The Official Poem Thread

[Bruce Rioja]

Well I never knew that.

Anyway;

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all of my mirth.
And indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
why it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god.
The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals, and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me, no, nor women neither, nor women neither.

[TANGODANCER]

Two from schooldays, by William Blake and John Masefield:

Piping down the valleys wild,

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a lamb!"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again."
So I piped: he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer."
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read."
So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cargoes.

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, amethysts,
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.

-- John Masefield

[sluffy]

One of my all time favourites is Men of Harlech.

When I was a youngster in 1964 my brother took me to see the great film Zulu (the actual quote btw is "Zulus sir, thousands of them...") and this is where I first heard this stirring poem.

Apparently the poem was originally written hundreds of years previous to commemorate the battle for Harlich Castle in 1408


Men of Harlech

Hark, I hear the foe advancing
Barbed steeds are proudly prancing
Helmets in the sunbeams glancing
Glitter through the trees.

Men of Harlech, lie ye dreaming
See ye not their falchions gleaming
While their pennons gaily streaming
Flutter in the breeze.

From the rocks resounding
Let the war cry sounding
Summon all at Cambreais call
The haughty foe surrounding

Men of Harlech, on to glory
See your banner famed in story
Waves these buring words before ye,
"Britain scorns to yield!"

Mid the fray see dead and dying
Friend and foe together lying
All around the arrows flying
Scatter sudden death.

Frightened steeds are wildly neighing
Brazen trumpets loudly braying
Wounded men for mercy praying
With their parting breath.

See they're in disorder,
Comrades, keep close order
Ever they shall rue the day,
They ventured o'er the border.

Now the Saxon flees before us,
Victr'ry's banner floateth oe'er us,
Raise the loud exulting chorus,
"Britain wins the field!"

[CAPSLOCK]

When it happened he walked through all the estates, from
Manchester right to, er, Newcastle. In Darlington, helped an old
man on his own chase some kids who f**king threw bricks through
his flat window. He had a way with people like that. [Because of
this] we moved on.
'Junior Choice' played one morning. The song was 'English
Scheme.' Mine. They'd changed it with a grand piano and turned
it into a love song. How they did it I don't know. DJs have
worsened since the rising. Collaborating on nothing in praise of
the track with words they can hardly pronounce in telephone
voices.
I was mad, and laughed at the same time. The West German
government have brought over large yellow trains on Teeside docks.
In Edinburgh. I stayed on my own for a few days, wandering about
in the, er, pissing rain, before the Queen Mother hit town.
I'm Joe Totale
The yet unborn son
The North will rise again
The North will rise again
Not in 10,000 years
Too many people cower to criminals
And government crap
The North will rise again X4
Look where you are
Look where you are
The future of my father
Shift!
Tony was a business friend
Of RT, 17
And was an opportunist man
Come, come hear my story
How we set out to corrupt and destroy
This future Rising
The business friend came round today
With teeth clenched, he grabbed my neck
I threw him to the ground
His blue shirt stained red
The north will rise again.
I said you are mistaken, friend
I kicked him out of the home
Too many people cower to criminals
And that government pap
When all it takes is hard slap
Got out the window, a burglar wrote
There were men with beads on sticks
The fall had made them sick
A man with butterflies on his face
His brother threw acid in his face
His tatoos were screwed
The streets of Soho did reverberate
With drunken Highland men
Revenge for Culloden dead
The North had rose again
But it would turn out wrong
The North will rise again
So R. Totale dwells underground
Will wait from cyclic grind
With ostrich head-dress
A face a mess, covered in feathers
Orange-red with blue-black lines
That draped down to his chest
They are a tentacle mess
And light blue pant-heads
TV showed sham Chip and Dale
No concept of what they mean
The Arndale had been razed
Shop staff knocked off their ladders
Security guards up from the escalators
And now darkness descends
Tony seize the control
He built his base in Edinburgh
He had on his hotel wall
A hooded friar on a tractor
He took a bluey and called Totale
Who said, "the North has rose again"
But it will turn out wrong
When I was in cavalry
I vowed to defend
All our English clergy
Though they have gone wrong
And the fall has begun
This has gotten out of hand
I will go for a foreign base
But he told me off life down at home
Said Totale, go back to bed
The North has rose again today
And you can't stop your age
And you can't stop your age

[sluffy]

The 'Z- Cars' poem -

Johnny Todd

Johnny Todd he took a notion
For to cross the ocean wide.
There he left his true love a-weeping
Waiting by the Liverpool tide.

For a week she wept full sorely,
Tore her hair and wrung her hands
Till she met with another sailor
Walking on the Liverpool sands.

O fair maid why are you weeping
For your Johnny gone to sea?
If you'll wed with me tomorrow
I will kind and constant be.

I will buy you sheets and blankets,
I'll buy you a wedding ring.
You shall have a gilded cradle
For to rock you baby in.

Johnny Todd came home from sailing,
Far across the ocean wide,
There he found that his fair and false one
Was another sailor's bride.

So, all you lads who go a-sailing
For to fight the foreign foe.
Never leave your true love like Johnny,
Marry her before you go!

[Zulus Thousand of em]

When I was a youngster in 1964 my brother took me to see the great film Zulu (the actual quote btw is "Zulus sir, thousands of them...") and this is where I first heard this stirring poem.

Au contraire - this oft misquoted line actually appears in the film as follows:

Memorable misquote, supposedly delivered by Michael Caine's youthful but pompous character Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead in the 1964 film Zulu. In the film, the lieutenant who is defending Rorke's Drift communicates to his commanding officer news of an impending attack by an numerically superior enemy force with a more verbose warning: Sentries have come in from the hill, sir.... They report Zulus to the southeast. Thousands of them. There were 4,000, to be precise.

With thanks to http://everything2.com

[communistworkethic]

Well I never knew that.

Anyway;

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all of my mirth.
And indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
why it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god.
The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals, and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me, no, nor women neither, nor women neither.

is that a poem or just a general statemnet on your demeanor??

[sluffy]

When I was a youngster in 1964 my brother took me to see the great film Zulu (the actual quote btw is "Zulus sir, thousands of them...") and this is where I first heard this stirring poem.

Au contraire - this oft misquoted line actually appears in the film as follows:

Memorable misquote, supposedly delivered by Michael Caine's youthful but pompous character Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead in the 1964 film Zulu. In the film, the lieutenant who is defending Rorke's Drift communicates to his commanding officer news of an impending attack by an numerically superior enemy force with a more verbose warning: Sentries have come in from the hill, sir.... They report Zulus to the southeast. Thousands of them. There were 4,000, to be precise.

With thanks to http://everything2.com

I took my quote from here -

http://www.channel4.com/film/reviews/film.jsp?id=110544

[Lennon]

Well I never knew that.

Anyway;

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all of my mirth.
And indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
why it appeareth nothing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god.
The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals, and yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me, no, nor women neither, nor women neither.

is that a poem or just a general statemnet on your demeanor??

It's from Shakespeares 'Hamlet', although it's probably more well known for Richard E Grants recital in the final scene of 'Withnail and I'.

[communistworkethic]

I am aware of that, it doesn't alter my question, asked of Bruce

[sluffy]

In Flanders Fields

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.

John McCrae

[TANGODANCER]

Not a poeM, but poetic song lyrics:

THE GREEN FIELDS OF FRANCE.

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fir o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

The sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that's still No Man's Land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

And I can't help but wonder, no Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

© Eric Bogle

[TANGODANCER]

Thought it might be worthwhile bumping this thread again:

The Guitar

The cry of the guitar
Begins.
The glasses of dawn
Are shattered.
It is useless
To quiet it.
Impossible
To shut it up.
It weeps monotonously
As water weeps,
As wind weeps
In a snow storm.
It is impossible
To stop it.
It cries for far away
Things.
Sand of the hot south
That begs for white camellias.
It weeps, arrow without a target,
Evening without a morning,
And the first bird
Dead upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart gravely wounded
By five swords.

Federico Garcia Lorca.

[Dujon]

Now, now, TANGO, that lot needs a bit of analysis. Perhaps it's more meaningful in its native language, but:

"The cry of the guitar begins.": 'ey? I've never heard a guitar cry - an harp, perhaps - unless it's been left outside to collect the morning dew.

"The glasses of dawn are shattered.": what on Earth are the 'glasses of dawn'? Perhaps the aforementioned dew drops as the guitar owner wipes it down?

"It is useless to quiet it.": Really? What happens if you do or try the "Ssh, child" bit?

"Impossible to shut it up.": I've got a couple of hammers around the place, mate, and if it should be an electric one (may the god's forbid) it's easy enough to unplug the bloody thing.

"It weeps monotonously as water weeps, as wind weeps in a snow storm.": I'm totally gobsmacked by that collection of words, I really am. Frederico could surely have used a few extra words beginning with the letter 'W'. Slack bastard!

"It is impossible to stop it.": This is getting a bit repetitious (see hammer and power point comment above).

"It cries for far away things.": The deserts of Mars, the clouds of Jupiter, the rings of Saturn or the Maccas just up the road?

"Sand of the hot south that begs for white camellias.": Whilst many people who live in the area do indeed have lovingly tended white camellias in their gardens I have some reservations regarding the beaches between, say, Palm Beach and Cronulla setting up some sort of concerted seashore wail for pretty wee flowers.

"It weeps, arrow without a target, evening without a morning, and the first bird dead upon the branch." So it appears that Eve died in the apple tree whilst trying to lay her hand on an apple but fell off, probably because of a snake bit, and broke her neck a situation which has precipitated a calamity! The poor old guitar now doesn't have an aim in life - poor little sod. Ah, the despair of the poor guitar, it must be gutted (although I would have accorded that claim to the violin and its ilk). I also assume that Spanish guitarists use their instruments as hunting tools although I find that hard to believe. Then again . . .

"Oh, guitar! Heart gravely wounded by five swords": I wonder where they came from? It cannot be some form of reference to the number of strings mounted upon the machine so it has to be the fingers and thumb of some incompetent guitarist, although that is, to be honest, faulty logic (unless, of course dear old Adam had but five fingers in total). Given that Eve is already dead and thus not managed procreation it must be Adam who is strumming away in Eden

[William the White]

And, of course, Tango, I think we've spoken of it before, the Federico in this brilliant poem is Lorca...

A poet famous for writing love poems witnesses the Fascist uprising in Spain in 1936, and reassesses what he needs to write about...

I'm Explaining a Few Things


You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

Pablo Neruda

[William the White]

a hint to Dujon...

it probably looks worse in australian...

you are far too romantic over there...

here we listen as our guitars gently weep...

[Dujon]

William,

Pablo has my vote. What a sad and evocative piece that is.

No, mate, we are not all heartless - just me.

[TANGODANCER]

Now, now, TANGO, that lot needs a bit of analysis. Perhaps it's more meaningful in its native language, but:

"The cry of the guitar begins.": 'ey? I've never heard a guitar cry - an harp, perhaps - unless it's been left outside to collect the morning dew.

Lorca was a supreme poet (and a Spaniard to boot, a race, particularly during the Civil War, to takling in double entendre. The government had spies in every tavern, inn and bar looking for dissent amongst the peasants)

"The glasses of dawn are shattered.": what on Earth are the 'glasses of dawn'? Perhaps the aforementioned dew drops as the guitar owner wipes it down?

Glasses can be shattered by high-pitched sound. Using dawn is only poetic licence after the silence of night


"It is useless to quiet it.": Really? What happens if you do or try the "Ssh, child" bit?

"Impossible to shut it up.": I've got a couple of hammers around the place, mate, and if it should be an electric one (may the god's forbid) it's easy enough to unplug the bloody thing.

Spanish guitars are accoustic, not electric (probably unheard of in Lorca's time and world). The sound of the guitar may well represent the spirit of the people.

"It weeps monotonously as water weeps, as wind weeps in a snow storm.": I'm totally gobsmacked by that collection of words, I really am. Frederico could surely have used a few extra words beginning with the letter 'W'. Slack bastard!

"It is impossible to stop it.": This is getting a bit repetitious (see hammer and power point comment above).

"It cries for far away things.": The deserts of Mars, the clouds of Jupiter, the rings of Saturn or the Maccas just up the road?

"Sand of the hot south that begs for white camellias.": Whilst many people who live in the area do indeed have lovingly tended white camellias in their gardens I have some reservations regarding the beaches between, say, Palm Beach and Cronulla setting up some sort of concerted seashore wail for pretty wee flowers.

A simple reference perhaps to the heat and barrenness of parts of Andalusia, but then again, peace and prosperity in Spain perhaps, things that may well have seemed far away to Lorca.?


"It weeps, arrow without a target, evening without a morning, and the first bird dead upon the branch." So it appears that Eve died in the apple tree whilst trying to lay her hand on an apple but fell off, probably because of a snake bit, and broke her neck a situation which has precipitated a calamity! The poor old guitar now doesn't have an aim in life - poor little sod. Ah, the despair of the poor guitar, it must be gutted (although I would have accorded that claim to the violin and its ilk). I also assume that Spanish guitarists use their instruments as hunting tools although I find that hard to believe. Then again . . .

All up to now is just a homage to the many moods of the guitar and its player and it's ability for sadness, minor chords etc. Lorca had much to be sad about. Andausia during the Spanish Civil war was a terrible place to be. Guernica is a particularly relevant reminder. Arrow without a target, evening without a morning and the first bird dead upon the branch are all references to the hopelessness of war.


"Oh, guitar! Heart gravely wounded by five swords": I wonder where they came from? It cannot be some form of reference to the number of strings mounted upon the machine so it has to be the fingers and thumb of some incompetent guitarist, although that is, to be honest, faulty logic (unless, of course dear old Adam had but five fingers in total). Given that Eve is already dead and thus not managed procreation it must be Adam who is strumming away in Eden

The soundhole is the "heart" of the guitar. The five swords are the fingers and thumb of the playing hand. Listen to a guitar version of Roderigo's Concierto Aranjuez and you may realise what Lorca was saying. The whole thing is about Roderigo's still-born child and its flight to heaven. Only the Adagio is classed as popular outside classical circles. The piece is much more than that..

Hope this helps, thought I have my doubts.

[freeindeed]

Saul Williams

The Tao of Now




Children of the night
Only some will star the sky
Only believers in death will die
And fathers must feather the wings of women
For the unfeathered masses dangle ridiculous
Carrying crosses to phalanx filled tombs
The future sells silence through blood rivered wombs
That ripple with riddles of cows and spoons and births
Moons and earths
Sun-centered at noon

And here I stand
Court jestering infinity
Fetal fisted for revolution
But open hands birth humility
Now what is the density of an egoless planet?
Must my spine be aligned to sprout wings?
Im slouched into sling steps and kangoled with gang reps
But my orbit rainbows saturns' rings
Mystical eliptical
Presto polaris
Karmic flamed future when saturns in aries
And not Im a fish called father
With gills type dizzy
Blowing liquid lullabies through the spine of time
Im certain of saturns rivers and all else is fact
So baptise me in the stars
And wrap me in nighttime
Moon blue
Pupil my sight with orange balls of light
And echo my plight
Through the corridors of metaphor
What else are we living for, if not to create
Fiction and rhyme?
My purpose is to make my soul
Rhyme with my mind
Mind over matter
Minds create matter
Minds create fiction
As a matter of fact
As if matter were fact
Matter is fact
So spirit much be fiction
Science fiction
Art fiction, meta fiction

The tao of now
Is here amongst the living in the voice of children is the tao of now
You are the divine reflection of this earth
She does not belong to you
No there is no need for your correction
All run in the same rivers


If youre serving the father theres no son without mother
Parent bodies discover water
Bodies and drown
Wade me in the water
till atlantis is found
On the sea floors of self
Im starfish and unbound
Heard the name of that mound is stone mountain
Underwater volcanoes erupt, water fountains of youth
Let this carnal equation cancel out wind and truth
Swirl me beyond sometimes
Drench me water proof
Let eve drop forever rain
Sunsets on my roof
As I sit on the front porch of my sanity
Deciphering hambones to van gogh this vanity
Oiled egos
Canvased and framed
To be reborn unborn unburied unnamed
A reflection through a blood stained glass window
Or souls gone yellow around the edges
Carbonated dreams and blurred daily lives
But let family bring focus
Out of swamps blossom lotus
The muddy water blue daughter of infinity
Gravity we water bodied bhodisativas our serenity
As we rise with the tides toward divinity
Yes we rise with the tides towards divinity
The muddy water blue daughter of infinity
Gravity we water bodied bhodisativas our serenity
As we rise with the tides toward divinity....
Yes we rise with the tides towards divinity
Now we rise with the tides towards divinity
cause we rise with the tides towards divinity

[TANGODANCER]

Have to say, freeindeed, despite my admiration for descriptive poetry, that one's far and away beyond planet Zonk for me.

"Arise, for morning in the bowl of night,
Has cast the stone that puts the stars to flight.
And lo, the hunter of the east has caught,
The Sultan's turret in a noose of light."

Omar Khayyam.