Poetic Prose: My Friend Hugo

Miles Whinfrey © December 2015

Hugo

Hugo is a friend
Always sure and in perfect complacence
He’s no short measure or Merry Andrew
How likely was this? move to the village was ticklish
Not through err or error, no-one jejune
As far as we know always a Handsel- a radiant soul

An invigilator, messenger, chef. Health service doyen.
A man of faith who positively loves his Princes.

With concern and beliefs rather than greatest overarching purpose,
monetary motivation
Time split is now coming back together for contentment and happiness

Sometimes put in a pickle by hardened attitudes
“Great Scot people have crowded lives
We all start in needing lessons in to how to best suit each
others purposes”

When decerning peoples position and direction
Terrain can be seen, land and water,
Like standing up in protest in a meeting over principle or
to make an offering of love
The reason’s to notice, to examine, assess

The day after the fayre, a clean breast, new thinking
More support for tricky lobbying
And a smile and special message on a Florists card
Everyone benefits from guerdicies

Routines and a full life

“One cannot build life from refrigerators, politics, credit statements and cross-word puzzles.
That is impossible.
Nor can one exist for any length of time without poetry,
Without colour,
Without love.”

Antoine De Saint-Exupery.

‘Drink to me…’ The Forest (1616) Ben Jonson

This poem makes me conscious of my own social drinking. But it is not really about that- more about the Greek ideas of the good things. It’s often a reading at weddings.

Drink to me only with thine eyes

Ben Jonson

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither’d be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!