Racial Memories: Perhaps
A thick fog lies along the shore.
Much denser than I've seen before.
It seems somehow unnatural.
Far different from the usual.
Fog banks which we see frequently.
It seemed to spring up suddenly.
Too suddenly for it to be
Conforming with normality.
I watch it apprehensively
I feel some how it threatens me.
I can remember all too well.
The tale the local legends tell.
Of the great fog which stole away
Whole villages or so they say.
Though local legends tend to be
Less accurate than history.
Folk memories are based on truth.
Although there is no written proof
That does not mean they can't be true.
That's why they persist as they do
That I'm afraid I can't deny
Although I am not certain why.
I half believe the tales are true
And wonder if the fog can do
What legends say it's done before.
Perhaps it has returned for more.
I think it's time for me to go.
I do not really want to know.
What will happen if should stay
My instinct is to run away.
To climb into my car and drive
My only aim is to survive.
I realise I have been dreaming.
I can see the street lights gleaming.
And that things are as they ought to be.
My mind's been playing tricks on me.
I'm safe and warm in my armchair.
Although my mind has been elsewhere.
Concocting fear filled fantasies
From half remembered memories.
Thursday,13 September 2012.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Racial Memories: Perhaps Storypoem
83846A thick fog lies along the shore.
Much denser than I've seen before.
It seems somehow unnatural.
Far different from the usual.
Fog banks which we see frequently.
It seemed to spring up suddenly.
Too suddenly for it to be
Conforming with normality.
I watch it apprehensively
I feel some how it threatens me.
I can remember all too well.
The tale the local legends tell.
Of the great fog which stole away
Whole villages or so they say.
Though local legends tend to be
Less accurate than history.
Folk memories are based on truth.
Although there is no written proof
That does not mean they can't be true.
That's why they persist as they do
That I'm afraid I can't deny
Although I am not certain why.
I half believe the tales are true
And wonder if the fog can do
What legends say it's done before.
Perhaps it has returned for more.
I think it's time for me to go.
I do not really want to know.
What will happen if should stay
My instinct is to run away.
To climb into my car and drive
My only aim is to survive.
I realise I have been dreaming.
I can see the street lights gleaming.
And that things are as they ought to be.
My mind's been playing tricks on me.
I'm safe and warm in my armchair.
Although my mind has been elsewhere.
Concocting fear filled fantasies
From half remembered memories.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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My uncle was born at the end of the Edo era and was a great authority on the various bizarre and gruesome legends that were so popular in those days: tales of haunted houses with rooms no one dared enter; tales of the souls of scorned women, still living, tormenting an unfaithful lover; tales of ghosts unable to relinquish an attachment to their former lives... Yet he took great pains to deny there was any truth to these legends, repeating the lesson of his samurai education that "a true warrior does not believe in ghosts."
Kido Okamoto in The Ghost of Ofumi (1930), translated by Ian MacDonald
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Will You? for friend Thad
The singing spring, a sacred well.
Is heard to sing so legends tell.
At midnight when the moon is full.
They say the singing’s wonderful.
So beautiful you are entranced
until the sunrise sets you free.
You basic nature is enhanced.
So you are changed; permanently.
The good become even better.
The wicked ones grow much worse.
These rules are followed to the letter.
Bring changes which you can’t reverse.
I was advised to stay indoors
on evenings when the moon was full
I disregarded this of course.
When you are young you play the fool
I did not believe the tales were true
So I resolved to check it out
a very foolish thing to do
But Now I know I have no doubt.
I was a young and headstrong fool
Although that does not change a thing.
I went there when the moon was full
And heard the singing of the spring.
That’s why I sit here on death row.
I grew to enjoy violence.
I killed a man with just one blow.
Although I pleaded self defence.
The jury found I was guilty.
I know I didn’t mean to kill.
The evidence convicted me.
It seemed to be an act of will.
It seems I can’t escape the fate
The sacred well foresaw for me
I know now when it is too late
I must fulfil the prophecy.
I can’t complain I made the choice
I should listened carefully
But no I had to hear the voice
I went there unbelievingly.
I should have known but I did not
Old legends are based on some truth.
That’s why the legends aren’t forgot.
Except by disbelieving youth.
I must accept the penalty
There is nothing I can do.
One morning they will come for me.
Not pleasant to look forward to.
So heed my words and heed them well.
Do not ignore the legends that you hear
The strange tales that the old wives tell.
Although their meanings are not clear.
It won’t harm you stay indoors
on evenings when the moon is full.
It is by far the wisest course.
It never hurts to be careful.
Although you are a modernist
and can’t believe the tales are true
The ancient legends still persist.
The question is my friend Will you?
10/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Legendary profitabilty.
A quiet space a secret place.
A rocky cave in the cliff face.
Which somehow makes you feel welcome.
A hermit once made this his home.
A healer and an herbalist.
The legends say he did exist.
It’s said he never charged a fee
But gave his services for free.
To the poorest folks of his day.
But those who were rich enough to pay
Had to pay accordingly
For medicine the poor got free.
He was regarded with respect.
Exactly as you would expect.
His treatments worked effectively.
Because he knew the properties.
Of every herb both root and leaf.
And which to use to bring relief.
From common ailments of the day
His nostrums drove the pain away.
Although his fame spread far and wide.
He was determined to abide.
In the haven he had chosen
Far apart from other men.
As a hermit ought to do
And to his principles be true.
None knows his true identity
Lost in the mists of history.
The cave can still be seen today
And tourists come from far away.
Perhaps from curiosity
although there’s not a lot to see.
The tourists are prepared to spend.
That’s why the local all pretend.
That they believe the legends true
Because it suits their pockets to.
Sell souvenirs to visitors
at an inflated price of course.
You might well think I’m cynical
The locals are quite typical.
If there’s a profit to be made
Encouraging the tourist trade.
You can be sure they will supply
whatever tourists want to buy.
The legends may or may not be
Well rooted in reality.
What does it matter anyway
As long as it can be made to pay.
Thursday,02 February 2012
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Idle thoughts
Chaos ruled the nothingness.
Only potentiality
existed in the timelessness
The universe was yet to be.
We cannot know the primal cause
which overcame the entropy.
Forced it to take a different course.
It must remain a mystery.
From nothing came reality
A fully orchestrated plan
Which could not happen possibly.
So says the finite mind of man.
So we build up hypotheses
and legends trying to explain
Rejecting others theories
Though there is nothing we can gain.
Arguments based on ignorance
are bandied freely to and fro.
If we found the truth by chance
it’s probable we would not know.
We know the universe exists.
We can’t deny the evidence
and yet the legends still persist
Though logically they make no sense.
Did God create the universe
and if so who created God
I do not wish to seem perverse
but I confess I find it odd.
Why is that mankind pursues
this useless quest obsessively.
I think the questions too abstruse
For us to view objectively.
I just accept the way things are
Which seems the wisest course to me
and hasn’t troubled me so far
But then perhaps I’m just lazy.
25/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The threat Remains story poem
As twilight fall across the sea.
A fog was drifting steadily
Towards the shore and threatening
that it would swallow everything.
A clammy cold persistent mist
which seemed unnatural to me.
Some evil which should not exist
which was approaching rapidly.
I’m not afraid, I’m terrified
that in the fog strange creatures hide
.I have a strong presentiment
I’m certain it’s malevolent.
The local legends linger on.
Strange tales from times which are long gone.
Stories I held to be untrue
but now I’m not sure that I do.
I am no longer confident
that modern man is competent
to deal with angers he can’t see.
Lured into false security
reliant on technology.
But we still sense subconsciously
When something does not seem quite right
and we prepare for flight or fight.
I would much rather run away
but something forces me to stay
I am entranced or hypnotised
my limbs completely paralysed.
And as I watch it comes ashore
as it has often done before.
To wreak the vengeance of the sea
upon the land so silently.
That no one knows until it’s gone
that it has been and what it’s done
Whole villages have disappeared
because the fog has commandeered.
The population forcibly
and carried them beneath the sea.
Leaving no witnesses behind
no evidence for men to find.
to try and solve the mystery.
Abandoned houses by the sea
but not one living soul remains,
no single witness to explain.
But this time it is different
I’m forced to watch the whole event.
Although there’s nothing I can do
the village disappears from view.
The mist engulfs it easily.
The silence is what frightens me.
No cries of distress or alarm
just an all pervading calm.
Was it by luck, pure happenstance
an accidental circumstance.
I chose to take a moonlight stroll
to watch the breakers as they roll.
Towards the shore from out at sea
in procession ceaselessly.
I do not know but I believe
I was intended to perceive.
The creeping fog come from the sea
engulf the village silently.
So I could then bear witness
to the fact the ancient tales are true.
Though when I try to testify
they think I’m mad or that I lie.
Why should I lie what could I gain
I ask but they cannot explain.
Interviewed by psychiatrists
my “delusion” still persists
I stick to what I know I saw
I will remember evermore.
But they insist on treating me
as I if had some malady.
Some mental illness they can cure
and so they keep me in secure
accommodation I don’t need.
In case one day I might succeed
in proving that my story’s true
and that of course would never do.
They dare not check past history
which would resolve the mystery.
If they researched the local lore
they’d find the fog has struck before
though not in living memory.
They are afraid to set me free.
I know they know I’m not insane
but that I will repeat again.
The story which I know is true
a story they don’t want me to.
They much prefer to rationalise
to justify their blatant lies.
They have no explanation
of where the villagers have gone.
So they misuse authority
because they do not want be
seen to lack efficiency
So they sit back complacently.
Convinced they have successfully
prevented all publicity.
But they will find it is not so
for relatives will want to know.
What happened to their kith and kin
and then the witch hunt will begin.
Eventually they’ll get to me
I will regain my liberty
I will be allowed to tell my tale.
Despite their efforts they will fail.
I will repeat my evidence
just what I saw no more no less.
Although it seems to make no sense.
It is the truth nevertheless.
Authorities claim to protect
the public as they ought to do
It is a claim which I reject
If you believe me you will too.
16-Feb-09
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Memories of Childhood
memories so many,
arent they sweet like honey?
i remember my childhood days;
when me and my sister lazed.
the time when i rolled in mud,
or; the time when i fell down
the time when i saw a meteor,
or; the time when i went to school.
the time when i threw stones at cows,
or; the time when i was chased by a mouse!
old memories are filled with fun and joy,
things to be remembered and loved.
and; time came for me to grow up;
to sit in the armchair;
to remember............................
(stuffed in my mind)
my childhood memories.
poem by Aparna Subramanian
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0197 Being in Mind
Poets seek in poems, a truth that's yet to be:
to catch those glories half-formed in the mind,
those tantalising visions which we see
for fleeting seconds; fear may never find
again; yet leave a presence in the air,
the evanescent substance of a dream,
like half-remembered, half-forgotten care,
but known to be more real than they seem;
like friendly ghosts who share our rooms awhile
and conjure memories of their treasured kind:
a scent; a taste; a light; an echoed smile
from knowledge of some farther truth in mind:
O these are angels, heralds of the whole;
a golden rain that showers the dreaming soul.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Well wouldn't You?
The sea fret grey and clammy cold
distorts the view along the shore.
Quite effortlessly it seems to mould
the things you knew were there before.
Into new forms which seem to be
evil, hostile and threatening.
You can’t be sure of what you see.
The muffled silence deafening.
I tell myself I’m not afraid
but briskly walk towards the light.
A subconscious decision made,
adopt a strategy of flight.
You cannot fight what you can’t see.
The local legends all insist.
The souls of sailors lost at sea
are carried by the clinging mist.
They crave the warmth that they once knew.
The warmth the living still possess
and they will drain the life from you.
Their urgent need is pitiless.
Of course it’s just an old wives tale
which cannot possibly be true.
Still when I hear the foghorns wail.
I make for safety wouldn’t you.
5-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Perdita for M lady Ann
She walks the shore beside the sea,
seen indistinctly in the mist
a maiden who died tragically.
The local legends will insist.
It’s said she died by her own hand
By a faithless lover betrayed
and is condemned to walk the strand
until released by judgement day.
Though I have proved beyond all doubt
she is no ghost. A trick of light,
the good folk who live hereabout
are still convinced that they are right.
The have no time for scientists
they KNOW who wanders in the mists.
2-May-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Maps & Legends
Hes not to be reached, hes to be reached.
Hes not to be reached, hes to be reached.
Called the fool and the company,
On his own where hed rather be.
Where he ought to be, he sees what you cant see,
Cant you see that?
Maybe hes caught in the legend,
Maybe hes caught in the mood.
Maybe these maps and legends
Have been misunderstood.
Down the way the roads divided,
Paint me the places you have seen.
Those who know what I dont know
Refer to the yellow, red and green
Maybe hes caught in the legend,
Maybe hes caught in the mood.
Maybe these maps and legends
Have been misunderstood.
Hes not to be reached, hes to be reached. (4 times)
The map that you painted didnt seem real.
He just sings whatever hes seen
Point to the legend, point to the east,
Point to the yellow, red and green
Maybe hes caught in the legend,
Maybe hes caught in the mood.
Maybe these maps and legends
Have been misunderstood, been misunderstood.
(maps and legends)
(maps and legends) is he to be reached?
Hes not to be reached.
(maps and legends) is he to be reached?
Hes not to be reached.
(maps and legends) is he to be reached?
Hes not to be reached anymore.
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Days Of Old
I listen to the stories
grandmother told,
from legends of old
fables worn out,
I hear them
over and over,
politely listen,
though they seldom vary
sometines i wonder
if even she is bored,
or is it the legacy of her time,
imposed to report,
she holds on with
a tenacity, that the past
will not fade or dim,
nor bow to medias of great din
she has a way of cocking her head
a smile screws across her face,
as lips curve and purse,
the soft breeze of words
slow at first, then flow
with a current of pictures
and thoughts, dressed in
metaphor and allegory,
filed with glamor and
glory, cloaked in raiment
of story, rolls on meandering,
from then to now and back again,
the most trivial detail becomes
a dragon or hero of import,
her sonorous tones caress
the memories that loom up
and the past comes echoing out,
of gleaming eyes,
lit up memories
that filled her skies
romantic and true
filled with satire
and sometimes
sarcasm too
as I listen
I turn the gun
of scrutiny
upon myself
and wonder
will I be be
this
way too
poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Legends
A legend has emerged from the deep,
Instilling hatred for the time being,
The destruction of the times we call the floods
Carried new legends, for the old legends were dead.
The acts of a past guarantee success, fullness,
Words mean a noise of obvious strength.
The old legends speak authority,
But new have effects of the backbone
For the structure of society is never weak.
The depth of the myths surrounding this walk
Is the whole society, the entire humankind.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Maps And Legends
He's not to be reached he's to be reached.
He's not to be reached he's to be reached.
Called the fool and the company
On his own where he'd rather be.
Where he ought to be he sees what you can't see can't you see that?
Maybe he's caught in the legend
maybe he's caught in the mood.
Maybe these maps and legends
have been misunderstood.
Down the way the road's divided
Paint me the places you have seen.
Those who know what I don't know
refer to the yellow, red and green
Maybe he's caught in the legend,
maybe he's caught in the mood.
Maybe these maps and legends
have been misunderstood.
He's not to be reached, he's to be reached. (4 times)
The map that you painted didn't seem real.
He just sings whatever he's seen
Point to the legend, point to the east,
Point to the yellow, red and green
Maybe he's caught in the legend,
maybe he's caught in the mood.
Maybe these maps and legends
have been misunderstood, been misunderstood. (Maps and legends)
(Maps and legends) Is he to be reached? He's not to be reached.
(Maps and legends) Is he to be reached? He's not to be reached.
(Maps and legends) Is he to be reached? He's not to be reached anymore
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bullet Proof Teenage Male Testosterone
according to teenage character summaries
males lack appeasement walk boldly where angels
fear to tread without order predictable steps
nothing rogue males
do we are told apparently surprises
danger trills entices
some gain insane labels
youthful myth legends
early shed all nine lives
such unwarranted verdicts
to place upon fever heads
running off thrill seekers
known in local communities
watched are wonder scenes
bullet proof unscathed rises
according to teenage character summaries
some males lack appeasement walk boldly where angels
fear to tread youth orders unpredictable steps
behold young legends
the man none can root
shoot or electrocute
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Memories
Orbison/dees
In a cold december, memories can melt your heart away
In a warm september, you can still remember yesterday
Even in the darkest night when dreams fade away
When your love is gone, youll never be alone in memories
Memories, while walking through a winter snow, memories, when summer breezes start to blow
When true love is far away it may be yours in memories
Memories, while falling leaves just fill the air, memories, when springtime comes and loves not there
Even when you cry, try not to say goodbye to memories
Golden memories can turn the night into day, teach your heart to smile
And live each day a while in memories
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Family tradition.
I feel a hand touching my hair but when I look there’s no one there.
And then I settle down to rest again I felt my hair caressed.
I’ve no idea what it might be. It seems to mean no harm to me.
I’m wide awake I m not dreaming. The gentle moonlight softly beaming
through the window of my room, firmly dispels the twilight gloom Although there’s nothing I can see, some thing is caressing me.
It feels somehow familiar and I recall my Grandmama
Who used to sit beside my bed and very gently stroke my head.
when I was just a little lad. A memory both sweet and sad.
I have returned to my old home back to my roots no more to roam.
Perhaps her spirit lingers here and that is why I feel no fear.
I felt this old house calling me insistently and constantly.
Which finally decided me that this where I ought to be.
It has been in my family for two and one half centuries.
I think that very probably my eldest son will follow me.
Just as I followed my own Dad. If he did not it would be sad.
We are an ancient family part of the local history.
They say there is a prophecy and I believe there may well be.
Which says we must come home to die. That it is true I can’t deny.
Nor can I guarantee its true I leave that question up to you.
Monday,17 May 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Blind faith is not enough.
When I survey the sacred texts
and holy books of warring sects.
I must conclude they have been changed
edited and rearranged.
So that the truth they once contained
has been lost or so constrained
Although they claim to be the truth
there’s insufficient proof.
To say that this or that is true.
However much we may want to.
Some facts are true but well concealed
By churches who refuse to yield.
To share what knowledge they possess.
The truth it seems matters far less
than maintaining the status quo.
They are afraid and rightly so.
If it were proved they had repressed
the truth in their own interest,
to bolster their authority.
They’d lose all credibility.
The myths and legends may be true
I don’t believe, though some may do.
The powers that be still conceal
the evidence that could reveal.
The records have been tampered with.
What we are taught is mainly myth,
which has been altered frequently.
To suit the reigning powers that be.
To consolidate their control
Retaining power their only goal.
To dominate their fellow men
They twist the truth time and again..
Some few achieve epiphany.
They see with crystal clarity.
That God resides within us all
and he will answer if we call.
What need have we of clergymen
and their views of hell and heaven.
For answers you must look inside
To find the truth they seek to hide.
Sunday,20 June 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude IV.
And then the blue-eyed Norseman told
A Saga of the days of old.
'There is,' said he, 'a wondrous book
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
Of the dead kings of Norroway,--
Legends that once were told or sung
In many a smoky fireside nook
Of Iceland, in the ancient day,
By wandering Saga-man or Scald;
Heimskringla is the volume called;
And he who looks may find therein
The story that I now begin.'
And in each pause the story made
Upon his violin he played,
As an appropriate interlude,
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood,
Entwining and encircling all
The strange and antiquated rhymes
with melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,
Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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As a boy, because I was born and raised in Ohio, about 60 miles north of Dayton, the legends of the Wrights have been in my memories as long as I can remember.
quote by Neil Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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