Poetry

[Bodrighy]

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]

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

 

[Gill]

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]

Sorry Pete!

So I understand ****, 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]

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]

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]

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:

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

Regards Tom

 

[Anonymous]

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]

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]

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]

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

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]

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]

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 *** ( 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]

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

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

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]

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]

Ode to a Goldfish.

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

 

[Digit]

I agree with your comments about Kipling ****, 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]

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

 

[Digit]

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

Roy.

 

[Smudger]

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