Ian Larmont’s Blog

I stand in native woodland,

My gaze goes all around.

The muted shades of Autumn

Lie dark’ning on the ground.

But surely it’s not Autumn,

We’ve just begun July.

The stark, bare, waving branches

Trace patterns on the sky.

Oh will the green of Springtime

Touch dying woods again?

For now is General Winter.

One season, Acid Rain.

That one is back from 1993 “EARTHWAYS EARTHWISE,Poems on Conservation.” Selected by Judith Nicholls.  I remember conceiving it standing in The Cottage Tavern waiting for my mate Bill. I had just about written it all in my head by the time he turned up. What a loss if he had been on time or had not had a pen on him, which I cadged and wrote it all out on a couple of mutilated beermats.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul,

I hide by the dustbins just outside your school.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

I live on the banks of a dark, slimy pool.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

I’m nasty and dirty and vicious and cruel.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

I bite like a tiger and kick like a mule.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

I’ll get you and eat you if you play the fool.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

There’ll be nothing left except blood in a pool.

Ghoul, ghoul, I am the ghoul.

That performance-type poem was published way back in1987 by Macmillan in “POETRY 1″. The selection was made by John L. Foster and it was the first of my  children’s poems to be published in a nationally distributed anthology.

It’s a great poem for trying out spooky-scary-orrible voices ..high or low.

Cats stand

Half round doors.

Cats sit

And wash their paws.

Cats lie

On soft, warm floors.

But cats stand

Half round doors.

Another old-timer gets an airing. First selected by Moira Andrew who wrote some terrific poetry which appeared courtesy of IRON PRESS, well done Peter Mortimer.

‘CATS STAND’ went on to become a school handwriting exercise … honestly!

‘The Second Beastly Poetry Book’……………………….

                                                  printing completed and copies ready for distribution.   Phew!

Beneath a high mountain,

Inside a dark cave,

A crusty, old dragon

As cold as the grave.

As cold as the high,

Vaulted stone overhead.

As cold as the gold

That is spilled as his bed.

The last of the dragons.

There will be no more.

And slow beats his heart

On his glittering store.

The beating gets slower

As life drifts away.

A hundred more lifetimes

Just pass as a day.

At last a low moan

Where there once was a roar.

The last of the dragons

Is breathing no more.

The silence was broken

There came a new sound,

No earth shaking rumble

From deep underground,

But a whisper from darkness

Within silent breast,

A weaving, a rustling,

A sigh of unrest.

A whisp of warm vapour

That trembled with fire,

That slowly took small, golden wings

And rose higher.

That shaped solid features

With soft, glowing light,

And onwards and upwards

Rose into the night.

Ian Larmont.

Just keeping the faith. I promised a few people a while back that I’d put the second portion of that on the net. The first part keeps popping up all over the shop since it was first published by OUP in “DRAGONS”( selected by John Foster and illustrated by Korky Paul) years ago and I got a bit exercised by people telling me how SAD it was … so the second half was written, added, and published in “THE BEASTLY POETRY BOOK”  of G,G,G,N,H & S…(BOOK ONE).

Still haven’t heard from the printers …will go off and rattle their cage now.

If you can start the day without caffeine or pills,

If you can understand when loved ones are too busy to give you time,

If you can take criticism and blame without resentment,

If you can pick up the newspaper and not be depressed about reported world politics,

If you can face the world without lies or deceit,

If you can eat your meals without fear of heartburn,

If you can relax without alcohol,

If you can sleep without the aid of drugs,

If you can do all these things

Then you are probably the family dog!

Thought that I’d share this poem by Woodyard Kindling in the absence of further news on the BPB of GGGNH&S.