My "place of clear water,"
the first hill in the world
where springs washed into
the shiny grass

and darkened cobbles
in the bed of the lane.
Anahorish, soft gradient
of consonant, vowel-meadow,

after-image of lamps
swung through the yards
on winter evenings.
With pails and barrows

those mound-dwellers
go waist-deep in mist
to break the light ice
at wells and dunghills.

Weddings begin with the venue. “A venue holds everything,” says Kristin King, who is opening a new event facility, The Sloane, in Nashville’s Gulch area in 2016.

“It’s the vibe, the feeling. It’s the house for the event,’’ she adds. “It gives the whole feeling of what you’re trying to convey. Where you have an event, is to me, one of the most important things. You can dress it up however you want to, but it sends the message of what you want your guests to know about you as a couple.”

King, who has been in the bridal business for about a decade, says she envisions creating the ultimate event venue in the historic 1101 Grundy Street building. When complete, the 6,000-square-foot facility will house an office/bridal suite, glass tower showcasing the Nashville skyline, catering kitchen and double-sided elevator for vendors.

“A venue really dictates how many people they’re going to have at their wedding,” says Randi Lesnick of Nashville’s Randi Events. “If somebody picks a venue that’s great for 150 people, and they want to have 350, well that venue’s out.

“Pick the venue first, and then you can always worry about everything else.”

Book far in advance

With hearts set on the venue, plan for a date at least a year, but no less than six or nine months out from the desired date, before securing the location.

“It’s grown so fast, and I don’t think anybody knows how to deal with it,” Lesnick explains of the competition for wedding venues in Tennessee, particularly in Nashville and Gatlinburg.

“For 2016 we have almost every Saturday booked already. So if someone wants a specific date, we do recommend that they book at least a year out.”

Booking well in advance can have other benefits, says Lindsay Barrows of Custom Love Gifts and Events in Knoxville, who is also part of the Smoky Mountain Wedding Professionals Association.

“I worked with a bride who ended up saving a lot of money on her venue and some of her vendors because she booked so far in advance that when they changed their prices the following year when her wedding actually was – she had already locked in prices from the previous year,” Barrows adds.

Lesnick notes a venue could run anywhere from $2,000 to $10,000, and the overall wedding could run $30,000 to $100,000. And, if it is an outdoor wedding there should always be a backup.

“Brides have a lot of dreams,” says Sarah Anne Miller, director of weddings at Randi’s. “They look at more of the décor and the prettiness of the wedding and not really the logistical part of it. They want an outdoor wedding for 200 people in September, you’ve got to think about weather.”

Five weeks after the Omni opened in 2013, it hosted its first wedding. It had about 20 last year and seven already on the books, and there are even three scheduled for 2017.

“The typical wedding is still booking about a year out,” says Shirley Langguth, assistant director of catering at Omni Hotels. The Omni has multiple wedding ceremony locations picked out onsite, and also hosts numerous day-after wedding brunches.

More details

Once the venue is nailed down, couples can move on to every other detail that needs addressing, from flowers and dress to catering and cake.

“I want to meet with somebody as soon as they know what their venue is because there are only so many in a weekend that we can deliver and create,” says Juanita Lane, owner of Dulce Desserts in Edgehill Village, about her torte-layered wedding cakes. “Once they’ve secured the venue, then I would suggest it’s time to start looking at your vendors.”

Lane hosts two tastings at Dulce, the first one just to see if the couple even likes them. The second is when they bring out the numerous cakes, curds and frostings to create the ultimate custom confection.

Couples can now get that full-on tasting experience at Dulce Dessert’s brand new cake tasting bar.

“People can basically come in and do slices of cake and enjoy the Dulce experience,” Lane adds. “The thing that used to be reserved for brides or people having large events, the general population can do now at their leisure.”

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

sneaky stan, the builder man,
who laboured on the site
wheeled a barrow full of straw
for two weeks every night

foreman feared some pilfering
and  searched it every day
he fumbled round, but always  found
now't below the hay.

but sneaky stan, a gardening man,
unhappy with wage rates
had stolen fourteen wheel barrows
and sold em to his mates

Born of barrows blood and acorn goodness:
honest as nature and prodigious as her harvest.

Cursed with cowardliness, blessed with bulk
but an irksome intellect invariably finds fault.

The pain of creation softened by canine affectation,
and artificially-altered perception.

In B and B flop-houses, poems I wrote,
Stuffed into damp pockets, of a Donkey-Jacket coat.
Poems about building-sites and too much beer,
Being far from home, despair and fear.
I read them to comrades, who all nodded their heads,
Then went back to sleep, in one room with eight beds.
I read them to lads, who for the first time,
Sat and listened, to words, their rhythm and rhyme.

Folkestone, Dover, Hastings, Brighton and Hove,
I wrote poems, by the light of a Camping Gaz stove,
Describing MY feelings, MY way of life,
Cut straight to the bone, like a Stanley Craft Knife.
The Channel Tunnel, dumpers and cranes,
Concrete burns, bruises, hangovers. . .shame.
Days without eating, nights full of drinking,
Hours on a Shovel, digging without thinking.

Then along came the books, I started reading at night,
Discovered Jack London, by wind-up torchlight.
I read more and more, captivated by books charms,
As my work-mates pursued , bar-maids down the Kings Arms.

Then one day, McNamara, with his belly full of beer,
Came looking for me, called me a queer.
". . .Reading and writing ??? Its NOT for the likes of us. . ."
I agreed begrudgingly, with this. . .. back-end of a bus.
He helped me gather up, my words and my books,
Into a couple of barrows, like scrap-metal crooks,
And wheeled them over, to where we burned the pallets,
Electric cable(for the copper)and broken slab-laying mallets.
They went on the embers, which began to ignite,
And from my caravan window, I watched them burn through the night.
As they glowed, I felt pity, not anger,
At the ****** ignorance, of this eighteen stone Ganger,
Who believed words were impotent, compared to the fist,
Our lives were mapped out, digging trenches, getting ******.

But the books had given me hope, that life was for living,
Not dying at Sixty, when your body just gives in,
Knees knackered, back broken, knuckles dead with rheumatics,
From working in all weathers, holding hammers, pneumatic.

Days later, on a Porta-Loo, McNamara settled down,
With a copy of ******* and a hard-on to pound.
He never smelled the petrol, mesmerised by *******
And pleasured himself, quickly, across the bottom of his vest.
Sparked up a rollie, relieved and relaxed,
Thinking of Fridays time-sheets to be faxed.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM !!!!!

We heard the explosion, looked to the sky,
Saw Doctor Who 's Tardis go flying by.
But it wasn't a Time Lord, just a burning box,
With a melting Eighteen stone Ganger, still holding his ****.
McNamara, was identified by the fillings in his teeth,
And buried, by the Council, just outside Haywards Heath.
If I hadn't continued writing, McNamaras threats, defied
No-one would know about him, or the way that he died.

Books and words are everything, they lift the mind
and they raise the anchor,
And they let me tell your tale, McNamara. . . .
How you lived and died. . .a ******.

A learned scientist opines
in outer space there are two lines:
Proteins that would mirror mine,
and sugars of a non digestible kind.
On Earth “Left handed” proteins rule
at Barrows base right up to Thule.
“Right handed” sugars fuel our race
“left Handed” sugars have no place.
In our earthly reality
We have homochirality.

Still, somewhere in the cosmic dust
might be the opposite of us.
On a world no meteor ever scored
Might be space faring dinosaurs!
Intelligent, cunning and with big teeth-
Suppose they come to disturb our “peace”
Velociraptors with ray guns
might be as nasty as they come.
Thank God the U.S. has Marines
to blow those “Saurs” to smithereens.
Then, after they have taken their licking
We’ll find out if they taste like chicken.

FAR-OFF, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty.  Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In Druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred moms had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods:
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless
years,
Until he found, with laughter and with tears,
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress.  I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?

Tithonus

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms.
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
    Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man--
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed
To his great heart none other than a God!
I asked thee, "Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give.
But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,
And beat me down and marred and wasted me,
And though they could not end me, left me maimed
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
And all I was ashes.  Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears,
To hear me?  Let me go; take back thy gift.
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
    A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And ***** beating with a heart renewed.
Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosened manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
    Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
    Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,
In days far-off, on that dark earth be true?
"The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
    Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch--if I be he that watched--
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
    Yet hold me not forever in thine East;
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rose shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground.
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave;
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn,
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

This poem is about a night out on the beer which almost went horribly
wrong



I put out my hand and touched the face of God,
. . .bit of a surprise, really, I was expecting my Hod.
Lying on the floor, thinking it was my bed,
Coated in *****, face down, arms spread.
I've ****** my trousers, shat my keks,
A natural reaction, to twenty three pints of Becks.
Stumbling through Cambridge, I can't find the Site,
I know it's around here, first left or third right. . .
Crashing through hedges, I've forgot how to walk,
I can't ask for directions, I'm unable to talk.
So, I'll go no further, here I'll sit tight,
Sneak back to the caravan, when dawn sheds her light.

I didn't feel the cold, the damp creeping through,
Best shirt, Purple Chino's and I'm missing a shoe.
It's my dancing outfit, for impressing and posing,
Ideal for the Nightclub, not alfresco dozing.
The temperature plummets, I'm giving it "Big Zeds"
Dreams of warm women and petal-strewn beds,
Breathing gets shorter, body starts to shut down,
I'm sweating buckets, beginning to drown.

Ronnie, the Night-watchman, knows I must be in trouble,
In an hour and a half, I'm due back on the shovel,
To keep the lads happy, with bricks and fresh Pug
And barrows of concrete, poured into trenches I dug.
Under an Elm Tree, thirty yards from the job,
Ronnie catches sight of this prone Northern yob.
He doesn't panic, just yet, he knows what to do,
He's seen it before, when a body turns blue.
Those First-Aid Classes, when he told us he was fishing. . .
Vital signs are checked, I'm in the Recovery Position.
Ron holds my nose, lifts my head off the floor,
. . .then he kissed me , in a way , that I'd never been kissed before.

Know the dominion of the beasts,
For therein dwells the lurking hellspawn,
Let ravens pluck out mine eyes
As to the gallows tree I go,
Hang my dreaming head in disgrace,
Encase me in a jaded iron gibbet,
Forever let the creaking flutter through the bars of desolation,
Rip out this raging heart so false,
Shatter with heavy pincers my teeth of pure rot,
Be not so kind to this tongue which rasps a trail of saliva lies,
Nails long and hard strike like hammers sharp
Into me they please pin,
Pain, sweet burning pain,
True, the only truth, is pain of love,
Spikes clatter into me,
Come, all you there, slash my autumnal flesh,
Under skies of oblivion suicide leave me evermore,
Barking branches scaly with age, wrinkled hate,
To me they scratch and tear, waltz to this tune,
Oh, face old of mine, dance you now,
Noose knotted with stringy sweat wrapped with cold rope,
Sink this does into my wrists and neck of mossy meat,
The rope cuddles into my skin and settles down to rest,
Let my red rain splash out in rivulets,
Bones crippled beyond torture,
My tattered arms swing a limp jig with the fair wind,
Hairy evening shadows snarl towards me,
Eyes of this night search for eternal light,
Immortality lies in the trap of rats that by us sleep
Day to day, from mourn to grave and so to everlasting grief,
History is twisted by the fist of the stained victor,
Rose thorns round about me twine like barbed veins,
Pulses throb through my corrupted blood,
Dead is innocence, all defiled and exposed she lies,
Wasps of poison bury themselves into me,
I feel the gnawing of flies as they burrow through the tunnels of my lungs,
How truly sublime, I stretch here expiring
Whilst all over me life is transpiring in a cycle of vibrancy,
Here I am then, a human compost heap,
Care not I for honey rose vipers that spiral between my toes,
Larvae, slugs and speckled eggs are laid in my torn nose,
Wonder of hatching birth so soon by the harsh light
Of a baleful moon that keeps mute vigil as my soul is devoured,
Witness now how my spineless heap shall become fertile,
More use will I be as muddy earth than false flesh and ****** broth,
Never again shall I creep whilst the gentle grass whistles past,
Blind to this glory road of reborn voices was I once,
A natural symphony breezing colours never before beheld,
My ears only heard the cacophony of polluted *******,
Dead to courage was I, witless beyond scales of measure,
Fear eats the soul, gorges on it, wet lips digesting raw courage,
Not anymore for me this hateful way of retreat,
Hang my songs I say and be done with it, freedom wings await,
Make no more warm my corpse, let the blood chill to a standstill,
Darkness lights my ragged way, homeward bound nevermore,
Clenched concrete knuckles scrape my eyelids,
Still I bear witness to a sight fearful, wide open and blind,
Unfaithful heart once so wild and carefree, now trapped in my dead ribcage,
Release steps my way, but for you heart no escape,
Simple foolish beating muscle of mine once so proud now so helpless,
Rage against thy prison walls of meaty flesh,  
Thrash and pulse, throb your drumming tune no more,
Be at ease you tireless ***** player, music within me dies,
I shudder spasms of painful pangs, fluttering with the briny sea breeze,
Gulps of molten rust braze through my open windpipe,
Such tender tragedies do I endure,
Steep spires from dales near pierce my stricken ears,
Frozen worms of yesterday snuggle under decaying fingernails,
Fog whispers on the mournful barrows,
Nothing stirs near my dread place of execution,
Wrapped in autumn leaves I lie strung and swaying,
Indeed, it is me who is now part of the bark and weeds,
Plague snakes furrow into my hollow stomach, marching inwards,
Apples of late summer decompose against my winter body,
Sweetness denied to me, soul eater hungry with empty holes,
Blossom so pink and fragrant wafts through the gloom,
Seasons have become drunken and confused,
What once was Winter twists into Summer, Spring coils into Autumn,
Must come a time for a suicide of reckoning,
Life blood boils on the canvas,
Colours of the soul shrouded shades, chasms so far apart,
So short, so brief was my dream of idle days long gambled,
Dim distant that road now seems, behind over my crippled shoulders,
Stars burning with my final plight,
Fame never was my aim, cruel fate ensnared me in a vital grip,
All barren is the world of human rule, nothing but folly,
Let me curl in your boughs that by me lie, sleep eternal,
In these branches that now cradle me, gently rock my weary limbs,
Night winds brush my hair, worldly cares drip off me,
At this late hour, as I no more drift, away to forgetfulness I glide,
Bliss so smooth by me stands,
Stars so high are extinguished one by one, winking as they expire,
I will travel with them methinks,
To places unknown I shall go,
No fear accompanies me, I journey alone with millions alongside me,
The time of glow worms slides over my exhausted corpse,
Cosmic galaxies swiftly cloudy and milky,
Pastures filled with random harvests, biology and chemistry blend with whirling pace,
Be at ease now, I hover over solemn lands,
My sightless soul wings into the mouth of a mighty cave,
There she waits, a lady complete of cold,
This frost daughter welcomes me with fiery fingers,
Price of skin I pay, there the bargain is stroked in ink dipped from my iced veins,
I am reborn, and I see myself through my child’s eye,
I have no mouth yet I itch to scream,
Become have I now nothing more than a voiceless ice worm,
Remember me for one who never forgot,
Dreamy night with talons, ******* rusty blood,
Creaking skeleton mine, dust of ages now,
Islands in search of continents, drowned oceans sailing for thirst,
One speck of truth contains more fear than mighty deserts of water,
No sense in this, unreal rose, falsely it speaks of truth,
I waited by the portal of time, grew grey with age,
Yet still no sign of you at the gates,
Thou hast been sidetracked by the green-eyed serpent that yonder by you lies,
In the deep ravine valley of wailing desolation,
Mayhap we may truly exchange words, but it does not seem soon,
Still, here I scratch my wrinkled skin and grow old like a child,
Bury me in the graveyard of truth where eagles gorge on souls,
The ghost road will go ever on
And I will limp behind,
In front of me a long line of suicidal grief relief,
Behind me I see nothing but me,
Even my shadow has deserted and left for places less forlorn,
The moment has arrived for me to knock on coffin doors
And hear the songs of truth,
Come, join me, gather together,
Let us sleep eternal,
Death comes.



©Rangzeb Hussain