Mosedale. Summit Poetry.

Each time we go away walking I have tried to take an original piece of poetry with me to read on the summit of the main peak we are aiming for. Sometimes the wind and weather make it a hurried affair, sometimes it is just ourselves, sometimes others are about. I am lucky, my friends humour me and listen. Some they like, some not, that is always part of writing, and if we are writing we need to let others hear what we are saying. This time on the summit of Pillar we met a group of walkers from Scotland doing a similar route to us, we played leap-frog all the way round, exchanging walk ideas and notes on places to go as we crossed paths. They listened to this one, and responded with polite applause at the end, I was surprised as mostly you just get a funny look for even admitting you write poetry, let alone read it to a captive audience on the top of a mountain. So a quiet thank you to those fellow walkers and my friends who listen every time, sorry guys, I’ll keep writing! You in the blog world have a choice of course, but thanks for stopping by as well, enjoy your travels.

Mosedale.

Mosedale

Hills rise on the swell,
crest and break,
roll away with new names.
Shedding wind and water
as they settle back into the land.

Pillar,
Red Pike,
Yewbarrow.

Lines drawn across the map,
running into one another. Places,
clinker built by Brimfull Beck,
Mosedale and Black Beck.

Each pulling together to hold fast
against the rain.
Contours dragged from an older world,
colder, left behind by the present,
only rocks as markers
to show where they have gone.

Hungary

We have arrived. Lake Balaton – Hungary, After the changing landscape of Italy, its open landscapes with villages and vineyards and on into Slovenia where, after explaining that we were English but had a French registered car we were able to get a ticket for the toll roads, to then cross its sharply rising tree covered hills with a backdrop of Austrian mountains. It was a pleasure to see and finally into Hungary, where the land gently levelled out and we dropped down into wide flat fields. After an hour driving around the lake we pulled up outside our hotel on a balmy evening, unpacked and made our first foray out to see where we were.

Lake Balaton

After Lake Garda, big enough in its own right I was waiting to see how big Balaton would be. It’s big!

Lake Balaton

The strange thing is, unlike the sea, there are few waves. Only from passing boats, and no salt smell, which I expect from such an expanse of water. The people seem friendly and evening strolls are the norm along the lakeside.

The Language is though, completely unlike any others. And with English and French being the only two I know, we are lost. The mind takes over and wants to answer in French, but here, German is the main second language. Jane knows a bit, but the best I can manage is beer and lots of pointing. I can now say thank you, the most important word when you are a stranger. Since it is a holiday destination, most bars and restaurants have English menus – or pictures – so I think we will survive.

Fishing on Lake Balaton

We are simply unwinding at the moment, relaxing and reading. Enjoying being away from everything, soon we will explore some more. Budapest is an hour away and after coming all this way it seems churlish not to visit.

Next time there may be some poetic input (or output) to the story. Relaxing is taking precedence at the moment so I’ll settle for that.

Edward Hopper

The hat is draped like her low spirits,
there is nothing outside this place except reflections,
the coffee sits waiting, smelling better than it tastes.
There was a time when this would be waiting for someone,
a lover, a friend, a forbidden fruit, because on the windowsill
there is untouched fruit. Opposite there is the empty chair.
Beneath the table demure legs. White legs,
white tablecloth. The downcast eyes,
left behind.

The picture that paints a thousand words. I love the Edward Hopper Paintings you see everywhere. This is for them. Because whenever you travel you see the lost souls.

Poetry Cafe, At The Carlton Poets in Weston-super-Mare

Tonight is the Poetry Cafe, Last Thursday of each month, there is a theme, but it is optional. Let me know if you want to visit and I’ll give you the details.

whenever I am here I like to go along and read my work out to a group of like-minded people. Even if sometimes they just look confused. Or for some of the shorter pieces, just kinda waiting. I like that quiet moment when they suddenly register that it is finished and that they can think about it. Not everyone’s style but it tends to be mine.

It is very different to publishing online, where you can’t see the whites of their eyes so to speak. And so I think makes a better writer of you. Listening to your own writing read out loud, even if it is you reading it is very important to your work. I couldn’t do with out it. Kudos to my wife who has to endure endless repetition until I finally get to a point that I feel it can be inflicted on the public.

How is it for you? Do you do any reading out loud? Your own or others work. and does it change what you think about a piece of writing? Let me know.

Jim