign, cows fermenting vintage French wine. Sublime! Cats and dogs become best friends, pleased their life-long struggle ends. Dodos start flying, defiantly thriving, wooly mammoths defrosting, eternally surviving, Enlivening! Imagine! For a moment let it be, you fall passionately in love with me. Most unworthy admirer of all, scores the adorable belle of the ball.. Heavenly! In my unique avant-garde world view, secretly treasure my unrequited love for you. Because, you will never look and see, in everyday reality, Just me! — Philip Wood |
Fifi on a plane tree
 |
Look, I have found a lovely tree, Have a good look, what can you see? When the bark falls, pictures appear, Is it a mouse or maybe a deer? A Teddy bear or a cat, A butterfly or a bat? I could look all day, and still see a few, Look, there is a dog like Fifi too. Maybe one day you will find my tree Have a really good look, just like me. |
Summer fun
 |
This is what life is all about, Having fun and messing around. They get pushed off the boats, and end up in the sea, After two events, we have a cup of tea. Back to the game once more before lunch, Once again, they clash and crunch. Those left on the boats who survive, Are the victors and win a prize. Then off they go to have some dinner, And a glass of wine, to toast the winners. |
What stinks so sweetly?
 |
“A rose by any other name”, A quote fair Juliet did once acclaim “Many a true word is spoken in jest”’ Revealed a cook with wisdom, Chaucer’s best. MG’s British pedigree disposed of for Chinese Yuan, A sanitation engineer remains the dustman, Designer lagers can’t replace the gravity of real ale, Exam non-achievement still ranks as a miserable fail. A person of interest we identified as a wanted crim, The street activity index was the reported rate of him, After forty years of marriage now my loving wife, Has been transformed to be merely my partner in life. Utility hatches have covered up manholes, Access fees charge drivers more expensive road tolls, Public service announcements now feed us propaganda, Road maps are a disguise for a political agenda. Economically deprived areas have replaced the slum, To house the poor and homeless who have now become, Economically marginalised outdoor urban dwellers, Resorting to irregular shopping, always known as shoplifters. In the Bard’s immortal words a rose smelled so sweetly, Now these pompous official terms try to blind us completely, A spade is a spade, so let us call it that, Cover up nothing with this bureaucratic P.C. twat. — Philip Wood |
Cross Channel Fare
 |
In France farmers grow corn to feed to their livestock, At harvest time they crop it all around the clock, The British nurture a cob with sweetness much better, Consume it themselves hot, smothered in rich butter. English gardens suffer pests including slimy snails, The French add garlic sauce to make them tasty meals, Small boys in England play with tadpoles from the village duck pond, Garçon serve up frog’s legs, of which the Gallic are so fond. Foie gras forces corn down Aquitaine geese’s throats, Free range U.K. birds happily peck up their own oats, Dedicated French duck farmers work for canard, English poultry farmers also work extremely hard. Knacker’s yards in Old Blighty produce meat for dog food, To overcook cheval in modern Gaul is considered to be rude, Hand drawn bitter and real ales, served lukewarm so enjoyed at their best, Chilling European lager wont put hairs on your chest. Little wonder Napoleon plotted to invade the isle to his north, He desired descent fare to savour in his mouth, Today’s English invasion flying south on Ryanair, Bring tasty goodies from the shires in their bags to declare. — Philip Wood |
Palimpseste nocturne
 |
La nuit je dors, j'invente des histoires Au matin, envolées ! Alors, il me faut les noter. Pour ne pas éveiller ma bien aimée, Furibarde, dès que dérangée, J'écris dans le noir au stylo des astros. Mais quand on dort, on ne pense pas À tourner les pages. Les bribes se chevauchent, quel hachis ! Au matin étonné, Reste à expliquer les lambeaux mêlés, Palimpseste nocturne de mes pensées. — Paul Sanson |
En théorie
 |
Un monopole magnétique À l’humeur très philosophique Cherchait partout son âme sœur Mais sans trop en avoir l’heure Dans la matière condensée Où ce polisson habitait Nulle trace d’autre monopole Aucun indice de cette bestiole Nous sommes si peu émergents Se disait-il entre deux temps Nous n’existons qu’en théorie Répétait-il tout contrit Vivement une corde de Dirac Pour s’aligner dans ce micmaque ! — Eleonore Sur |
The little red panda
 |
Dear little panda, you have had a busy day, Children excited, watching you play. Now it is time for us all to go home, Leaving panda on his own. The little fellow is all worn out, He has fallen asleep, please don’t shout. Good night little one, Have sweet dreams, We will see you tomorrow, When the sun shine beams. — Gillian Reid |
L'arbre qui marche
 |
Dans cette cité trépidante, l'arbre géant, en symbiose avec ciel et terre, marche d'un pas de sénateur... envoyant alentour ses branches retombantes qui deviennent racines ; cet ancrage devient troncs puis dédales magiques pour enfants. Là haut, un peuple d'oiseaux squatte sa canopée murmurante ; à ses pieds, on joue, on rit, on transmet en véritables griots des contes fascinants. Heureuse enfance! C'est le banian d'un coin de paradis. — My |
Car Stereotypes
 |
French coupés are finished in a stunning colour selection, Superior engines from Germany combine turbo with fuel injection, Sleek supercars bred of Italian stables impressively accelerate, Whereas their lesser marques, I’m afraid, rapidly rust and depreciate, Japanese vehicles are all so reliably boring, While those from Korea are no more inspiring, Chinese deathtraps are mass produced to be cheap, And East European sedans merely send me to sleep, English models, Oh! I remember their day? As for American automobiles, I can find nothing positive to say. — Philip Wood |
Victorian’s Lament
 |
Red hot coal furnaces are stoked to raise high steam pressure, Massive iron wheels rotate in a crescendo of tortured, confused clamour, Rhythmic pistons punch violently as in a heavyweight brawl, Banished to history are the peaceful countryside summers of our yore. Broadened meadows patrolled by leviathan traction engines with their harvest thresher, Ferrous supplants centuries of ancient artifacts rendered from timber and leather, Ploughs, carts and harrows, traditional tools of the farm, left us their pre-historic traces, Now abandoned behind derelict barns and in damp ditches lie their rotting carcasses. For progress sake we enthusiastically jettison our well proven culture overboard, Decomposing out of sight, scantily raising a protesting luddite word, Centuries will pass leaving fading folklore with skeletal remains, Our heritage lost, impossible to regain! — Philip Wood |
French Sails Man Ship
 |
“Which yacht is the fastest?”, Asked the boy to the man. “Will it go faster, If I blow as hard as I can?” “How would I know, What do I care? I only rent the boats out, Not test them as a match pair”. “If you take my three euros, You better not give me a hulk, If I don’t beat my father’s, All afternoon I will sulk!” “Go away little boy, I don’t want you to turn sour. You are a visitor to France, And this is my French lunch hour!” — Philip Wood |
Me; Myself; My Art
 |
I can’t draw a straight line, nor with charcoal sketch, Blowing glass for me sucks; brass I find hard to etch, Fine painting on canvas is not my forté, Whether oil or watercolour, my brush tends to stray. It goes against my grain, carving out of wood, Chiseling sculptures from marble, as if I could? Me and pottery, oh! What a mess, My pots don’t hold water, their handles even less. I’m illiterate with music; staves resemble a barcode, Hand me a violin, I’ll ask where to blow, Holding a note is OK as long as it’s B flat, I’m tone deaf with anything more musical than that. No! Photography is my art form of choice, shooting angles others overlook, Composition, exposure and processing seldom done by the Nikon book, Combined with incites of humour or profound poetry, Permits self-expression projecting my unique personality. — Philip Wood |
Inscription à :
Articles (Atom)