ok am at work and going to be here for the next 7 hours, so whats everyone doing/wearing/thinking/eating/scratching(in no paticular order)

if you havent guessed I am bored at work, thinking about lunch(which is 2 hours away, or whenever I bop down to sainsburys) and I am currently thinking about how much coursework I should be doing and err scratching the inside of my left thigh!
ohh my exciting life

dan

I'm doing nothing today, cos I'm knackered. I was in London yesterday, showing my mum around my next stomping ground. I'm currently just thinking about how much of my dissertation I can get done tomorrow and how little money I have.

And I'm not scratching anything!

what not scratching anything???
shame on you.
thinking about how poor you one is is not a happy thing to be doing, speaking from experience although now that I have stopped hammering my overdraft and actually am not in debt, it didnt feel as good as I thought that it would!

dan

PS
just noticed that bit of poetry, nmy favourite bit is

four grey walls and four grey towers
overlook a space of flowers
and the silent isle embowers
the lady of shallot

all of the top of my head mind, used to know the first three pages of the ballad of reading goal of by heart

which reminds me of that poem I was talking about(see below)
tis a bit cheesy but a fine blue cheese(ie the best kind of cheese)

The Highwayman

By Alfred Noyes



Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
The Highwayman

By Alfred Noyes



Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *

X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Wow! Did you write that all out or cut and paste? Still it's impressive nonetheless. And a good poem, exactly the type I thought you'd like, very gothic folk. I just thought I'd change my bit of poetry in my signature since as I've had my bit of Wendy Cope about giving up smoking for a while. I was contemplating replacing it with some Byron (So we'll go no more a-roving) or 'Jenny' by Dante Gabriel Rossetti which has a few of my favourite lines of poetry - "Lazy laughing languid Jenny/Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea". Kind of reminded me of myself, though it is actually about a prostitute. I've been reading a few ghost stories I think you'd like judging by that poem, I'll have to tell you them when I next see you.

Anyway I plumped for Tennyson in the end. That bit about the 'four grey walls' was the only bit of poetry I could remember when I was in my Victorian Poetry and Prose exam this summer and I didn't even need it, so it's kind of cursed me. Still it's a brilliant poem. Mariana is very good also, same kind of thing, imprisoned woman and all that but without the Arturian legend stuff.

And yeah, contemplating my lack of money is not good. None of my mates have any money either - we're reduced to staying in drinking instead of going out drinking, which after what happened last time is probably a good thing. All the photos I got sent the morning after involved us doing embarrassing/lewd/illegal acts. Some of my friends are closet lesbians I'm sure. Anyway I digress....all I meant to say is that I liked your poem! Oh and I can recite the first 30-odd lines of Chaucer's Prologue to The Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English, correct pronunication et al, lots of Shakespeare, Kubla Khan, London by William Blake, bits of Wuthering Heights - many many different pieces of literature. It's mad the things you can remember - never what is actually useful to you though.

I'm just applying for jobs at the minute, and waiting for the next time my parents shout at me for liking music more than studying.

Well, ive been to Lille, i was thinking about a Takamenie i played in a shop and the huge amount of homework i have and im stratching my finger.

Luke

I've been sitting looking down a microscope all morning. Glad to be having some lunch now! Oh, and I have been scratching at an itchy nose this morning, as I have the cold back again.

I'm eating some of the candy that's been left over from yesterday's Hallowe'en festivities. Does anyone in the UK celebrate it?

Yeah, Halloween has become big business in the UK these days. However, when I was younger, particularly living in Scotland, when you went to someones door, you either had to tell a wee joke or sing a song. You could't simply go and say Trick or Treat. Some people still expect that of the kids. Me on the other hand, I just give them some sweets and an apple (to balance it out), and let them be on their way. It is too bloody cold here to stand singing at someone's door!

It's strange when you think about it... a group of kids knocking on your door asking for money for putting a dodgy looking mask on. Anyway, I think the kids where I live are spoilt. They always looked a bit miffed about receiving sweets and prefer cash instead - little buggers.

quote:

Originally posted by rockchick:
It's strange when you think about it... a group of kids knocking on your door asking for money for putting a dodgy looking mask on. Anyway, I think the kids where I live are spoilt. They always looked a bit miffed about receiving sweets and prefer cash instead - little buggers.

lol, I know what you mean.Though my house is slightly out of the way so we dont get kiddies at our door.
Halloween is more popular than bonfire night in the uk now though..i prefere the latter, going out in the freezing cold, wrapped up warm to go stand in a field with a toffee apple looking at things exploding, flinching everytime a rocket goes up...its great!and now my dog is as deaf as a post we dont have to worry about her narking out anymore..
I love winter, its my favorite time of year.

I just spray em with silly string. The little blighters.

hmm halloween, english holiday stolen by the americans and then sold back to us! mcuh prefer bonfire night it suits the little pyromaniac in all of us, plus I think kids using "penny for the guy" is a lot better than halloween for begging, at least the kids are being honest, ie give me money,
am gonna pop off down to my dads place with my sister this bonfire night so we might buy some fireworks and set them off down their.

speaking of peotry I am spending the cash I am earning on music and poetry got some lovely hardbacks from oxfam(cheap good and its a charity) got the mabinogion(think thats how you spell it) havent read it yet and "crow" by ted hughes

ohh speaking of that poem, the reason why we were talking about it origionally is that it is based on an event that took place in the village where I used to live, tom King was the highway mans name, and i have slept in the room where she shot herself, nice stuff(I was only 10)
today I have mostly been scratching my eyes(well the edges)

dan

Technically, Halloween isn't really a holiday so much as it is a feastday. All Hallows' Eve, or as the druids celebrated the Feast of Samhain. It is just a means of welcoming the spirits of the dead, and to be honest, feasts like this (although not exactly Halloween) stretch right back to ancient Egypt, when families used to bring out the dead members of the family to feast with them. Not forgetting the Mexican Day of the Dead - which might be where the candy comes from, as you are given a candy skull with your name on it for celebrating. It is a way of showing respect to the dead, and trying to appease the more restless spirits - while at the same time have a little fun. I love Halloween, i love pumpkins and witches and all the folklore that goes with it. As for bonfire night, well are we not celebrating some dude that did not even succeed in doing what he set out to do? I think it is just an excuse for vandals to light fires.

hol·i·day (hŏl'ĭ-dā')
n.
1.A day free from work that one may spend at leisure, especially a day on which custom or the law dictates a halting of general business

2.activity to commemorate or celebrate a particular event.


3.A religious feast day; a holy day

sorry for being so anal, whips him self 17 times.
most religious stuff ends up by being about either sex or death(or both in a wonderfull mix) they celebrate it in sweden to by lighting candles on graves, so while it is not a holiday specific to the Uk I just said it cus they have used the english name(or a corruption of it)

whips himself a further 3 times

yea good point they blamed the pope for guy fawkes so they used to burn effiges of him on bonfire night. nothing like a bit of religious intolerance eh

yea am guilty of being a secret pyromaniac but its just so much fun

dan

not wearing socks in a public place!!