Poetry!!!

[Hoboh]

"I wanderered lonely as a Megson"

[Gary the Enfield]

I heard a shout of ''on me 'ead son''

[William the White]

I heard a shout of ''on me 'ead son''

wrong rhyming scheme, given the master-text - that would make a good third line...

[Gary the Enfield]

I heard a shout of ''on me 'ead son''

wrong rhyming scheme, given the master-text - that would make a good third line...

I'm using rhyming couplets in a Shakespearean stylee! Innit.

[William the White]

Sharon Olds is my favourite living poet... this one makes me laugh

THE POPE'S PENIS

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the centre of a bell.
it moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dimness and the heat - and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

[thebish]

Sharon Olds is my favourite living poet... this one makes me laugh

THE POPE'S PENIS

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the centre of a bell.
it moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dimness and the heat - and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

genius!

[thebish]

I'm not sure I have a favourite poem, but amongst those I have loved is Cargoes (John Masefield) Not really sure why... partly, I suppose because I learned as a boy and thought the language was mystifyingly exotic - Ophir, Isthmus, Quinquereme... but also the idea of what is counted precious - and cargo making the world go round - pig-lead was (in its way) every bit as precious as gold moidores (maybe more so) even if it is carried on a dirty british coaster rather than a stately spanish galleon..

I also like the alliteration... salt-caked smoke stack... and the repetiton of pattern and form... (and - to inject a wee note of controversy - it rhymes and scans like a proper poem should!)



Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

[TANGODANCER]

Have to commend your taste Bish. Cargoes, along with The Fighting Temeraire, was one of my favourite school poems. My uncle served in Egypt during the war and was prone to quoting 'The Green Eye of The Little Yellow God' at family gatherings, whilst my mother would often give us 'Young Lochinvar' . El Dorado was another big favourite.

[thebish]

Have to commend your taste Bish. Cargoes, along with The Fighting Temeraire, was one of my favourite school poems. My uncle served in Egypt during the war and was prone to quoting 'The Green Eye of The Little Yellow God' at family gatherings, whilst my mother would often give us 'Young Lochinvar' . El Dorado was another big favourite.

when i was a nipper I used to perform that with my dad... he'd read it all flat and unemotionally - getting all the words right.... then i'd do it with lots of drama but forgetting the words...

so we'd do it jointly - me sat behind him with my arms through specially cut holes in his jacket sleeves and do all the drama with my hands and arms as he read it......

I had - until this moment - completely purged it from my memory!

[Lord Kangana]

WW1 poetry aside, Dylan Thomas' 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' is my fave. Don't know why, just find it really good.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And being read by him:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyWiE1vNSxU

[thebish]

WW1 poetry aside, Dylan Thomas' 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' is my fave. Don't know why, just find it really good.

indeed - cracking stuff - it is on my list to be learned..... indeed - several about death - "Death be not Proud" and "No man is an island"

"raaaage! RAAAAAAAAAAGE!!! against the dying of the light..."

such a contrast to Donne's "Death be not proud though some have called thee mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so.."

[TANGODANCER]

Have to commend your taste Bish. Cargoes, along with The Fighting Temeraire, was one of my favourite school poems. My uncle served in Egypt during the war and was prone to quoting 'The Green Eye of The Little Yellow God' at family gatherings, whilst my mother would often give us 'Young Lochinvar' . El Dorado was another big favourite.

when i was a nipper I used to perform that with my dad... he'd read it all flat and unemotionally - getting all the words right.... then i'd do it with lots of drama but forgetting the words...

so we'd do it jointly - me sat behind him with my arms through specially cut holes in his jacket sleeves and do all the drama with my hands and arms as he read it......

I had - until this moment - completely purged it from my memory!

How could you ever forget good old 'Mad Carew'?

[Prufrock]

Well I'm sure no-one will ever guess mine.

[Montreal Wanderer]

Well I'm sure no-one will ever guess mine.

The love song of Mr. Gary Megson?

[thebish]

Well I'm sure no-one will ever guess mine.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

[William the White]

A serious recommendation - if you want to update your pallette the anthology 'staying alive' edited by Neil Astley is a seriously excellent collection of poems from - mostly - the last thirty years. and mostly by living poets.

He organises it into various aspects of the human condition - so you can find a poem for any occasion - In and Out of Love, Loss etc...

Where I first came across Sharon Olds (see abobe) - and now I have several collections of hers- she's tremendous.

[TANGODANCER]

Very traditional, but a long-time favourite:

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

by: Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)



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.

II

'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 and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

III

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and 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.

IV

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

V

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 and 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.

VI

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

[thebish]

A serious recommendation - if you want to update your pallette the anthology 'staying alive' edited by Neil Astley is a seriously excellent collection of poems from - mostly - the last thirty years. and mostly by living poets.

He organises it into various aspects of the human condition - so you can find a poem for any occasion - In and Out of Love, Loss etc...

Where I first came across Sharon Olds (see abobe) - and now I have several collections of hers- she's tremendous.

I'll look it up - I have never (until you mentioned her today) come across Sharon olds...

[thebish]

amongst contemporary poets - I quite like Billy Collins...

quite down to earth - but srangely perplexing...


like -

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

[William the White]

A serious recommendation - if you want to update your pallette the anthology 'staying alive' edited by Neil Astley is a seriously excellent collection of poems from - mostly - the last thirty years. and mostly by living poets.

He organises it into various aspects of the human condition - so you can find a poem for any occasion - In and Out of Love, Loss etc...

Where I first came across Sharon Olds (see abobe) - and now I have several collections of hers- she's tremendous.

I'll look it up - I have never (until you mentioned her today) come across Sharon olds...

she writes with intensity about death, about love, about sex - she's like the poet laureate of sex... here's the start of her poem 'Ecstasy'

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop but went
into it, and into it, and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we
rose through the air, until we were above
timber line.

She wrote a collection of hurting and angry poems about the death of her father, that are disturbing and scary and brilliant.

Oh - the Collins is lovely.