Poirot,
you most certainly are a poet, if that means inspiration comes from within, as Percy Shelley argued in "in Defence of Poetry" (I'm teaching a course in Romanticism at the moment). "The well that springs not from the heart is vain" (Goethe).

TS Elliot is the best.Now for a Change of pace by myself, written decades ago when I was young.Pamplona long ago.Running of the bulls.

\" Foolish Runner"
Sun fashes through the leaves,
The forboding arrows piece my veined pupils,
And my mind flashes" This can't be so!"
Repentingly ,my consciousness seeks the security,
Of jovial chatter,
Echoes of last nights spirited quest for bravery,
Quicken the pace,
And I yearn to end this unsavoury matter.

Committed,I weight the odds of maim against fame.
With so many bods,I'm certain of favour.
Nervously,I try not to waver.

Fame spells blanket shadows,
Of lumbering meat and slashing skewers,
I may well not be distinguished from scattered manure.

The momentum of time and chatter,
Drag me on through,
The barrier passed my feet are like glue.
A wooden clatter,echoes a resounding note,
I'm all alone and they're here to gloat.

A piercing thought,strikes me aghast,
Alone and surrounded,I may not last.

Adrenalin surges,
And my body merges,
Into a channelled race,
I entered to save face.

A shuffling motion,
Quickens to commotion,
The accelerated pace,
Quelled by undertones of " Tranquilo tranquilo"
What's in a few kilos?

It's not what's in,
That burdens my lot.
It's where to begin,
That hastens my trot.

A slight pause at this at the arbitary start,
A shuddering blast,
Jumps the crowd to task,
A second sends illusions fleeting.
Feet begin a purposeful beating.

Into the ring,
But not quite first,
To a whistled greeting,
Just short of a curse.
Though better than that fatal meeting.

Over the fence,
No time for blushing.
Ah,what good sense.

Then the accelerated rushing,
A gyser of red and white,
Spews into the light.
Then black and mean,
A spectular,frightening crazy scene.

Bodies,falling,sprawling,fleeing,
To the magnetic nook of fence and friends.
Red flashing capes,
Sea saw mortal intent,
Between game and gate.

Electric skewers turn and charge,
The expectants roar a subdued barrage.
Capes flash in earnst,
To save the cursed,

The roar subsides to a relieved moan,
As shadows blend,
Leaving all unknown.

By Arjay a long time ago.

Foxy

So happy to hear from you - I hope everything is 'lookin' good'.

Poirot

That poem is the most beautiful poem I have read recently. What a shame you did not send it to your friend. It is utterly evocative of Ireland. I don't write poetry now, but did so when much younger - even won a few prizes in school competitions. While I can hardly describe myself as a poet, I can recognise - as many others here did as well, that you are indeed a poet. One perfect piece is worth more than an abundance of mediocre work.

Is it to late to send that poem to your friend? Or even her relatives?

Again to Foxy - looking forward to more fantastic topics, such as this.

Dear Poirot,

What a shame your friend never got to
read your beautiful poem. But, perhaps
she's aware of its existence - you never
know? At least you've shared it with us
on OLO and for that we're very grateful.

You should keep writing though, as you do
have a gift that should be shared. Look
at the joy you've brought to so many here,
myself included. As A.D. Hope in his book,
"The New Cratylus: Notes on the Craft of
Poetry," says:

"There is nothing mysterious about poetry.
The whole endeavour of this book is to show
that it is composed of ordinary materials
familiar to us in other contexts and that
it works by similarly familiar processes.
Poets are not magicians, but a rather odd
kind of craftsmen, working in a living
material which is part of themselves."

Dear Arjay,

Thank You for your poem - it says so
much about human beings, which adds to our
sense of what living is all about. Great stuff!

Dear Severin,

Thanks for your concern.
It's an on-going process for me - health wise.
I'm looking forward to
sharing new topics with you on OLO as well.
It's your turn to start one next though.

Hi Foxy,

I wont give you any further attention or sympathy.

Sorry, as I've said before, it's not my thing.

I will however write you a poem... well not a poem. It's a song.

Drink up, baby, stay up all night
The things you could do, you won't but you might
The potential you'll be that you'll never see
The promises you'll only make

Drink up with me now and forget all about
The pressure of days, do what I say
And I'll make you okay and drive them away
The images stuck in your head
People you've been before that you don't want around anymore
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

Drink up, baby, look at the stars
I'll kiss you again between the bars
Where I'm seeing you there with your hands in the air
Waiting to finally be caught

Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine
Keep you apart, deep in my heart
Separate from the rest, where I like you the best
And keep the things you forgot
The people you've been before that you don't want around anymore
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

Dear Foxy

Just a thought:

I was listening to the Philospher's Zone on Radio National on Saturday, where author Havi Carel was interviewed about her book on living with chronic illness. I found her strategies very compelling and have ordered a copy to assist with myself and caring for my mother.

If you are interested you may listen to the program yourself:

http://www.abc.net.au/rn/philosopherszone/stories/2010/2889678.htm

:)