michaelpnewman blogspot.com

Michael Newman

Saturday, 9 February 2013. Two minutes gone,. And there is stillness. No cars, no intrepid cyclists . Just bird song,. And woods offering retreat. Let it last, this moment. I tune-in to sanity. Those sad September days. A tractor ploughs autumn. Leaves tinge with melancholia,. Tingle with threat of frost. Before off-yellow combine harvesters. It is not now possible. To talk of renewal. We are fed the myths of childhood,. Yet here the ripe and rotten merge . Merge, and submerge summer. You, Franz Liszt,.

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Cheltenham Poetry Society

Yes, we have history. But this is now! Cheltenham Poetry Society has just celebrated 160 years of history, reputed to have been founded in 1855 by Alfred Lord Tennyson. at a house which is now the presbytery of St. Among early visitors to the Society was Robert Browning. Poet Laureate Cecil Day-Lewis was President in 1971, followed by Poet Laureate John Betjeman.

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Michael Newman

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Saturday, 9 February 2013. Two minutes gone,. And there is stillness. No cars, no intrepid cyclists . Just bird song,. And woods offering retreat. Let it last, this moment. I tune-in to sanity. Those sad September days. A tractor ploughs autumn. Leaves tinge with melancholia,. Tingle with threat of frost. Before off-yellow combine harvesters. It is not now possible. To talk of renewal. We are fed the myths of childhood,. Yet here the ripe and rotten merge . Merge, and submerge summer. You, Franz Liszt,.

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This web page michaelpnewman.blogspot.com states the following, "No cars, no intrepid cyclists." We saw that the webpage said " Let it last, this moment." It also said " Leaves tinge with melancholia,. Tingle with threat of frost. It is not now possible. We are fed the myths of childhood,. Yet here the ripe and rotten merge . Merge, and submerge summer. You, Franz Liszt,."

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Saturday, 26 July 2008. August, and once again we find ourselves. Trapped and encircled by these steep-edged hills. We are dying, as the airless heat fills. The bowl upto the brim. A sigh of utter weariness. Aged woman suffocated with pillows,. Ooze into pools at the roots of the hair. I sit, motionless, hunched in a langour. Of directionlessness as I swelter.