# Poetry



## Digit (28 Jul 2008)

As we seem to have gone all academic, a change from politics at least, I wonder if any body else has retained an interest in poetry since they left school, or have a piece they still remember?
One of my favourites is this


*W. H. Davies
Leisure
WHAT is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?—

No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

*

Roy.


----------



## Karl (28 Jul 2008)

Hi Roy

I haven't read that before. But it is typical of the kind of poetry which I enjoy reading - ie that which doesn't require the reader to think too deeply in order to disseminate the meaning of each line. 

Cheers

Karl


----------



## davegw (28 Jul 2008)

An absolute classic Roy - thanks for reminding me of it!


----------



## Digit (28 Jul 2008)

Also I think relevant to us as we grow older and learn to value other than material things, plus

*The kiss of the sun for pardon

The song of the birds for mirth

One is nearer to God's heart in the garden

Than anywhere else on earth



Dorothy Gurney

1858 - 1952 *

also relevant to us gardeners,

Roy.


----------



## davegw (28 Jul 2008)

Slightly Less reverent - but true all the same

_Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse_


*They f**k you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f**ked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.*


----------



## Steve Maskery (28 Jul 2008)

=D> =D> =D> =D> =D> 
_*
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening*_

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
T o stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-- Robert Frost




And then there is always:
_

There was a young lady called Kitty...._


----------



## Smudger (28 Jul 2008)

God knows I'm not religious, but I've always been moved by Gerard Manley Hopkins' poems in praise of nature:

Pied Beauty


GLORY be to God for dappled things—	
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;	
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;	
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;	
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough; 
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.	

All things counter, original, spare, strange;	
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)	
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;	
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: 
Praise him.


----------



## davegw (28 Jul 2008)

Smudger":3oiix4xp said:


> God knows I'm not religious



LOL 

I love it poetry and irony! Now this really is Radio 4!


----------



## davegw (28 Jul 2008)

Smudger":1mgca9ob said:


> God knows I'm not religious



LOL 

I love it poetry and irony! Now this really is Radio 4!


----------



## PowerTool (28 Jul 2008)

My favourite piece of poetry is by the comic genius,Spike Milligan,entitled "Rain"

"There are holes in the sky
where the rain gets in,
but they are ever so small
which is why rain is thin!"

 

Andrew


----------



## Rich (28 Jul 2008)

Digit":7ushkqe9 said:


> As we seem to have gone all academic, a change from politics at least, I wonder if any body else has retained an interest in poetry since they left school, or have a piece they still remember?
> One of my favourites is this
> 
> 
> ...



Hi Roy, I narrated this to my wife when we first were married, she liked it so much I promised to make a wooden plaque bearing the same, sadly I have'nt got around to it as yet, It's a lovely poem and should be required reading for those in hospital, suffering from stress, heart attacks and strokes.  

Regards,
Rich.


----------



## Digit (28 Jul 2008)

Yes, I agree Rich, to me it sums up all that is worthwhile in life.

Roy.


----------



## Nigel (28 Jul 2008)

I have a print of the poem on my wall still waiting for the frame I promised SHMBO :roll: 

nigel


----------



## Rich (28 Jul 2008)

Seems like we all have good intentions, just not enough hours in the day, I'll have to see if I can borrow some of Mailees.  

Regards,
Rich.


----------



## Oryxdesign (28 Jul 2008)

I find this touching:

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.

In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one only.

This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints, so I said to the Lord,

“You promised me Lord,
that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?”

The Lord replied, “The years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried you.”

Mary Stevenson, 1936


----------



## opener (28 Jul 2008)

We were made to learn this at school 40yrs ago and although I don't have much interest in poetry I can still remember the first verse and find the whole thing very evocative of the English countryside and trains.

Adlestrop

by Edward Thomas


Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.


Cheers
Malcolm


----------



## Smudger (28 Jul 2008)

Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

Henry Reed


----------



## Tusses (28 Jul 2008)

ok , to link to another thread (no ! not that one  )

about who you would have liked to have met....

a few from Lao Tzu (Chinese philosopher - founder of Taoism ('Dowism') )

ok - so its physiology, but history theories he wrote it as poems 1st

It is a bit heavy and to make some sense of it, you will need to know that Tao - translates loosely to 'The way' of life/nature - or the order of our universe

The Taoist philosophy was basically , humans are messing up the world with their desires of wealth and power and can perhaps best be summed up in a quote from Chuang Tzu:

"To regard the fundamental as the essence, to regard things as coarse, to regard accumulation as deficiency, and to dwell quietly alone with the spiritual and the intelligent -- herein lie the techniques of Tao of the ancients." 



Here we go - hope you enjoy 

____________________________


The five colours blind the eye.
The five tones deafen the ear.
The five flavours dull the taste.
Racing and hunting madden the mind.
Precious things lead one astray.

Therefore the sage is guided by what he feels and not by what he sees.
He lets go of that and chooses this.

______________

Look, it cannot be seen - it is beyond form.
Listen, it cannot be heard - it is beyond sound.
Grasp, it cannot be held - it is intangible.
These three are indefinable, they are one.

From above it is not bright;
From below it is not dark:
Unbroken thread beyond description.
It returns to nothingness.
Form of the formless,
Image of the imageless,
It is called indefinable and beyond imagination.

Stand before it - there is no beginning.
Follow it and there is no end.
Stay with the Tao, Move with the present.

Knowing the ancient beginning is the essence of Tao.

_________________

The Tao abides in non-action,
Yet nothing is left undone.
If kings and lords observed this,
The ten thousand things would develop naturally.
If they still desired to act,
They would return to the simplicity of formless substance.
Without form there is no desire.
Without desire there is tranquillity.
In this way all things would be at peace.

_______________________________

Why are people starving?
Because the rulers eat up the money in taxes.
Therefore the people are starving.

Why are the people rebellious?
Because the rulers interfere too much.
Therefore they are rebellious.

Why do people think so little of death?
Because the rulers demand too much of life.
Therefore the people take life lightly.

Having to live on, one knows better than to value life too much.


----------



## Tom K (28 Jul 2008)

Tusses I think your talking bol#@cks now :lol: 

Regards Tom

That should probably be you are talking bol#@cks now.


----------



## Digit (28 Jul 2008)

Another of my favourites, by Kipling,

*IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

*
Roy.


----------



## Bodrighy (28 Jul 2008)

Bah...beat me to it Digit, I was just going to dig that one out. I've had it pinned to my wall in the office for ages. Keeps me sane and chilled.

Pete


----------



## Smudger (28 Jul 2008)

Voted the nations' favourite poem by Radio 4 listeners - last year or a couple of years ago?


----------



## Gill (28 Jul 2008)

I can't recall looking at any poetry when I was at school except "The Song Of Hiawatha". Lovely though it is, it's too long to post here  ! I thought Mike Oldfield's arrangement of it was hauntingly beautiful.

One of my favourite pieces of poetry wasn't 'proper' poetry at all - it was the code-poem used by Violet Szabo and recited by Virginia McKenna in _Carve Her Name With Pride_:


The life that I have is all that I have,

The life that I have is yours.

The love that I have of the life that I have

Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have, A rest I shall have 

Yet death will be but a pause.

For the peace of my years 

In the long green grass

Will be yours and yours and yours


I could tell you a story about how I was called upon to say the Grace at a formal officers mess dining night once. Being a passionate atheist, I just intoned, "Rub-a-dub-dub, thank God for the grub". The silence was deafening :lol: .

Oh, does Pam Ayres' "I Wish I'd Looked After My Teeth" count?

Gill


----------



## Digit (28 Jul 2008)

Sorry Pete!  

So I understand Dick, but Kipling is much out of fashion these days because of his connections with Empire I fear. I remember watching a chap water flowers in raised beds on the estate where I worked, the water was contained in a hand operated bowser and I commented a friend of mine if this was the modern version of Gunga Din. My apprentice said , 'who?'

*Gunga Din

YOU may talk o' gin an' beer 
When you're quartered safe out 'ere, 
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; 
But if it comes to slaughter 
You will do your work on water, 
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. 
Now in Injia's sunny clime, 
Where I used to spend my time 
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, 
Of all them black-faced crew 
The finest man I knew 
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. 

It was "Din! Din! Din! 
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! 
Hi! slippy hitherao! 
Water, get it! Panee lao! 
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!" 

The uniform 'e wore 
Was nothin' much before, 
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, 
For a twisty piece o' rag 
An' a goatskin water-bag 
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. 
When the sweatin' troop-train lay 
In a sidin' through the day, 
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, 
We shouted "Harry By!" 
Till our throats were bricky-dry, 
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. 

It was "Din! Din! Din! 
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? 
You put some juldee in it, 
Or I'll marrow you this minute, 
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 

'E would dot an' carry one 
Till the longest day was done, 
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. 
If we charged or broke or cut, 
You could bet your bloomin' nut, 
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. 
With 'is mussick on 'is back, 
'E would skip with our attack, 
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." 
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide, 
'E was white, clear white, inside 
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! 

It was "Din! Din! Din!" 
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. 
When the cartridges ran out, 
You could 'ear the front-files shout: 
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" 

I sha'n't forgit the night 
When I dropped be'ind the fight 
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. 
I was chokin' mad with thirst, 
An' the man that spied me first 
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 

'E lifted up my 'ead, 
An' 'e plugged me where I bled, 
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green; 
It was crawlin' an' it stunk, 
But of all the drinks I've drunk, 
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. 

It was "Din! Din! Din! 
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 
'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: 
For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!" 

'E carried me away 
To where a dooli lay, 
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 
'E put me safe inside, 
An' just before 'e died: 
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. 
So I'll meet 'im later on 
In the place where 'e is gone— 
Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 
'E'll be squattin' on the coals 
Givin' drink to pore damned souls, 
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! 

Din! Din! Din! 
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! 
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, 
By the livin' Gawd that made you, 
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!*

Not for nothing was Kipling known as the soldiers poet.

Roy.


----------



## Tusses (28 Jul 2008)

Tommo the sawdust maker":1o9nujde said:


> Tusses I think your talking bol#@cks now :lol:
> 
> Regards Tom
> 
> That should probably be you are talking bol#@cks now.



I did say it was a bit heavy !

I thought some might not 'get' it :wink:


----------



## Digit (28 Jul 2008)

> Oh, does Pam Ayres' "I Wish I'd Looked After My Teeth" count?



Why not, along with 'I'm a Starling Darling!'

Roy.


----------



## Tom K (28 Jul 2008)

Tusses":hibcpovq said:


> Tommo the sawdust maker":hibcpovq said:
> 
> 
> > Tusses I think your talking bol#@cks now :lol:
> ...



Its not that I don't "get it". Just that I think it is twaddle :wink: :wink: 

Regards Tom


----------



## Anonymous (28 Jul 2008)

Just to bring some light hearted cheer.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


II
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.


----------



## Tusses (29 Jul 2008)

Tommo the sawdust maker":m5ciwth1 said:


> Its not that I don't "get it". Just that I think it is twaddle :wink: :wink:
> 
> Regards Tom



And indeed , it is your prerogative to think so


----------



## bobscarle (29 Jul 2008)

My favourite poem is probably Kipling's If, followed in no particular order by Leigh Hunt's Abu Ben Adhem, Lewis Carol's jabberwocky and Spike Milligan's Silly Old Baboon.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

Bob


----------



## Tom K (29 Jul 2008)

Tusses":rres6big said:


> Tommo the sawdust maker":rres6big said:
> 
> 
> > Its not that I don't "get it". Just that I think it is twaddle :wink: :wink:
> ...



Why thank you kindly dear Sir, consider it done. 

Now if you could just use the spell checker, not start sentences with "And"
explain why you have a space before your comma and why no capitalisation for Coventry?

Sorry Tusses wrong thread :lol: 

Regards Tom


----------



## Smudger (29 Jul 2008)

Kipling has had a hard time, quite unnecessarily. He was quite different from the average Imperialist, having a lot of respect and sympathy for 'natives'. George Orwell did for him in the 30s.

He was also man enough to admit (after the death of his son) that his enthusiasm for the First World War had been misplaced.

"If any question why they died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied."


----------



## jerryc (29 Jul 2008)

I used to have to teach poetry to teenage boys in an Australian Technical School.
I always believed you don't teach, it's best to get their interest first, so we started with limericks. I apologise in advance for this limerick but it was well received by the boys.
There was a young lass of Madras
Who had a magnificent ass ( pronounced with a long a)
Not rounded and pink
As you probably think
It was grey, had long ears
And ate grass
As interest grew I introduced them to Andrew Marvel *To His Coy Mistress* and pointed out the aims of the poem were exactly the same as their aims, it was just that his language was the normal useage in his time.
What I didn't tell them was that in my dim and distant youth I carefully memorised Shakespeare's sonnet *Shall I compare thee to a Summer's Day* 
In those more romantic days when one had to battle much harder to achieve one's aim, it was something of a winner. What I never told the girl was that Shakespeare wrote it to a man.

Jerry


----------



## Tusses (29 Jul 2008)

Tommo the sawdust maker":h9gowvre said:


> Tusses":h9gowvre said:
> 
> 
> > Tommo the sawdust maker":h9gowvre said:
> ...



No worries Tom - as I said in the 'wrong' thread - I really dont give a stuff 
*
When the highest type of men hear Tao,
They diligently practice it.
When the average type of men hear Tao,
They half believe in it.
When the lowest type of men hear Tao,
They laugh heartily at it.
Without the laugh, there is no Tao*.


----------



## jerryc (29 Jul 2008)

Looking at what I wrote I can see I rushed the explanation just a little.
*To His Coy Mistress* is relevant and worth reading. Just as an example of the lines

An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze
Two hundred to adore each breast
But thirty thousand to the rest

But I was careful to maintain interest by deliberate misquoting

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot changing gear.

I confess I did it to Davis poem Leisure

No time to see when woods we pass
Where squirrels drag their nuts through grass.

I love poetry but love also means you can poke fun at it.
And yes I love the Great Mcgonagall

Jerry


----------



## Woodmagnet (29 Jul 2008)

Ode to a Goldfish.

Oh, my wet pet. (author anon) :wink:


----------



## Digit (29 Jul 2008)

I agree with your comments about Kipling Dick, never in the field of human conflict have so many gone so wastefully to their fates.
Perhaps you recall this one, a most popular party piece in Victorian and Edwardian drawing rooms when to die war was considered noble.

*The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, J. Milton Hayes

-----------

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
*

Gives my age away doesn't it? I remember learning it from start to finish.

Roy.


----------



## Smudger (29 Jul 2008)

We used to have a head who could do the whole thing. He was hilarious, you have to send it up...


----------



## Digit (29 Jul 2008)

It used to be viciously parodied in the early days of TV Dick.

Roy.


----------



## Smudger (29 Jul 2008)

He used to do Albert and the Lion as well...


----------



## Shadowfax (29 Jul 2008)

This just about qualifies as poetry and it is one of the few that I can recall at any time from beginning to end. It just amuses me.

SF

I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings, 
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England, 
And 'Arold got shot in the eye.

It were this way - one day in October 
The Duke, who were always a toff
Having no battles on at the moment, 
Had given his lads a day off.

They'd all taken boats to go fishing, 
When some chap in t' Conqueror's ear
Said 'Let's go and put breeze up the Saxons;' 
Said Bill - 'By gum, that's an idea.'

Then turning around to his soldiers, 
He lifted his big Norman voice,
Shouting - 'Hands up who's coming to England.' 
That was swank 'cos they hadn't no choice.

They started away about tea-time - 
The sea was so calm and so still,
And at quarter to ten the next morning 
They arrived at a place called Bexhill.

King 'Arold came up as they landed - 
His face full of venom and 'ate - 
He said 'lf you've come for Regatta 
You've got here just six weeks too late.'

At this William rose, cool but 'aughty, 
And said 'Give us none of your cheek;
You'd best have your throne re-upholstered, 
I'll be wanting to use it next week.'

When 'Arold heard this 'ere defiance, 
With rage he turned purple and blue,
And shouted some rude words in Saxon, 
To which William replied- 'Aye, and you.'

'Twere a beautiful day for a battle; 
The Normans set off with a will,
And when both sides was duly assembled, 
They tossed for the top of the hill.

King 'Arold he won the advantage, 
On the hill-top he took up his stand,
With his knaves and his cads all around him, 
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.

The Normans had nowt in their favour, 
Their chance of a victory seemed small,
For the slope of the field were against them, 
And the wind in their faces an' all.

The kick-off were sharp at two-thirty, 
And soon as the whistle had went
Both sides started banging each other 
'Til the swineherds could hear them in Kent.

The Saxons had best line of forwards, 
Well armed both with buckler and sword - 
But the Normans had best combination, 
And when half-time came neither had scored.

So the Duke called his cohorts together 
And said - 'Let's pretend that we're beat,
Once we get Saxons down on the level 
We'll cut off their means of retreat.'

So they ran - and the Saxons ran after, 
Just exactly as William had planned,
Leaving 'Arold alone on the hill-top 
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.

When the Conqueror saw what had happened, 
A bow and an arrow he drew;
He went right up to 'Arold and shot him. 
He were off-side, but what could they do?

The Normans turned round in a fury, 
And gave back both parry and thrust,
Till the fight were all over bar shouting, 
And you couldn't see Saxons for dust.

And after the battle were over 
They found 'Arold so stately and grand,
Sitting there with an eye-full of arrow 
On his 'orse with his 'awk in his 'and.


----------



## Digit (29 Jul 2008)

Great stuff! :lol: 

Roy.


----------



## Smudger (29 Jul 2008)

You have to visit this website!


----------



## Smudger (29 Jul 2008)

THE 'OLE IN THE ARK
by
Marriott Edgar

Hole in the Ark

One evening at dusk as Noah stood on his Ark,
Putting green oil in starboard side lamp,
His wife came along and said, 'Noah, summat's wrong,
Our cabin is getting quite damp.

Noah said, 'Is that so?' Then he went down below,
And found it were right what she'd said,
For there on the floor quite a puddle he saw,
It was slopping around under t' bed.

Said he, 'There's an 'ole in the bottom somewhere,
We must find it before we retire.'
Then he thowt for a bit, and he said 'Aye, that's it,
A bloodhound is what we require.'

Se he went and fetched bloodhound from place where it lay,
'Tween the skunk and the polecat it were,
And as things there below, were a trifle so-so,
It were glad of a breath of fresh air.

They followed the sound as it went sniffing round,
'Til at last they located the leak,
'Twere a small hole in the side, about two inches wide,
Where a swordfish had poked in its beak.

And by gum! how the wet squirted in through that hole,
Well, young Shem who at sums was expert,
Worked it out on his slate that it came at the rate,
Of per gallon, per second, per squirt.

The bloodhound tried hard to keep water in check,
By lapping it up with his tongue,
But it came in so fast through that hole, that at last,
He shoved in his nose for a bung.

The poor faithful hound, he were very near drowned,
They dragged him away none too soon,
For the stream as it rose, pushed its way up his nose,
And blew him up like a balloon.

And then Mrs Noah shoved her elbow in t'hole,
And said,' Eh! it's stopped I believe,'
But they found very soon as she'd altered her tune,
For the water had got up her sleeve.

When she saw as her elbow weren't doing much good,
She said to Noah, 'I've an idea,
You sit on the leak and by t'end of the week,
There's no knowing, the weather may clear.'

Noah didn't think much to this notion, at all,
But reckoned he'd give it a try,
On the 'ole down he flopped, and the leaking all stopped,
And all... except him, was quite dry.

They took him his breakfast and dinner and tea,
As day after day there he sat,
'Til the rain was all passed and they landed at last,
On top side of Mount Ararat.

And that is how Noah got them all safe ashore,
But ever since then, strange to tell,
Them as helped save the Ark has all carried a mark,
Aye, and all their descendants as well.

That's why dog has a cold nose, and ladies cold elbows,
You'll also find if you enquire,
That's why a man takes his coat tails in hand,
And stands with his back to the fire.


----------



## Tusses (29 Jul 2008)

Thanks Dick

I enjoyed that !

and I dont like poetry :? 

well - I didn't think I did


----------



## Digit (29 Jul 2008)

There y'are Tuss, we'll educate you yet! :lol: 

Roy.


----------



## RogerS (30 Jul 2008)

I can remember the starting line of a poem that I heard in my youth but can't find the rest of it on Google.

"Heat all pervading, crinkles up the dust"

Any knowledgeable folks know where it comes from?


----------



## Mark Hancock (30 Jul 2008)

Shadowfax":22jyd3ca said:


> This just about qualifies as poetry and it is one of the few that I can recall at any time from beginning to end. It just amuses me.
> 
> SF
> 
> ...



Slightly OT but this must have been the inspiration for a track by Huw & Tony Williams from Brynmawr about King Harry and how the dragon got on the Welsh flag. I'm sure Digit/Roy would enjoy it.


----------



## Tusses (30 Jul 2008)

Drought 

Heat all pervading, crinkles up the soil
A deathly silence numbs the molten air.....


----------



## RogerS (30 Jul 2008)

Tusses":30c0g77i said:


> Drought
> 
> Heat all pervading, crinkles up the soil
> A deathly silence numbs the molten air.....



Thanks Tusses. Who is it by?


----------



## woodbloke (30 Jul 2008)

Can't believe it...four pages in and no Tyger,tyger burning bright...

or evern William McGonagall :lol: :lol: , probably the best known of which is this one:

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

Enjoy :lol: :lol: - Rob


----------



## Tusses (30 Jul 2008)

Denys Lefebvre

I'll type it all out later if you want

bit busy at the mo


----------



## RogerS (30 Jul 2008)

Tusses":1ecae4l5 said:


> Denys Lefebvre
> 
> I'll type it all out later if you want
> 
> bit busy at the mo



I'd really appreciate that, thanks

Roger


----------



## jerryc (30 Jul 2008)

woodbloke-Rob,

Look back and you'll see I did mention my liking of the works The Great McGonagall. Just felt that full quotation was not needed--But that's just me.

Another poem that deserves consideration is

[/b]Christmas Day in the Workhouse*
George R Simms 1847-1922

It is rather long but for sheer maudlin sentimentality it is hard to beat. Wife starving to death and the hero battling in the gutter with a dog for a stale crust with which to feed her, is priceless.
However the parody whilst shorter is very funny and well worth reading.
I am a sentimentalist. I have read

Your baby has gone down the plughole

All these three can be found on the net. 

However to quote one of my favourite poems in full 

The rain falls on the just
And on the unjust fella.
But the unjust has the just's umbrella.

Jerry

*


----------



## woodbloke (30 Jul 2008)

jerryc":1qe3vl5o said:


> woodbloke-Rob,
> 
> Look back and you'll see I did mention my liking of the works The Great McGonagall. Just felt that full quotation was not needed--But that's just me.



Jerry - apologies...didn't see it - Rob


----------



## jerryc (30 Jul 2008)

Rob,

I was deeply offended but your apology soothes my ego.

Hope you can find time to look at the two versions of 
Christmas Day in the Workhouse. 
They are worth the effort.

The poetic discussion has ranged from deeply sentimental, through stirring narrative (a la Kipling) to humourous. In the main however we seem to have avoided "Modern" poetry which I have always called fractured prose. Usually in even the most doggeralistic verse (I know it's a terrible word, but why should the Yanks have a monopoly on tortured English?) there has been structured metre which the moderns abandoned along with everything else that pertains to poetry.


Jerry


----------



## Digit (30 Jul 2008)

To be honest Jerry I have been amazed at the response this thread has drawn. Living in a tiny backwater the Net has been wonderful line of communication for me and to discuss poetry with people something of a surprise.
Now if we could discuss politics calmly ....  

Roy.


----------



## Tusses (30 Jul 2008)

still busy so will a pic do


----------



## RogerS (30 Jul 2008)

Thanks, Tusses. How did you remember the poem?


----------



## Tusses (30 Jul 2008)

I didn't ... I dont read poetry LOL 

I googled variations on your one line and found a picture of the poem.

:lol:


<EDIT>
here's the link


----------



## Digit (30 Jul 2008)

Now come on Tuss, be honest, you're starting to show an interest now aren't you? :lol: 

Roy.


----------



## Smudger (30 Jul 2008)

This moves me every time:

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.


(and he never wrote again)


----------



## Digit (30 Jul 2008)

Who penned that Dick?

Roy.


----------



## Smudger (30 Jul 2008)

Swan of Avon, last act of The Tempest. Prospero (read Shakespeare) 'abjures his art'. The magnificent ending to one of the greatest creative outpourings that this sad and fallible humanity can boast of.


----------



## Digit (30 Jul 2008)

I should have known! But that's one of Will's that I haven't read.
I was introduced the Shakespeare's works by a factory labourer and many years later I was 'caught' by some of the lads working under me rading Shakepeare during a lunch break.
With the usual banter over I read this piece to them, you will I'm sure be familiar with it.
Our Will could make a fortune today as a political speech writer!

*What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Warwick? No, my fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will, I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It ernes me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honor
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace, I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it presently through my host
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live t'old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say, "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian."
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
And say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words --
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester --
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by
From this day to the ending of the world
But we in it shall be rememberèd,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
*

Roy.


----------



## Smudger (30 Jul 2008)

Good stuff.

I saw Julius Caesar at the Globe a couple of years ago - I had never realised just how radical Shakespeare was - the call for democracy (and religious freedom) was much clearer there than just reading the play.

As Johnson said, a man for all time.


----------



## Digit (30 Jul 2008)

One of the disadvantages of my deafness Dick is that the pleasure of the live theatre is now denied me. But I have very happy memories of Hamlet at the Old Vic many years ago with none other than Richard Burton playing the lead.
At the other end of the scale I enjoyed a rendition of the Pirates of Penzance.
Those monologues remind me of an event, I was then the stage manager of an amateur drama group and the group had decided on one of the 'Whitehall Farces'
The opening scene began with a serving girl entering SL, she looks around and calls out, 'Sam! Sam!' at which point I added, 'Pick up thy musket!'
Though everybody laughed the producer demonstrated her lack of humour.
I pointed out that we should get used to the comment as IMO it was inevitable that someone in the audience would respond in a similar manner.
'Not every one has your childish sense of humour!' I was informed.
Opening night, curtain goes back, servant enters SL and calls 'Sam! Sam!'
and from the audience comes 'Pick up thy musket!'.
Every night for the next few weeks! :lol: 

For those not familiar with it...

*It occurred on the evening before Waterloo,
As troops were lined up on parade.
And sergeant inspecting 'em, he were a terror,
Of whom every man were afraid.

All excepting one man, he were in't front rank,
A man by t'name of Sam Small.
And he and t'sergeant were both daggers drawn,
They thought nowt of each other at all.

As sergeant walked past he was swinging his arms,
And he happened to brush against Sam.
And knocking t'musket clean out of 'is hand,
It fell t'ground wi' a slam.

"Pick it up!" said sergeant, abrupt like, but cool.
But Sam wi' a shake of 'is 'ead.
Said "Seeing as tha knocked it out of my hand,
P'rhaps tha'll pick t' thing up instead.

Sam, Sam, pick up tha musket!
The sergeant exclaimed with a roar.
Sam said tha' knocked it down reasonin'
Tha'll pick it up, or it stays, where t'is on the floor.

The sound of high words very soon reached
The ears of an officer, Lieutenant Bird.
Who says to the sergeant "Now what's all this 'ere?",
And the sergeant told what had occurred.

"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket !",
Lieutenant exclaimed with some heat.
Sam says he knocked it down, reasonin he picks it up,
Or it stays where't is at my feet.

It caused quite a stir when the Captain arrived,
To find out the cause of the trouble,
And every man there all, excepting old Sam,
Was full of excitement and bubble.

"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket!",
Said Captain, for strictness renowned.
Sam says he knocked it down, reasonin he picks it up,
Or it stays where't is on the ground.

The same thing occurred when the Major and Colonel
Both tried to get Sam to see sense.
But when old Duke of Wellington came into view,
Well then the excitement was tense.

Up rode the Duke on a lovely white horse
To "Find out the cause of the bother."
He looked at the musket, and then at old Sam,
And he talked to old sam like a brother.

"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket.", the Duke
Said as quiet as could be,
"Sam, Sam-Sam-Sam, pick up thy musket.",
Come on lad just to please me.

All right Duke says old Sam just for thee I'll oblige,
And to show thee I meant no offence.
So Sam picked it up. "Gradely lad." said the Duke.
"Righto boys let battle commence."
*

Roy.


----------



## jerryc (31 Jul 2008)

Roy,
I would have no problem calmly discussing politics. I believe argument should be logical and not emotional. However I live in the great land of OZ so have no idea how Pom politics fare these days.

Jerry


----------



## Woodmagnet (31 Jul 2008)

Thanks Roy, i've never seen that before, but i like it. :wink:


----------



## Vormulac (31 Jul 2008)

Thanks for that dose of Henry V, Roy. Certain excerpts from Shakespeare send chills down my spine - that's one of them. Ready to face the day now!


----------



## Good Surname or what ? (1 Aug 2008)

Digit,

What a great thread. I love poetry. Thanks for starting it

Here are three of my favourites by Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins and Roger McGough.

First for all the Welshmen here.
*
Lament - Dylan Thomas

When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.

When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.

When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.

Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
*

For Smudger another Gerard Manley Hopkins. I too fall into the irreligious category but when I hear this read by Richard Burton I can't help but wonder about our place in the world.

* The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo - Gerard Manley Hopkins

(Maidens’ song from St. Winefred’s Well) 

THE LEADEN ECHO

HOW to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep 
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, … from vanishing away? 
Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankéd wrinkles deep, 
Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey? 
No there ’s none, there ’s none, O no there ’s none, 
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair, 
Do what you may do, what, do what you may, 
And wisdom is early to despair: 
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done 
To keep at bay 
Age and age’s evils, hoar hair, 
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death’s worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay; 
So be beginning, be beginning to despair. 
O there ’s none; no no no there ’s none: 
Be beginning to despair, to despair, 
Despair, despair, despair, despair. 

THE GOLDEN ECHO

Spare! 
There ís one, yes I have one (Hush there!); 
Only not within seeing of the sun, 
Not within the singeing of the strong sun, 
Tall sun’s tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth’s air, 
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one, 
Oné. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place, 
Where whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that ’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone, 
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet 
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face, 
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet, 
Never fleets móre, fastened with the tenderest truth 
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an everlastingness of, O it is an all youth! 
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace, 
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace— 
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath, 
And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver 
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death 
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver. 
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair 
Is, hair of the head, numbered. 
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould 
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept, 
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold 
What while we, while we slumbered. 
O then, weary then why 
When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care, 
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept 
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder 
A care kept.—Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.— 
Yonder.—What high as that! We follow, now we follow.—Yonder, yes yonder, yonder, 
Yonder. 

*
And finally.
*
Let me die a young man's death - Roger McGough

Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns
burst in and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
*

I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.


----------



## Smudger (1 Aug 2008)

I did!

Thanks.


----------



## Evergreen (1 Aug 2008)

This one is so relevant today...

*GOING, GOING by Philip Larkin. (January 1972)*

I thought it would last my time -
The sense that, beyond the town,
There would always be fields and farms,
Where the village louts could climb
Such trees as were not cut down;
I knew there'd be false alarms

In the papers about old streets
And split level shopping, but some
Have always been left so far;
And when the old part retreats
As the bleak high-risers come
We can always escape in the car.

Things are tougher than we are, just
As earth will always respond
However we mess it about;
Chuck filth in the sea, if you must:
The tides will be clean beyond.
- But what do I feel now? Doubt?

Or age, simply? The crowd
Is young in the M1 cafe;
Their kids are screaming for more -
More houses, more parking allowed,
More caravan sites, more pay.
On the Business Page, a score

Of spectacled grins approve
Some takeover bid that entails
Five per cent profit (and ten
Per cent more in the estuaries): move
Your works to the unspoilt dales
(Grey area grants)! And when

You try to get near the sea
In summer . . .
It seems, just now,
To be happening so very fast;
Despite all the land left free
For the first time I feel somehow
That it isn't going to last,

That before I snuff it, the whole
Boiling will be bricked in
Except for the tourist parts -
First slum of Europe: a role
It won't be hard to win,
With a cast of crooks and tarts.

And that will be England gone,
The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,
The guildhalls, the carved choirs.
There'll be books; it will linger on
In galleries; but all that remains
For us will be concrete and tyres.

Most things are never meant.
This won't be, most likely; but greeds
And garbage are too thick-strewn
To be swept up now, or invent
Excuses that make them all needs.
I just think it will happen, soon.


----------



## Digit (1 Aug 2008)

Five pages of poetry! Glad you are enjoying it Phil, as I said earlier, I am amazed at the interest.
I can write fiction but poetry is beyond me and there is so much of it out there to be enjoyed.
I think _'Leisure'_ and _'If'_ will strike a chord with most people but there is something for everyone in the genre and perhaps we will have raised a spark in at least a few.

Roy.


----------



## Steve Maskery (1 Aug 2008)

I'm pretty impressed, myself, Roy, as I don't think of myself at all of a poetophile, yet I've really enjoyed this thread.

Aren't we a deep lot?
S


----------



## Digit (1 Aug 2008)

We are indeed Steve, and I think I'll raise a thread later, if I'm not beaten to the punch, on fiction. Who knows what that might produce?

Roy.


----------



## Steve Maskery (1 Aug 2008)

Steady, Roy, Charley has only a limited amount of disk space, you know.
S


----------



## Digit (1 Aug 2008)

Tough! :lol: 

Roy.


----------



## Digit (1 Aug 2008)

Beautiful poetry but for terrible events, I imagine that many will know part of both poems, but here is the full text...

*

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
*

*by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.*

Roy.


----------



## Smudger (1 Aug 2008)

Flanders Fields is an interesting poem, because most people who 'know' it seem to think that it is in some way anti-war, whereas the last stanza shows that it isn't at all! In fact, it is a call to arms, to continue the struggle.

It's a shame that, by and large, the poetry of WW1 which is still remembered is anti-war. If you look in documents of the time (newspapers and magazines) there was a lot of pro-war stuff published. Unfortunately it was largely lost in the revisionism of the late 20s and 30s. And, of course, a lot of it was 'amateur'.


----------



## Rich (1 Aug 2008)

I find it very disconcerting that so much space is given over to WW1 Poetry, as relevant as it is, when the loss of lives of so many young lads in their teens, some of them shot at dawn for APPARENT cowardice, sorry to divert the thread but I just can't let it pass that we can discuss such touching poetry without discussing the birth of the poems, I don't wish to sound maudlin, but, surely those young men deserve a mention, if not the fools who sent them over the top regardless.

Regards,

Rich.


----------



## Digit (1 Aug 2008)

Both the last two I posted are important IMO as a social statement in that they mark the end of the 'romantic' war poetry as epitomised here..

*Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!*

Roy.


----------



## Digit (3 Aug 2008)

And I've been expecting this one from from Wordsworth since day one...

* I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.*

Roy.


----------



## jerryc (3 Aug 2008)

This post has stirred the souls of wooden men. 
I didn't post the poems I mentioned in full and I hope some of you will take the trouble to read them, or (he threatens) I'll post them in full.
I'm closing down now until the end of September because here in south Oz it's winter and my yacht "Figment" sits in it's pen in Queensland sunshine waiting for thge wife and me. Perhaps I should break into verse
It wouldn't beSea Fever, done too often.
I love "The Ryme of The Ancient Mariner"

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew.
The furrow followed free.
We were the first that ever burst, into that silent sea.

This thread will probably still be going when I return.

Fare thee well for the present. I've enjoyed the conversation

Jerry


----------



## Digit (3 Aug 2008)

Sea Fever is marvellous! and I do envy the throw away line about the yacht.
Have a great time, and for the benefit of those not familiar with it, here is Sea Fever...

*I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.*

Roy.


----------



## Chris Knight (4 Aug 2008)

Much kudos to whomever can give me the provenance of this :-

I see the Mothers in the park,
They are ugly chiefly.
Someone must have loved them once
In the dark, briefly.


----------



## Digit (5 Aug 2008)

Well, it wasn't Shakespeare I'll guarantee you that! :lol: :lol: 

Roy.


----------



## RogerM (6 Aug 2008)

Gill":b6h2hc6v said:


> II could tell you a story about how I was called upon to say the Grace at a formal officers mess dining night once. Being a passionate atheist, I just intoned, "Rub-a-dub-dub, thank God for the grub". The silence was deafening :lol: .
> Gill



Didn't know were ex-services Gill - which one? This is along the lines of "Round my teeth and round my gums, watch out stomach - here it comes"!

I recently found this on the wall of a recently repaired cob cottage in the grounds of Rosemore RHS Gardens in north Devon. I thought it rather nice. 


Old cob wall have fell at last. 
Us knowed he might, a good while past; 

Great grandad he built thicky wall 
With maiden earth and oaten strawl. 

He built en in the good old way, 
And there he've stood until today. 

But wind and rain and frost and snow 
Have all combined to lay en low. 

Us propped en up with stones and 'ood, 
Us done our best but t'weren't no good. 

He gived a bit and then a lot, 
And at the finish down he squat. 

And now, since barns has got to be, 
Us'll build another 'stead of he. 

But not the same he was afore, 
'Cos no one builds cob walls no more.


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

I like this poem especially the setting to music. Although on reading a little more around the author, I have to confess that I am a little unsettled by his proclivities and realise that the words can actually be taken in another context to that which I originally 'read' the poem.

However, the setting to music is, I think, exquisite.

*Tomorrow!

And tomorrow the sun will shine again,
and on the path that I shall take
it will unite us in happiness again
amid this sun-breathing earth...

And to the beach, broad, blue with waves,
we will climb down silent and slow,
mute we will gaze in each other's eyes,
and the muted silence of bliss will fall upon us.*

Question.....who is the composer?


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

What is your concern over Busse's 'proclivities'?


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

Smudger":2pzx2qhs said:


> What is your concern over Busse's 'proclivities'?



It's not Busse! Who he?


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

German, wrote poems which were set to music by Strauss.

Who is the author of this one, then?


----------



## RogerM (11 Aug 2008)

John Henry Mackay

and it was set to music by Richard Strauss in the German version. Doesn't actually float my boat, but each to his own. :roll:


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

Oh I see. You are worried because he was gay.


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

Smudger":23jiwlbf said:


> Oh I see. You are worried because he was gay.



No...don;t have a problem with that at all but the Wiki article seemed to suggest that he was more interested in young boys ........


----------



## RogerM (11 Aug 2008)

Smudger":3kop3e4f said:


> Oh I see. You are worried because he was gay.



This appears to be a statement rather than a question (?). Wasn't even aware that he was gay - the piece just sounds like a dirge to my philistine ears. Works as a piece of poetry tho'.


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

Other Roger - said he was worried about Busse's 'proclivities'.


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

Smudger":2pfw7zrf said:


> Other Roger - said he was worried about Busse's 'proclivities'.



Stick....wrong end... :wink: 

Never heard of Busse so can't comment on his proclivities. 

My concerns related to Mackay....

RogerM...don't know how old you are but wonder if it's an 'age' thing when it comes to different appreciation of music. I remember a guy in his '50s at work when I was in my very early 20's and although I liked a lot of classical and was very into Wagner's Ring I just couldn't see what he saw in all that Schubert Lieder. Now I'm in my late 50's I find that I do appreciate this genre a little bit more (but have to confess still not my favourite). I'd sort of put the Strauss Orchestral Songs a little bit in that category...


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

So how are you concerned about Mackay's 'proclivities'?


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

Smudger":1ufut3di said:


> So how are you concerned about Mackay's 'proclivities'?



He was a pederast.


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

I'll take your word for that - I know almost nothing about him.
A paedophile or one of those Victorian-types who waxed lyrical about fresh-faced youth?


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

Smudger":3bgbtidj said:


> I'll take your word for that - I know almost nothing about him.
> A paedophile or one of those Victorian-types who waxed lyrical about fresh-faced youth?



Difficult to say..where does the boundary start and end? Is there such a thing as 'waxing lyrical about fresh-faced youth' in an innocent context? 


To put my OP in context.... RogerM was absolutely correct, of course. Richard Strauss put the words of Morgen (Tomorrow) to music along with many other poems by other authors and perhaps one of his best known are his Four Last Songs.

It is interesting to see that there is a huge amount of music that has been inspired by poetry...almost another thread in its' own right! Elgars' Dream of Gerontius springs to mind and Brittens War Requiem.


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

There was for the Victorians. They had a sort of cult of youth thing going on, it can be seen a lot in their art and photography. Things which to us would seem sexual probably weren't at all. A lot of Francis Dodgson's (Lewis Carroll) photographs were of young girls, but there were never any substantiatedrumours of impropriety (at the time - there were later). He was, however, rather fixated into the world of children, a sort of Peter Panism. That was an extreme, but it went across the Victorian middle class.


----------



## Digit (11 Aug 2008)

> pederast.



Makes a change from the usual, and incorrect, paedophile.

Roy.


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

Smudger":3jxg2m3n said:


> There was for the Victorians. They had a sort of cult of youth thing going on, it can be seen a lot in their art and photography. Things which to us would seem sexual probably weren't at all. A lot of Francis Dodgson's (Lewis Carroll) photographs were of young girls, but there were never any substantiatedrumours of impropriety (at the time - there were later). He was, however, rather fixated into the world of children, a sort of Peter Panism. That was an extreme, but it went across the Victorian middle class.



And even before the Victorians....

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pederasty


----------



## Smudger (11 Aug 2008)

Well, if you are talking about the Greeks...


----------



## RogerS (11 Aug 2008)

No, Roy. Don't think so...The Wiki article tries to make a distinction between the two...as alluded to by Smudgers' post about the Victorian allegory of the 'fresh faced youth'.


----------

