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John Raubenheimer Settle / United Kingdom, Male, 67
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John Raubenheimer's last comments on poems and poets

  • POEM: Beast in Beas by Vijay Sai (7/29/2014 12:55:00 AM)

    Thank you Vijay. Playful phrases carry your reader to a place where all his assumptions have to be reassessed. A tragic event, thoughtfully and movingly described..

  • POEM: Power of wind by Vijay Sai (7/29/2014 12:49:00 AM)

    Thanks for your thoughts on the power and elegant beauty of wind-turbines.

  • POEM: Admitting by David McLansky (12/15/2013 9:38:00 AM)

    I've known a few Anna Blair's, David. Maybe its because of that, or maybe it's because it's been such an emotional week for us South Africans, or maybe it's the truth you've expressed so economically and with such skill, but I shed a few tears over this one.

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John Raubenheimer's comments on forums

  • John Raubenheimer (11/8/2011 1:12:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I've revised my poemhunter biography; now it's more personal, including memories from my childhood in apartheid South Africa. Warm wishes to you all.

  • John Raubenheimer (10/1/2007 12:46:00 PM) Post reply

    Thank you Ernestine,

    Though I Shoulder This Rain was written by me to a pattern I found in a poem by a local Yorkshire poet, Dorothy Nimmo... I wish I could lay my hands on her magnificent poem, so that the picture I have given could be complete. Thank you for answering,

    with best wishes,
    John

  • John Raubenheimer (9/20/2007 5:18:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I found the interesting rhyme scheme for 'Though I Shoulder This Rain', in a poem by Dorothy Nimmo, the Settle poet who died a few years ago. (I live in Settle, Yorkshire.) Unfortunately I haven't got her poem to hand...

    Though I Shoulder This Rain

    Though I shoulder this rain like a pack,
    I know a part of me will always be
    in Johannesburg Transvaal, in Bellevue,
    near the vagrant root of a flowering tree.

    I know that part of me will always be
    where purple jacarandas wash over the street -
    with my brother feeding the pigeons, who with fencing wings
    strut and bobble about his sandalled feet.

    Where purple jacarandas wash over the street:
    tender report of the popping flowers.
    pressed by wheelers and walkers, the shouters, talkers
    who pass under his balcony at all hours.

    Tender report of the popping flowers.
    Clickbang of lightning: my memories persist
    vivid as the storm through England's drizzle.
    They will stay with me as long as I exist.

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