Poetry please

[Moos]

I'm sitting here watching the sky turn a lovely dim shade of blue and have just heard the church bells, so was reminded of 'Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard' (or part of it anyway):-

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Anyone else want to share a poem they love?

[Michael Palaeologus]

I shared this one a few weeks ago, but:

I'm in love with a brown paper bag

She love me and I'm so glad

I met her by a market stall

She's a bit screwed up

But aren't we all?

John Hegley

[Ant]

My favourite poem is a bit odd. But then perhaps that's why I like it. I came across it in a collection called Emergency Kit: Poems for Strange Times.

A Bee

Become at last a bee

I took myself naked to town,

with plastic sacks of yellow turmeric

taped to my wizened thighs.

I'd been buying it for weeks,

along with foods I no longer had a need for,

in small amounts from every corner grocer,

so as not to arouse their suspicion.

It was hard, running and buzzing,

doing the bee-dance. I ached

at the roots of my wings, and hardly yet discerned

that I flew towards reparation,

that in my beehood my healing had been commenced.

Words they use in this hive. To me it seems still

that clumps of tall blue flowers,

which smiled as they encroached,

had been born of my apian will,

in which to my shame I struggled for a moment,

and stained the air with clouds of my dearly bought gold.

--Peter Didsbury

[Guest]

When I am sad and weary

When I think all hope is gone

When I walk along High Holborn

I think of you with nothing on.

--Adrian Mitchell

[bignumber5]

My favourite poem is a bit odd.

Not even close to being. I tend towards the somber side, Housman and the war-poets. The poem that I remember moving me at an early age was Yeats:

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan?s poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.

[bagpuss78]

Algy met a bear

A bear met Algy

The bear was Bulgy

The bulge was Algy

[bignumber5]

And that is why I tend towards dirty limericks and rugby songs - far more jolly. Does everyone know the good version of "Alouette"? ;-)

[Moos]

Hee hee, now with MP's paper bag and Bagpuss' bear, this one has to come next:-

The common cormorant or shag

Lays eggs inside a paper bag

The reason you will see no doubt

It is to keep the lightning out

But what these unobservant birds

Have never noticed is that herds

Of wandering bears may come with buns

And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.

Edited for excess of bears

[bagpuss78]

One of the kids i work with reintroduced me to the poem recently, One of my favourite when i was a kid.

Don't put mustard in the Custard

Don't do,

Don't do,

Don't do that.

Don't pull faces,

Don't tease the cat.

Don't pick your ears,

Don't be rude at school.

Who do they think I am?

Some kind of fool?

One day

they'll say

Don't put toffee in my coffee

don't pour gravy on the baby

don't put beer in his ear

don't stick your toes up his nose.

Don't put confetti on the spaghetti

and don't squash peas on your knees.

Don't put ants in your pants

don't put mustard in the custard

don't chuck jelly at the telly

and don't throw fruit at the computer

don't throw fruit at the computer.

Don't what?

Don't throw fruit at the computer.

Don't what?

Don't throw fruit at the computer.

Who do they think I am?

Some kind of fool?

Michael Rosen

[Guest]

'My Lover' by Wendy Cope

For I will consider my lover, who shall remain nameless.

For at the age of 49 he can make the noise of five different kinds of lorry changing gear on a hill.

For he sometimes does this on the stairs at his place of work.

For he is embarrassed when people overhear him.

For he can also imitate at least three different kinds of train.

For these include the London tube train, the steam engine, and the Southern Rail electric.

For he supports Tottenham Hotspur with joyful and unswerving devotion.

For he abhors Arsenal, whose supporters are uncivilised and rough.

For he explains that Spurs are magic, whereas Arsenal are boring and defensive.

For I knew nothing of this six months ago, nor did I want to.

For now it all enchants me.

For this he performs in ten degrees.

For first he presents himself as a nice, serious, liberated person.

For secondly he sits through many lunches, discussing life and love and never mentioning football.

For thirdly he is careful not to reveal how much he dislikes losing an argument.

For fourthly he talks about the women in his past, acknowledging that some of it must have been his fault.

For fifthly he is so obviously reasonable that you are inclined to doubt this.

For sixthly he invites himself round for a drink one evening.

For seventhly you consume two bottles of wine between you.

For eighthly he stays the night.

For ninthly you cannot wait to see him again.

For tenthly this does not happen for several days.

For having achieved his object he turns again to his other interests.

For he will not miss his evening class or his choirpractice for a woman.

For he is out nearly all of the time.

For you cannot even get him on the telephone.

For he is the kind of man who has been driving women round the bend for generations. For, sad to say, this thought does not bring you to your senses.

For he is charming.

For he is good with animals and children.

For his voice is both reassuring and sexy.

For he drives an A-registration Vauxhall Astra Estate.

For he goes at 80 miles per hour on the motorways.

For when I plead with him he says, 'I'm not going any slower than this'.

For he is convinced he knows his way around better than anyone else on earth.

For he does not encourage suggestions from his passengers.

For if he ever got lost there would be hell to pay.

For he sometimes makes me sleep on the wrong side of my own bed.

For he cannot be bossed around.

For he has this grace, that he is happy to eat fish fingers or Chinese takeaway or to cook the supper himself.

For he knows about my cooking and is realistic.

For me makes me smooth cocoa with bubbles on the top.

For he drinks and smokes at least as much as I do.

For he is obsessed with sex.

For he would never say it is overrated.

For he grew up before the permissive society and remembers his adolescence.

For he does not insist it is healthy and natural, nor does he ask me what I would like him to do.

For he has a few ideas of his own.

For he has never been able to sleep much and talks with me late into the night.

For we wear each other out with our wakefulness.

For he makes me feel like a lightbulb that cannot switch itself off.

For he inspires poem after poem.

For he is clean and tidy but not too concerned with his appearance.

For he lets the barber cut his hair too short and goes round looking like a convict for a fortnight.

For when I ask if this necklace is all right he replies, 'Yes, if no means looking at three others.'

For he was shocked when younger team-mates began using talcum powder in the changing-room.

For his old-fashioned masculinity is the cause of continual merriment on my part.

For this puzzles him.

[Bellenden Belle]

"And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

Beloved on the earth."

Raymond Carver.

[leachim]

bignumber5 Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

> And that is why I tend towards dirty limericks and

> rugby songs - far more jolly. Does everyone know

> the good version of "Alouette"? ;-)

Everything you need to be a prolific bawdy balladeer is on 5 CDs :

www.rugby-songs.co.uk

The World's Largest Collection

almost 100 traditional rude songs and ditties

Mike

[SteveT]

MsB that was a great choice.

[Peckhamgatecrasher]

To Lucasta, going to the Wars

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As thou too shalt adore;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

Loved I not Honour more.

by Richard Lovelace

[Guest]

Glad you liked it SteveT! After a couple of years of being single I realise it's what I'm hoping to find again...

[annaj]

I've always liked the metaphysicals myself.

Here's one of John Donne's that I love and that bignumber5 might just recognise ;-)

I wonder by my troth, what thou and I

Did, till we loved? were we not wean'd till then?

But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?

'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be;

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,

Which watch not one another out of fear;

For love all love of other sights controls,

And makes one little room an everywhere.

Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone;

Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown;

Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;

Where can we find two better hemispheres

Without sharp north, without declining west?

Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally;

If our two loves be one, or thou and I

Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.

[annaj]

And in a completely different style, I've always loved this by Miroslav Holub. As an angsty teenager I had it stuck up on my bedroom door.

The Door

Go and open the door.

Maybe outside there's

A tree, or a wood,

A garden,

Or a magic city.

Go and open the door.

Maybe a dog's rummaging.

Maybe you'll see a face,

Or an eye,

Or the picture

Of a picture.

Go and open the door.

If there's a fog

It will clear.

Go and open the door.

even if there's only

the darkness ticking,

even if there's only

the hollow wind,

even if

nothing

is there,

go and open the door.

At least

There'll be

A draught.

[citizenED]

I like this.

ARE YOU CONTENT? by W.B Yeats

I CALL on those that call me son,

Grandson, or great-grandson,

On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,

To judge what I have done.

Have I, that put it into words,

Spoilt what old loins have sent?

Eyes spiritualised by death can judge,

I cannot, but I am not content.

He that in Sligo at Drumcliff

Set up the old stone Cross,

That red-headed rector in County Down,

A good man on a horse,

Sandymount Corbets, that notable man

Old William Pollexfen,

The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back,

Half legendary men.

Infirm and aged I might stay

In some good company,

I who have always hated work,

Smiling at the sea,

Or demonstrate in my own life

What Robert Browning meant

By an old hunter talking with Gods;

But I am not content.

[bignumber5]

Here's one of John Donne's that I love and that bignumber5 might just recognise

Rings a bell... now what about the poem from the Number 12? ;-)

[eavesdropper]

Cor Mrs B. That was a poem to turn the unpoetical...

[giggirl]

Any talk of ID cards always gets me thinking of Auden's Unknown Citizen

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be

One against whom there was no official complaint,

And all the reports on his conduct agree

That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a

saint,

For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.

Except for the War till the day he retired

He worked in a factory and never got fired,

But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.

Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,

For his Union reports that he paid his dues,

(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)

And our Social Psychology workers found

That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.

The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day

And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.

Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,

And his Health-card shows he was once in a hospital but left it cured.

Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare

He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan

And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,

A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.

Our researchers into Public Opinion are content

That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;

When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.

He was married and added five children to the population,

Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his

generation.

And our teachers report that he never interfered with their

education.

Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:

Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

[atila the gooner]

This sort of encapsulates my view of life, I absolutely love it.

D H Lawrence

A sane revolution

If you make a revolution, make it for fun,

don't make it in ghastly seriousness,

don't do it in deadly earnest,

do it for fun.

Don't do it because you hate people,

do it just to spit in their eye.

Don't do it for the money,

do it and be damned to the money.

Don't do it for equality,

do it because we've got too much equality

and it would be fun to upset the apple-cart

and see which way the apples would go a-rolling.

Don't do it for the working classes.

Do it so that we can all of us be little aristocracies on our own

and kick our heels like jolly escaped asses.

Don't do it, anyhow, for international Labour.

Labour is the one thing a man has had too much of.

Let's abolish labour, let's have done with labouring!

Work can be fun, and men can enjoy it; then it's not labour.

Let's have it so! Let's make a revolution for fun!

[Brendan]

I just read bignumber5?s post of An Irish Airman Foresees His Death. That poem always reminds me of this one by Wilfred Owen also about the 1st world war.

Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! ? An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori.

Both very clich?d I know and poems that everyone does to death at school. So therefore not ?cool? in the eyes of people who are ?into? poetry. But be this as it may they are still beautifully real in my opinion and complimentary of one another.

Although my all-time favourite bit of verse is this:

The Owl and the Pussy-cat Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?'

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

[wee quinnie]

I'm very fond of this one:

A. A. Milne - Disobedience

James James

Morrison Morrison

Weatherby George Dupree

Took great

Care of his Mother

Though he was only three.

James James

Said to his Mother,

"Mother," he said, said he;

"You must never go down to the end of the town, if

you don't go down with me."

James James

Morrison's Mother

Put on a golden gown,

James James

Morrison's Mother

Drove to the end of the town.

James James

Morrison's Mother

Said to herself, said she:

"I can get right down to the end of the town and be

back in time for tea."

King John

Put up a notice,

"LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!

JAMES JAMES

MORRISON'S MOTHER

SEEMS TO HABE BEEN MISLAID.

LAST SEEN

WANDERING VAGUELY

QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,

SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF

THE TOWN - FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!

James James

Morrison Morrison

(Commonly known as Jim)

Told his

Other relations

Not to go blaming him.

James James

Said to his Mother,

"Mother," he said, said he,

"You must never go down to the end of the town with-

out consulting me."

James James

Morrison's Mother

Hasn't been heard of since.

King John

Said he was sorry,

So did the Queen and Prince.

King John

(Somebody told me)

Said to a man he knew:

"If people go down to the end of the town, well, what

can anyone do?"

(Now then, very softly)

J. J.

M. M.

W. G. du P.

Took great

C/o his M*****

Though he was only 3.

J. J.

Said to his M*****

"M*****," he said, said he:

"You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of-the-town-if-

you-don't-go-down-with ME!"

[Moos]

Argh, now I'm torn between continuing the love poetry and the war poetry...so I'll do both.

Someone had to crack open the Shakespeare and it might as well be me. The Donne poem that Annaj quoted always makes me think of new lovers happily chatting and glowing with all the wonderful transformational glory of it all. In contrast, this one is for anyone who's ever loved someone while knowing in heart of hearts that they aren't really loved back.

Sonnet 61

Is it thy will thy image should keep open

My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,

While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?

Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee

So far from home into my deeds to pry,

To find out shames and idle hours in me,

The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?

O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:

It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;

Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,

To play the watchman ever for thy sake:

For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,

From me far off, with others all too near.

And on the war theme, Wilfred Owen's Anthem for Doomed Youth is equally clich?d but utterly beautiful and angry and sad.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of the boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.