exponent/tinyc4 · Datasets at Hugging Face

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“Mm-hmm,” her nephew, the boys’ father, hums.
down, then accelerates through another roundabout.
They don’t like yews, them cattle. Evidently.
did you, boys?” No response.
Then, some miles on, he spots something.
near the entrance to the pathway through the churchyard.
admonitory forefinger of its spire pointing heavenward.
to frame the lych gate from where they have halted.
turning to Auntie Olivia Oblivia and unfastening his seatbelt.
Oh no! I should never have brought it up!
crumpling unexpectedly into uncontrollable sobbing.
“What is it, Auntie?” their dad asks, bewildered and helpless.
the dark mystery of her grieving.
Did she hear what they’d been saying?
Their own chins begin to tremble.
rubs Olivia’s back, hands her more tissues.
something about mean girls and relentless teasing.
about being condemned by her weight never to marry.
and, thus, of the marriage bed.
with salt (of their own bodies’ manufacture, evidently).
till I knew how to deal with the pair of them.
You know what I mean, don’t you Tiger.
sometimes you just have to fight to a finish.
Why do you think my plants grow so tall?
but because of the soil, and all its nutrients.
The old story about graves & roses is true.
not even when I was young and beautiful.
never wonder why my pot plants are so red.
those cheating hearts right under their noses.
This morning (your time) I woke up in Rio.
before I fell asleep clutching my teddy bear.
since 1903, he’s been everywhere with me.
I’ve almost got the walk & talky right.
again, & I’m taking a long rest from Hollywood.
for the silly dialogue. Me, I got paid for it.
and I’ve got Oscars going back to 1930.
Why is it taking so long to fly to the moon?
kept at his home for over 40 years, in order to present the brain to Einstein’s grand-daughter Evelyn.
Where does ‘this’ translate? with every difficult subject.
velocity of travel slight, what about poor Evelyn?
once I was, but then again I’ll just give a gravitational wave.
John Kitchen: were I ….
The man next to me is thinking about living.
I am ? ditto – though it's raining buckets.
about me sitting on this sullen bench.
I that his name is `Len' or 'Terence'.
I that it would be useful for water-sports.
with its only idioms the idioms of silence.
the great man shrugged and replied, ‘I didn’t, but do now’.
plus vague et plus soluble dans l’air.
– or even the composer, come to that.
OK. Let’s see what we’ve got here.
And very few to love.
Is shining in the sky!
Now maybe it’s just me, but I do have a little problem with those plurals in your first two lines.
are only a few of them? You see what I mean?
that cropped up earlier? I do find it rather confusing.
grave. That’s quite a difference for her.
of the little issues we’ve met up with here.
I stood unwontedly all the way.
The intercom hissed as the train paused.
And people inside pounded Driver Let Us Out.
And farther towards Merton and Wimbledon.
won’t believe me when I show you the answer.
would be the point, as he can’t eat it anyway.
is off the gingerbread, no one wants to know.
to ask, like most lost men, who won’t be told.
the fish can’t even be bothered to swallow it for you.
at least you know what should have been the truth.
first past the post, the way they should have done.
Imply some pattern that life could not match.
and glancing back at you, I sigh, not smile.
behind your silly boasts the pain is mine.
says the ant-powder. I hope that’s true.
co-exist. But there’s the rub.
is my house, my space, my land.
There are too many of you!
sought the touch of every, any shift in the air.
somewhere in the dark, settling, flying, settling.
for ways to rescue both of us.
the animal innerness Artemis revered.
but I can still feel the pulse of their terror.
of a life which won’t cage them in dread?
nothing, not even the company of clouds.
names of loved ones dissolving under the tongue.
to die from longing and exile.
trusting the universe to take us home.
shorn of a self, turned into ghosts.
Emptiness expands to fill our days.
chatters at the edge of shivering coasts.
crying out for those who have no home?
His name was Emanuel: God is with us.
where a Catholic mission took them in.
who knows where and goes to some other place.
She will wash her man's body ready for burial.
She will drink the water she washed him in.
in the sneer of history.
and I could catch these boats, he thinks.
flashing like fish in the swirl.
Anne Ballard lives in Edinburgh. Her poems have appeared in Acumen, Magma, The Interpreter’s House and elsewhere. She won first prize in the Poetry on the Lake Competition 2015. Her pamphlet Family Division was published by in 2015.

“Mm-hmm,” her nephew, the boys’ father, hums.

down, then accelerates through another roundabout.

They don’t like yews, them cattle. Evidently.

did you, boys?” No response.

Then, some miles on, he spots something.

near the entrance to the pathway through the churchyard.

admonitory forefinger of its spire pointing heavenward.

to frame the lych gate from where they have halted.

turning to Auntie Olivia Oblivia and unfastening his seatbelt.

Oh no! I should never have brought it up!

crumpling unexpectedly into uncontrollable sobbing.

“What is it, Auntie?” their dad asks, bewildered and helpless.

the dark mystery of her grieving.

Did she hear what they’d been saying?

Their own chins begin to tremble.

rubs Olivia’s back, hands her more tissues.

something about mean girls and relentless teasing.

about being condemned by her weight never to marry.

and, thus, of the marriage bed.

with salt (of their own bodies’ manufacture, evidently).

till I knew how to deal with the pair of them.

You know what I mean, don’t you Tiger.

sometimes you just have to fight to a finish.

Why do you think my plants grow so tall?

but because of the soil, and all its nutrients.

The old story about graves & roses is true.

not even when I was young and beautiful.

never wonder why my pot plants are so red.

those cheating hearts right under their noses.

This morning (your time) I woke up in Rio.

before I fell asleep clutching my teddy bear.

since 1903, he’s been everywhere with me.

I’ve almost got the walk & talky right.

again, & I’m taking a long rest from Hollywood.

for the silly dialogue. Me, I got paid for it.

and I’ve got Oscars going back to 1930.

Why is it taking so long to fly to the moon?

kept at his home for over 40 years, in order to present the brain to Einstein’s grand-daughter Evelyn.

Where does ‘this’ translate? with every difficult subject.

velocity of travel slight, what about poor Evelyn?

once I was, but then again I’ll just give a gravitational wave.

John Kitchen: were I ….

The man next to me is thinking about living.

I am ? ditto – though it's raining buckets.

about me sitting on this sullen bench.

I that his name is `Len' or 'Terence'.

I that it would be useful for water-sports.

with its only idioms the idioms of silence.

the great man shrugged and replied, ‘I didn’t, but do now’.

plus vague et plus soluble dans l’air.

– or even the composer, come to that.

OK. Let’s see what we’ve got here.

And very few to love.

Is shining in the sky!

Now maybe it’s just me, but I do have a little problem with those plurals in your first two lines.

are only a few of them? You see what I mean?

that cropped up earlier? I do find it rather confusing.

grave. That’s quite a difference for her.

of the little issues we’ve met up with here.

I stood unwontedly all the way.

The intercom hissed as the train paused.

And people inside pounded Driver Let Us Out.

And farther towards Merton and Wimbledon.

won’t believe me when I show you the answer.

would be the point, as he can’t eat it anyway.

is off the gingerbread, no one wants to know.

to ask, like most lost men, who won’t be told.

the fish can’t even be bothered to swallow it for you.

at least you know what should have been the truth.

first past the post, the way they should have done.

Imply some pattern that life could not match.

and glancing back at you, I sigh, not smile.

behind your silly boasts the pain is mine.

says the ant-powder. I hope that’s true.

co-exist. But there’s the rub.

is my house, my space, my land.

There are too many of you!

sought the touch of every, any shift in the air.

somewhere in the dark, settling, flying, settling.

for ways to rescue both of us.

the animal innerness Artemis revered.

but I can still feel the pulse of their terror.

of a life which won’t cage them in dread?

nothing, not even the company of clouds.

names of loved ones dissolving under the tongue.

to die from longing and exile.

trusting the universe to take us home.

shorn of a self, turned into ghosts.

Emptiness expands to fill our days.

chatters at the edge of shivering coasts.

crying out for those who have no home?

His name was Emanuel: God is with us.

where a Catholic mission took them in.

who knows where and goes to some other place.

She will wash her man's body ready for burial.

She will drink the water she washed him in.

in the sneer of history.

and I could catch these boats, he thinks.

flashing like fish in the swirl.

Anne Ballard lives in Edinburgh. Her poems have appeared in Acumen, Magma, The Interpreter’s House and elsewhere. She won first prize in the Poetry on the Lake Competition 2015. Her pamphlet Family Division was published by in 2015.