I've been trying to find an appropriate Bob Dylan lyric - words that stand out on the page as a poem in their own right. Dylan is meant to be the great lyricist, the contemporary song writer about whom dissertations have been written. Indeed sometimes he wrote poetry without songs - although unlike Leonard Cohen he was not a poet first and foremost. I confess - I have found the search difficult.
Any suggestions?
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
Galactic Lovepoem
Some video has emerged on Youtube of Adrian Henri and Liverpool Scene (a rock poetry band) performing live.
This is Galactic Lovepoem
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Spring
Look out for Spring,
the life underground,
the life underground.
The thawing and the overflow.
Oh early, early in the morning
we’ll go.
the life underground.
The thawing and the overflow.
Oh early, early in the morning
we’ll go.
Seven shades of green
are painted on your door,
painted on your door,
the field alive under the snow.
Oh early, early in the morning.
we’ll go.
are painted on your door,
painted on your door,
the field alive under the snow.
Oh early, early in the morning.
we’ll go.
Oh world of rooftops,
hearing one field song.
The walk in raincoats,
the wait for Easter, Tom.
We are awake or waking,
awake or waking from.
Here that day comes.
hearing one field song.
The walk in raincoats,
the wait for Easter, Tom.
We are awake or waking,
awake or waking from.
Here that day comes.
The Innocence Mission
from the album my room in the trees
Copyright: The Innocence Mission
Reproduced with permission
Last lyric by this artist
from the album my room in the trees
Copyright: The Innocence Mission
Reproduced with permission
Last lyric by this artist
Listen here:
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Park and ride
Riding the Metropolitan
Railway I think of Betjeman
rhapsodist of suburban dreams
where golden ochred autumn trees
decorate fading maisonettes
Here I'm a ghost whose journey's past
parallel lives I might have chanced
hanging, like prunes, from every branch
Hillingdon, Northwood, Amersham,
emptied now of aunts, friends, gran,
echo with part-remembered plans
Past Harrow, men play ball on a field
a wasteland has brambles and a horse
near Ickenham an old house in a park
a crumbling Middle Saxon manor
then a station amid half-timbered
homes
here sounds the motorway's call
Tom Rudge, Devon
Copyright: By application
Last poem by this writer
Friday, November 4, 2011
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