None live in this land, but for her,
walking conduits for her moods and passions,
gladly bearing her soil upon their soles.

Here, where the harvest is gathered by firesides
in winter, fuelled by fine malt
and aged in ink-stained pages;

Where stones sing of freedom
and dying heather
lends the hills a coat of ancient blood;

Storm winds skirl through craggy passes
stirring silent, waiting lochs
to bursts of foam-whipped fury.

We walked in the footprints
of kings, rogues and heroes.

I walked into you
and you carried me home

I just like this.
I just like this very much!
Thanks for sharing!
R.Y.

Thank you

(06-25-2011, 03:46 PM)Leanne Wrote:  None live in this land, but for her,
walking conduits for her moods and passions,
gladly bearing her soil upon their soles.

Here, where the harvest is gathered by firesides
in winter, fuelled by fine malt
and aged in ink-stained pages;

Where stones sing of freedom
and dying heather
lends the hills a coat of ancient blood;

Storm winds skirl through craggy passes...........(should this be swirl)
stirring silent, waiting lochs
to bursts of foam-whipped fury.

We walked in the footprints
of kings, rogues and heroes.

I walked into you
and you carried me home

Really like this piece.
Lots of history here.
Assuming of course this is Edinburgh Scotland.
You must be of Scottish blood.
Only nit might be too many (walked), also wondered about present or past tense in last two verses.
Would like to see you expand on this. You carry the voice so well in this, I'm sure you could manage a few more verses.
Like I said lots of history here.

Cheers

David

(06-25-2011, 03:46 PM)Leanne Wrote:  None live in this land, but for her,
walking conduits for her moods and passions,
gladly bearing her soil upon their soles.

Here, where the harvest is gathered by firesides
in winter, fuelled by fine malt
and aged in ink-stained pages;

Where stones sing of freedom
and dying heather
lends the hills a coat of ancient blood;

Storm winds skirl through craggy passes
stirring silent, waiting lochs
to bursts of foam-whipped fury.

We walked in the footprints
of kings, rogues and heroes.

I walked into you
and you carried me home

i've actually spat on the heart, it was easy having the temperament i have, i could be way off base but it smacks of a love poem. if not for a person, then the place. the stone if i had a nit it would be that for me the last two lines work better above the two above it.
lots to like about it, makes me think of rob roy and the stone of destiney which is back at the castle.

thanks for the read.

Leanne

I keep coming back to this.

Somehow you lose the Metaphor in the last line.
I don't like to be interupted like that.

You have 4 excellent stanza's, then you

go from we walked to I walked
then..... you carried

You are making my three typing fingers sore.

David

Gentleman, thank you.

David, I want to "lose" the metaphor in the last line, though technically I think the volta comes in the two lines preceding. This is, as Billy mentions, a love poem -- trying to map the person through the place. It was a long time after leaving Scotland that I felt able to write about it -- it's a dreadful place for an artist to be stuck, surrounded by such a weight of cultural achievements that you can't help but feel incapable of adding to. But my other half is Scottish, and I had things to understand about what that actually means. "Skirl" is a term most often used for the noise of the bagpipes (and I do mean noise!)

Billy, spitting on the Heart feels bloody good, I must say. It's a wonderful "f-u" to the English (no offence mate!) and a great way to get in the mood for all the whisky bars along the Royal Mile

yeah, truth be known, the stupid thing is most of the english tourists are the one who spit on it most hehe. i did because i had an aversion to any prison or hangmans noose there's also a place in the south of england called newlyn where the arts and craft style flourished. it was full of the artists and artisan who followed the style. the air is still palpable with them even though the movement ended in 1910. trying to emulate one of them makes a person feel very small and humble. just a piece of useless info to sho the british also has art heritage hehe.

Haha, a little bit maybe! No, seriously, I still haven't managed to write about London. I'm still not sure what I think of it -- standing in front of St Pauls and so forth is definitely humbling, but then dealing with all those bloody rude pushy Poms on the Underground, well! Kind of takes the gloss off

yeah, were all luddites and pick pockets on that not i'll bow out of the thread so your poem can shine