Your favourite poem?

storker

Ozymandias (Shelley)
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


Requiem (Robert Louis Stevenson
UNDER the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie:
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you 'grave for me:
Here he lies where he long'd to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

The General (Siegfried Sassoon)
‘GOOD-MORNING; good-morning!’ the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack....
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

And this epitaph for a dog, written by Spike Milligan:
Here lies the body of Havelock the dog,
Shot in the head, and dropped like a log.
He was a very good dog.

Deus Ex Machina

storker wrote: »

‘GOOD-MORNING; good-morning!’ the General said

Then he pulled down his trousers and gave himself head.

Sorry, it just jumped out at me.

CeNedra

The Eagle, Tennyson so descriptive and simple.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

tayto lover

One of my favourites from school.


DEATH, THE LEVELLER
By James Shirley
1596-1666
________________________________________


THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

PK2008

Not a big poetry buff but these I find cool:

Excerpt from Mayakovsky by Frank O'Hara

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPPhd4elT5o

Evidently Chickentown by Punk Poet John Cooper Clarke

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEWT6pdjON8

hamlet1

THE WAYFARER by padraig pearse and THE SWANS OF COOLE by yeats

Dave!

Great thread!

The Famine Road, by Eavan Boland, is quite good

The Famine Road

'Idle as trout in light Colonel Jones

these Irish, give them no coins at all; their bones
need toil, their characters no less.' Trevelyan's
seal blooded the deal table. The Relief
Committee deliberated: 'Might it be safe,
Colonel, to give them roads, roads to force
from nowhere, going nowhere of course?

'one out of every ten and then
another third of those again
women - in a case like yours.'

Sick, directionless they worked fork, stick
were iron years away; after all could
they not blood their knuckles on rock, suck
April hailstones for water and for food?
Why for that, cunning as housewives, each eyed-
as if at a corner butcher - the other's buttock.

'anything may have caused it, spores,
a childhood accident; one sees
day after day these mysteries.'

Dusk: they will work tomorrow without him.

They know it and walk clear. He has become
a typhoid pariah, his blood tainted, although
be shares it with some there. No more than snow
attends its own flakes where they settle
and melt, will they pray by his death rattle

'You never will, never you know
but take it well woman, grow
your garden, keep house, good-bye.'

'It has gone better than we expected, Lord
Trevelyan, sedition, idleness, cured
in one; from parish to parish, field to field;
the wretches work till they are quite worn.
then fester by their work; we march the corn
to the ships in peace. This Tuesday I saw bones
our of my carriage window. Your servant Jones.'

'Barren, never to know the load
of his child in you, what is your body
now if not a famine road? '

Eavan Boland

Have always loved September 1913 by Yeats though!

tayto lover

Another from my boyhood. This poem scared me.

William Allingham

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And grey cock's feather!

Down along the rocky shore,
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old king sits;
He is now so old and grey
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkille he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieve League to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long.
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow;
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
To dig up one in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And grey cock's feather!

tbh

Some lovely examples in this thread, I'd never seen that Heany poem before and suddenly I get poetry. my own favourite is a bit lighter.

I think that I shall never spy
a poem lovely as a pie
a banquet in a single course
smothered in rich tomato sauce

Barry Humphries.

Scruffles

apologies if have posted this yesterday,cant remember if had posted it or not.

not into much poetry,but have got some favourites which always help towards coming to term with a pets passing.
dont want to quote to much,so theres also the more common rainbow bridge poem,but other favourites which recently helped:

author unknown-if tears could build a stairway

If tears could build a stairway,and memories were a lane;
We would walk right up to Heaven and bring you back again.

No farewell words were spoken,no time to say goodbye;
You were gone before we knew it,and only God knows why.

Our hearts still ache in sadness,and secret tears still flow;
What it meant to lose you,no one will ever know.

But now we know you want us,to mourn for you no more;
To remember all the happy times,life still has much in store.

Since you’ll never be forgotten,we pledge to you today;
A hallowed place within our hearts,is where you’ll always stay.

author unknown

If it should be that I grow frail and weak,and pain should keep me from my sleep,Then will you do what must be done,For this -- the last battle -- can't be won.
You will be sad I understand,But don't let grief then stay your hand,for on this day, more than the rest,your love and friendship must stand the test.
We have had so many happy years,you wouldn't want me to suffer so when the time comes,please, let me go.
Take me where to my needs they'll tend,Only, stay with me till the end.
And hold me firm and speak to me,until my eyes no longer see.
I know in time you will agree,it is a kindness you do to me.
Although my tail its last has waved,From pain and suffering I have been saved.
Don't grieve that it must be you,who has to decide this thing to do;We've been so close -- we two -- these years,Don't let your heart hold any tears.

Cedrus

I sat belonely down a tree,
humbled fat and small.
A little lady sing to me
I couldn't see at all.

I'm looking up and at the sky,
to find such wondrous voice.
Puzzly puzzle, wonder why,
I hear but have no choice.

'Speak up, come forth, you ravel me',
I potty menthol shout.
'I know you hiddy by this tree'.
But still she won't come out.

Such softly singing lulled me sleep,
an hour or two or so
I wakeny slow and took a peep
and still no lady show.

Then suddy on a little twig
I thought I see a sight,
A tiny little tiny pig,
that sing with all it's might.

'I thought you were a lady'.
I giggle, - well I may,
To my suprise the lady,
got up - and flew away.

---

John Lennon

Cedrus

A baby sardine
Saw her first Submarine.
She was scared and watched through a peephole.
'Oh come, come, come,'
Said the sardine's mum,
'It's only a tin full of people.'

Spike Milligan

John Doe1

flutterflye wrote: »

Am I seriously the only person who doesn't like or 'get' any poetry??!

philistine;)

44leto

This would be a more interesting thread if people would post why their choice is their favourite poem.

I like this, not really my favourite, I have so many. Its a few words about a man's lust for his wife/girlfriend caused by her dress around her form, we all have been there.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes"


WHENAS in silks my Julia goes
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
Oh how that glittering taketh me!

tayto lover

This one is about a child's first day leaving home for school. It reminds me of my little grandson heading off two years ago. I watched him off and had a tear in my eye.

Wee Hughie
Author: Elizabeth Shane

He’s gone to school, wee Hughie,
An' him not four,
Sure I saw the fright was in him
When he left the door.

But he took a hand o’ Denny,
An’ a hand o’ Dan,
Wi’ Joe’s owld coat upon him –
Och the poor wee man!

He cut the quarest figure,
More stout not thin:
An’ trotting right and steady
Wi’ his toes turned in.

I watched him to the corner
O' the big turf stack,
An' the more his feet went forrit,
Still his head turned back.

I followed to the turnin’
When they passed it by,
God help him he was cryin',
An', maybe, so was I.

Benicetomonty

Ceasefire by. Michael Longly. Another Lcert English triumph!

Deki

I love this thread. A good many of the poems here bring back forgotten memories, this is one I used to read as a child (yep little strange ) I still like it.
PRAYER FOR A VERY NEW ANGEL
Author: VIOLET ALLEYN STOREY

God,God, be lenient her first night there.
The crib she slept in was so near my bed;
Her blue-and-white wool blanket was so soft,
Her pillow hollowed so to fit her head.

Teach me that she'll not want small rooms or me
When she has You and Heaven's immensity.

I always left a light out in the hall.
I hoped to make her fearless in the dark;
And yet, she was so small-one little light,
Not in the room, it scarcely mattered. Hark!

No,no; she seldom cried! God, not to far
For her to see, this first night,light a star!

And in the morning, when she first woke up,
I always kissed her on her left cheek where
the dimple was.
And oh, I wet the brush, it made it easier to curl her hair.

Just, just tomorrow morning, God, I pray,
When she wakes up, do things for her my way.


And this poem that tells a story was also one of my favorites

God's Judgment on a Wicked Bishop

The summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet,
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around
The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last-year's store,
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great Barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all.

"I'faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he,
"And the country is greatly obliged to me,
For ridding it in these times forlorn
Of Rats that only consume the corn."

So then to his palace returned he,
And he sat down to supper merrily,
And he slept that night like an innocent man;
But Bishop Hatto never slept again.

In the morning as he enter'd the hall
Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame.

As he look'd there came a man from his farm--
He had a countenance white with alarm;
"My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the Rats had eaten all your corn."

Another came running presently,
And he was pale as pale could be,
"Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he,
"Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,...
The Lord forgive you for yesterday!"

"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he,
"'Tis the safest place in Germany;
The walls are high and the shores are steep,
And the stream is strong and the water deep."

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,
And he crost the Rhine without delay,
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down and closed his eyes;...
But soon a scream made him arise,
He started and saw two eyes of flame
On his pillow from whence the screaming came.

He listen'd and look'd;... it was only the Cat;
And the Bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the Army of Rats that were drawing near.

For they have swum over the river so deep,
And they have climb'd the shores so steep,
And up the Tower their way is bent,
To do the work for which they were sent.

They are not to be told by the dozen or score,
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more,
Such numbers had never been heard of before,
Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore.

Down on his knees the Bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near
The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

And in at the windows and in at the door,
And through the walls helter-skelter they pour,
And down from the ceiling and up through the floor,
From the right and the left, from behind and before,
From within and without, from above and below,
And all at once to the Bishop they go.

They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the Bishop's bones:
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him!

Robert Southey


I'm sure I'll think of more soon:)

W.Shakes-Beer

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe.

I remember reading it for the first time on a dark blustery night and was alone in the house. Fairly vivid and mood setting to say the least; dark and somber.

Desire2

44leto wrote: »

This would be a more interesting thread if people would post why their choice is their favourite poem.

It is difficult to know or explain why one poem sticks out over another,also many poems contain the politics of the time and it would be a shame if this thread became less beautiful than the OP intended.
to the posters on other forums that think posting in AH is beneath them though.
this thread is a brilliant example that most AH posters have a sensitive side.


for instance i HATE Shakespeare,but i love this.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

AnamGlas

Mise Éire by Padraig Pearse

[FONT=Comic Sans MS, ariel][FONT=Comic Sans MS, ariel][FONT=Comic Sans MS, arial][FONT=Comic Sans MS, arial][FONT=Comic Sans MS, ariel][/FONT][/FONT][/FONT][/FONT][/FONT]Mise Éire
Sine mé ná an Chailleach Bhéarra

Mór mo ghlóir
Mé a rug Cú Chulainn cróga.

Mór mo náir
Mo chlann féin a dhíol a máthair.

Mór mo phian
Bithnaimhde do mo shíorchiapadh.

Mór mo bhrón
D'éag an dream inar chuireas dóchas.

Mise Éire
Uaigní mé ná an Chailleach Bhéarra.


Very strong view of the situation of Ireland at the time, according to Pearse. Sad to say a few similarities can be drawn even now...

reap-a-rat

A few of my favourites were already mentioned, such as "If" and "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven". Here's another one:

The Listeners, Walter de la Mare

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.


I also love this poem that my boyfriend wrote for me, it's just so sweet and funny and personal :

Untitled

Tara is so great,
Tara is fantastic,
I wish I was attached to her
with really strong elastic.

Roisy7

I love all of Sylvia Plath's poetry but the images in this one are just amazing (and it's not about her inner turmoil- much!)

FINISTERRE
This was the land's end: the last fingers, knuckled and rheumatic,
Cramped on nothing. Black
Admonitory cliffs, and the sea exploding
With no bottom, or anything on the other side of it,
Whitened by the faces of the drowned.
Now it is only gloomy, a dump of rocks ---
Leftover soldiers from old, messy wars.
The sea cannons into their ear, but they don't budge.
Other rocks hide their grudges under the water.

The cliffs are edged with trefoils, stars and bells
Such as fingers might embroider, close to death,
Almost too small for the mists to bother with.
The mists are part of the ancient paraphernalia ---
Souls, rolled in the doom-noise of the sea.
They bruise the rocks out of existence, then resurrect them.
They go up without hope, like sighs.
I walk among them, and they stuff my mouth with cotton.
When they free me, I am beaded with tears.

Our Lady of the Shipwrecked is striding toward the horizon,
Her marble skirts blown back in two pink wings.
A marble sailor kneels at her foot distractedly, and at his foot
A peasant woman in black
Is praying to the monument of the sailor praying.
Our Lady of the Shipwrecked is three times life size,
Her lips sweet with divinity.
She does not hear what the sailor or the peasant is saying ---
She is in love with the beautiful formlessness of the sea.

Gull-colored laces flap in the sea drafts
Beside the postcard stalls.
The peasants anchor them with conches. One is told:
"These are the pretty trinkets the sea hides,
Little shells made up into necklaces and toy ladies.
They do not come from with Bay of the Dead down there,
But from another place, tropical and blue,
We have never been to.
These are our crêpes. Eat them before they blow cold."


I also love Byron, these two poems are beautiful:

WHEN WE TWO PARTED


WHEN we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 5
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow— 10
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken, 15
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear? 20
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— 25
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years, 30
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY


SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 5
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 10
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Funkfield

reap-a-rat wrote: »

The Listeners, Walter de la Mare

+1
One of my favourite poems! Excellent!

Also.........
Oiche Nollaig na mBan
Sean O'Riordain

Bhi fuinneamh sa stoirm a ealaigh areir,
Areir Oiche Nollaig na mBan,
As gealt-teach iargulta 'ta laistiar den re
is do scread trid an speir chughainn 'na gealt,
Gur ghiosc geatai comharsan mar ghogallach ge,
Gur bhuir abhainn slaghdanach mar tharbh,
Gur muchadh mo choinneal mar bhuille ar mo bheal
A las 'na splanc obann an fhearg.

Ba mhaith liom go dtiocfadh an stoirm sin fein
An oiche go mbeadsa go lag
Ag filleadh abhaile o rince an tsaoil
Is solas an pheaca ag dul as,
Go lionfai gach neomat le liuraigh on speir,
Go ndeanfai don domhan scuaine scread,
Is na cloisfinn an ciuneas ag gluaiseacht fam dhein,
Na inneal an ghluaisteain ag stad.

later12

My favourite poem is The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, by TS Eliot.

I also love Patrick Kavanagh's epic poem, The Great Hunger. It has so much that describes the loneliness and regret that can characterise rural life among some of the older generation.

...A dog lying on a torn jacket under a heeled-up cart,
A horse nosing along the posied headland, trailing
A rusty plough. Three heads hanging between wide-apart legs.
October playing a symphony on a slack wire paling.
Maguire watches the drills flattened out
And the flints that lit a candle for him on a June altar
Flameless. The drills slipped by and the days slipped by
And he trembled his head away and ran free from the world's halter,
And thought himself wiser than any man in the townland
When he laughed over pints of porter
Of how he came free from every net spread
In the gaps of experience. He shook a knowing head
And pretended to his soul
That children are tedious in hurrying fields of April
Where men are spanning across wide furrows.
Lost in the passion that never needs a wife
The pricks that pricked were the pointed pins of harrows.
Children scream so loud that the crows could bring
The seed of an acre away with crow-rude jeers.
Patrick Maguire, he called his dog and he flung a stone in the air
And hallooed the birds away that were the birds of the years.

mackg

later10 wrote: »

My favourite poem is The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, by TS Eliot.

I also love Patrick Kavanagh's epic poem, The Great Hunger. It has so much that describes the loneliness and regret that can characterise rural life among some of the older generation.

Not really into poetry, but I'm from the country originally and I really get that one. Thanks for posting it.

Deki

I like most poems by Sandberg, he has a pleasing rhythm coupled with the ability to paint pictures with his words.
Carl Sandburg - Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind

“The past is a bucket of ashes.”

1

THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.

2

The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.

3

It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.

And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
… and the only listeners left now
… are … the rats … and the lizards.

And there are black crows
crying, “Caw, caw,”
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The only singers now are crows crying, “Caw, caw,”
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are … the rats … and the lizards.

4

The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.

And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

haunting beautiful?

Spread

Biggins wrote: »

If


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
You obviously don't realise the gravity of the situation!

Rudyard Kipling

Sorry Biggins. Couldn't help it. Long time no see

jefreywithonef

Late Fragment by Raymond Carver.

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

beks101

I'm a massive Brendan Kennelly fan, I just love the simplicity of his poems. Not sure if this one has been mentioned, but I've always loved it -

Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of light at the window,
begin to the roar of summoning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.

Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark determination
and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and the future
old friends passing though with us still.

Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces,
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.

Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.

Spread

Two of my favourites ......... as well as a good few already posted ..........

The Green Eye 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.

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.

Standard Toaster

I'm not a pheasant plucker, I'm a pheasant plucker's son
I'm only plucking pheasants 'till the pheasant plucker comes.


Say that as fast as you can.

annascott

poetry | prints | cine | home
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They f*ck 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*cked 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._______________________________Rumour has it that using the 'f' word prevented him from being poet lauriet.

Spread

William Cowper



Verses
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER
SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN
THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

[Written (?). Published 1782. There is a MS. copy in the
British Museum, not in Cowper's handwriting; another among the Ash MSS.]

I am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh, solitude! where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,
I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech;
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell
These vallies and rocks never heard,
Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report
Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compar'd with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift wing'd arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land
In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Ev'n here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place;
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

Dunny

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7zR3IDEHrM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlgQQgDhH7U

later12

That video reminds me, I think some poems only really come to life when read with the authority and fervour of their creators.

A good example is Daddy, by Sylvia Plath.

I don't remember the first Sylvia Plath poem I ever read, but I do remember the first day I heard her voice on the radio. She had an amazingly intense voice, nothing like what I would have imagined. Her poems take on an extra force when you hear them from her directly.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6hHjctqSBwM

jeni

not sure who wrote these but i remember them from when i was younger, so they are a bit childish

the place was dublin city
the time was 2 o clock
she said, will it hurt much,
he said, not alot,
she murmured to him softly
his face portrayed a grin
you will have to open wider
so i can get it in,
now if you listened carefully
a dentist you will find
its not what you were thinking
its just your dirty mind



and this


a fart is a chemical substance
it comes from a place called the bum
it penetrates through the trousers
and lands with a reasonable hum
to fart is no disgrace
for it gives the body ease
it keeps you warm on cold winter nights
and if suffocates all the flees

Ellian

Another Kavanagh for me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFoU7zRr4jw

Think Liam does a good job here. (The poem does not start until about 2.05)

And Grey's Elegy in a country churchyard if only for the line "full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste it's sweetness on the desert air".

Bubblefett

Invictus- William Earnest Henley


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Seachmall

Good creatures, do you love your lives
And have you ears for sense?
Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.

I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth's foundations will depart
And all you folk will die.

- A.E. Houseman

I was trying to explain the subjectivity of life to a friend (drunken shite-talk) but couldn't get the point across, this poem did it perfectly.

Flattery

A couple of love poems I always thought highly of - from both sides of the experience, I suppose.

Advice To A Discarded Lover

Think, now; if you have found a dead bird,
not only dead, not only fallen,
but full of maggots: what do you feel -
more pity or more revulsion?

Pity is for the moment of death,
and the moments after. It changes
when decay comes, with the ceeping stench
and the wriggling, munching scavengers.

Returning later, though, you will see
a shape of clean bone, a few feathers,
an inoffensive symbol of what
once lived. Nothing to make you shudder.

It is clear then. But perhaps you find
the analogy I have chosen
for our dead affair rather gruesome -
too unpleasant a comparison.

It is not accidental. In you
I see maggots close to the surface.
You are eaten up by self-pity,
crawling with unlovable pathos.

If I were to touch you I should feel
against my finger fat, moist worm-skin.
Do not ask me for charity now:
go away until your bones are clean.

~ Fleur Adcock



Also:

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence;
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility; whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.

~ ee cummings

That last line of Cummings' has always knocked me on my ass.

coonecb1

The Planter's Daughter - Austin Clarke

When night stirred at sea,
And the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.

nolo1

A strangely disturbing poem!



Someone


someone is dressing up for death today, a change of skirt or tie
eating a final feast of buttered sliced pan, tea
scarcely having noticed the erection that was his last
shaving his face to marble for the icy laying out
spraying with deodorant her coarse armpit grass
someone today is leaving home on business
saluting, terminally, the neighbours who will join in the cortege
someone is paring his nails for the last time, a precious moment
someone’s waist will not be marked with elastic in the future
someone is putting out milkbottles for a day that will not come
someone’s fresh breath is about to be taken clean away
someone is writing a cheque that will be rejected as ‘drawer deceased’
someone is circling posthumous dates on a calendar
someone is listening to an irrelevant weather forecast
someone is making rash promises to friends
someone’s coffin is being sanded, laminated, shined
who feels this morning quite as well as ever
someone if asked would find nothing remarkable in today’s date
perfume and goodbyes her final will and testament
someone today is seeing the world for the last time
as innocently as he had seen it first

Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came





My first thought was, he lied in every word

That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

Askance to watch the working of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored

Its edge at one more victim gained thereby.



What else should he be set for, with his staff?

What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare

All travelers that might find him posted there,

And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh

Would break, what crutch 'gin my epitaph

For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.



If at his counsel I should turn aside

Into that ominous tract which, all agree,

Hides the Dark Tower.Yet acquiescingly

I did turn as he pointed; neither pride

Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,

So much as gladness that some end might be.



For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,

What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope

Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope

With that obstreperous joy success would bring, -

I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring

My heart made, finding failure in its scope.



As when a sick man very near to death

Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end

The tears and takes the farewell of each friend

And hears one bid the other go, draw breath

Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith,

"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")



While some discuss if near the other graves

Be room enough for this, and when a day

Suits best for carrying the corpse away,

With care about the banners, scarves and staves, -

And still the man hears all, and only craves

He may not shame such tender love and stay.



Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,

Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ

so many times among 'The Band' - to wit

The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed

Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,

And all doubt was now - should I be fit.



So, quiet as despair, I turned from him

That hateful cripple, out of his highway

Into the path he pointed. All the day

Had been a dreary one at best, and dim

Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim

Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.



For mark! no sooner was I fairly found

Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,

Than, pausing to throw backward a last view

To the safe road, 'twas gone: grey plain all round;

Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.

I might go on; nought else remained to do.



So, on I went, I think I never saw

Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve;

For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!

But cockle, spurge, according to their law

Might propagate their kind, with none to awe

You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.



No! penury, inertness and grimace,

In some strange sort, were the land's portion, "See

Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,

"It nothing skills; I cannot help my case:

"Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,

Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."



If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped - the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves - bruised so as to baulk All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.



As for the grass, it grew scant as hair

In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud

Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood

One stiff blind horse, his every bone astare,

Stood stupefied, however he came there:

Thrust out past service as the devil's stud!



Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,

With that red, gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,

And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;

Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;

I never saw a brute I hated so;

He must be wicked to deserve such pain.



I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

As a man calls for wine before he fights,

I asked for one draught of earlier, happier sights Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art: One taste of the old time set all to rights.



Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face

Beneath its garniture of curly gold,

Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold

An arm in mine to fix me to the place

The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!

Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.



Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands

Frank as ten years ago when knighted first

What honest men should dare (he said) he durst

Good - but then the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman's hands

Pin to his breast a parchment? his own bands

Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!



Better this Present than a Past like that:

Back therefore to my darkening path again.

No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.

Will the night send a howlet or a bat?

I asked: when something on the dismal flat

Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train



A sudden little river crossed my path

As unexpected as a serpent comes

No sluggish tide congenial to its glooms -

This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath

For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath

Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.



So petty yet so spiteful! all along,

Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;

Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit

Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:

The river which had done them all wrong,

Whate'er that was, rolled by, determined no wit.



Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared

To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek

Each step, or fell the spear I thrust to seek

Tangled in his hair or beard!-

It may have been a water-rat I speared,

But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.



Glad was I when I reached the other bank.

Now for a better country. Vain presage!

Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage

Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank

Soil to a plash? toads in a poisoned tank,

Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage -



The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.

What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?

No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,

None out of it. Mad brewage set to work

Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk

Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.



And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!

What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,

Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel

Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air

Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,

Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.



Then came a bit of stubbled ground, once a wood,

Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth

Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,

Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood

Changes and off he goes!) within a rood -

Bog clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.



Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,

Now patches where some leanness of the soil's

Broke into moss or substances like boils

Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him,

Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim

Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.



And just as far as ever from the end!

Nought in the distance but the evening, nought

To point my footstep further! At the thought,

A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,

Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned

That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought.



For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,

'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place

All round to mountains - with such name to grace

Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.

How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!

How to get from them was no clearer case.



Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick

Of mischief happened to me, God knows when -

In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,

Progress this way. When, in the very nick

Of giving up, one time more, came a click

As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!



Burningly it came on me all at once,

This was the place! those two hills on the right,

Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;

While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,

Fool, to be dozing at the very nonce,

After a life spent training for the sight!



What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?

The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,

Built of brown stone, without a counterpart

In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf

Points to the shipman thus the unseen self

He strikes on, only when the timbers start.



Not see? because of night perhaps? - Why day

Came back again for that! before it left,

The dying sunset kindled through a cleft;

The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,

Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, -

"Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"



Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled

Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears,

Of all the lost adventurers my peers, -

How such a one was strong, and such was bold,

And such was fortunate, yet each of old

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.



There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met

To view the last of me, a living frame

For one more picture! in a sheet of flame

I saw them and I knew them all. And yet

Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,

And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."

problemchimp

Bam Bam Mickey wrote: »

Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came





My first thought was, he lied in every word

That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

Askance to watch the working of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored

Its edge at one more victim gained thereby.



What else should he be set for, with his staff?

What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare

All travelers that might find him posted there,

And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh

Would break, what crutch 'gin my epitaph

For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.



If at his counsel I should turn aside

Into that ominous tract which, all agree,

Hides the Dark Tower.Yet acquiescingly

I did turn as he pointed; neither pride

Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,

So much as gladness that some end might be.



For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,

What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope

Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope

With that obstreperous joy success would bring, -

I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring

My heart made, finding failure in its scope.



As when a sick man very near to death

Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end

The tears and takes the farewell of each friend

And hears one bid the other go, draw breath

Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith,

"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")



While some discuss if near the other graves

Be room enough for this, and when a day

Suits best for carrying the corpse away,

With care about the banners, scarves and staves, -

And still the man hears all, and only craves

He may not shame such tender love and stay.



Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,

Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ

so many times among 'The Band' - to wit

The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed

Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,

And all doubt was now - should I be fit.



So, quiet as despair, I turned from him

That hateful cripple, out of his highway

Into the path he pointed. All the day

Had been a dreary one at best, and dim

Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim

Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.



For mark! no sooner was I fairly found

Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,

Than, pausing to throw backward a last view

To the safe road, 'twas gone: grey plain all round;

Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.

I might go on; nought else remained to do.



So, on I went, I think I never saw

Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve;

For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!

But cockle, spurge, according to their law

Might propagate their kind, with none to awe

You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.



No! penury, inertness and grimace,

In some strange sort, were the land's portion, "See

Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,

"It nothing skills; I cannot help my case:

"Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,

Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."



If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped - the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves - bruised so as to baulk All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.



As for the grass, it grew scant as hair

In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud

Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood

One stiff blind horse, his every bone astare,

Stood stupefied, however he came there:

Thrust out past service as the devil's stud!



Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,

With that red, gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,

And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;

Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;

I never saw a brute I hated so;

He must be wicked to deserve such pain.



I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

As a man calls for wine before he fights,

I asked for one draught of earlier, happier sights Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art: One taste of the old time set all to rights.



Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face

Beneath its garniture of curly gold,

Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold

An arm in mine to fix me to the place

The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!

Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.



Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands

Frank as ten years ago when knighted first

What honest men should dare (he said) he durst

Good - but then the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman's hands

Pin to his breast a parchment? his own bands

Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!



Better this Present than a Past like that:

Back therefore to my darkening path again.

No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.

Will the night send a howlet or a bat?

I asked: when something on the dismal flat

Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train



A sudden little river crossed my path

As unexpected as a serpent comes

No sluggish tide congenial to its glooms -

This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath

For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath

Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.



So petty yet so spiteful! all along,

Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;

Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit

Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:

The river which had done them all wrong,

Whate'er that was, rolled by, determined no wit.



Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared

To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek

Each step, or fell the spear I thrust to seek

Tangled in his hair or beard!-

It may have been a water-rat I speared,

But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.



Glad was I when I reached the other bank.

Now for a better country. Vain presage!

Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage

Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank

Soil to a plash? toads in a poisoned tank,

Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage -



The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.

What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?

No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,

None out of it. Mad brewage set to work

Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk

Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.



And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!

What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,

Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel

Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air

Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,

Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.



Then came a bit of stubbled ground, once a wood,

Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth

Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,

Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood

Changes and off he goes!) within a rood -

Bog clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.



Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,

Now patches where some leanness of the soil's

Broke into moss or substances like boils

Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him,

Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim

Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.



And just as far as ever from the end!

Nought in the distance but the evening, nought

To point my footstep further! At the thought,

A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,

Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned

That brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought.



For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,

'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place

All round to mountains - with such name to grace

Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.

How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!

How to get from them was no clearer case.



Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick

Of mischief happened to me, God knows when -

In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,

Progress this way. When, in the very nick

Of giving up, one time more, came a click

As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!



Burningly it came on me all at once,

This was the place! those two hills on the right,

Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;

While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce,

Fool, to be dozing at the very nonce,

After a life spent training for the sight!



What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?

The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,

Built of brown stone, without a counterpart

In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf

Points to the shipman thus the unseen self

He strikes on, only when the timbers start.



Not see? because of night perhaps? - Why day

Came back again for that! before it left,

The dying sunset kindled through a cleft;

The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,

Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, -

"Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"



Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled

Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears,

Of all the lost adventurers my peers, -

How such a one was strong, and such was bold,

And such was fortunate, yet each of old

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.



There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met

To view the last of me, a living frame

For one more picture! in a sheet of flame

I saw them and I knew them all. And yet

Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,

And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."

Do you know any longer ones? You've just used up loads of my computer screen, now I only have a little bit left, I'll have to watch midget porn. Damn you.
"Pointy Birds" by John Lillis, Britians greatest one armed poet.

reap-a-rat

It's a song, but he does recite it more than sing it. Either way, it's uplifting.

The Hole by Townes van Zandt

The old woman finally caught me
Sneakin' 'round her cave
Her hair looked just like barbwire, boys
And her smile just like the grave
She asked me could I stay awhile
I said I'd better go
She slid her arm around my neck
And sweetly whispered no


It's cold and dark and lonely here
As soon enough you'll see
I'm oh so glad you stumbled in
I've been cravin' company
I cannot stay too long you know
I left some friends at home
Don't you fret about your friends
Down here we're all alone


What about my mother
I can't just leave her there to mourn
You don't have to think about her
Just forget you were ever born
I'll disappoint my father
You know he worked so hard for me
If you have to pay your father back
Just send him some misery


I'll miss, I said, a girl I know
I can't just leave there to pine
She's still got plenty of men to go
I'm sure she'll do just fine
What about my little boy
She said, he's just like you
Let a few short years roll by
He'll end up down here too


Then her pale green eyes began to glow
She placed her hand on mine
She smiled and said don't worry
You'll get used to me in time
As her cold tongue flickered toward
I spun myself around
Made a dive for the passageway
But the walls come crashing down


Now her eyes were the only light
My fevered brain could see
But I tore myself away from them
And fell down to my knees
I've come too far, I can't get back
I beseeched the gods of men
Fame and fortune just laughed at me
Then silence once again


A whisper deep within
Embrace the God of love
I lifted my face and through the tears
I saw light fall from above


I hurled myself into the wall
I ripped and clawed my way
Through the stinkin', clingin' loam
Back to the light of day
I crawled out into the wind again
The sky upon my face
I heard the earth sigh patiently
As it slid back into place


Now I'm back among the ones I love
I'm loved by them in turn
And it's only on the darkest night
That green eyed memory burns
So walk my friends, in the light of day
Don't go sneakin' 'round no holes
There just might be something down there
Wants to gobble up your soul

cassiedoll

One of my favs;
by E E Cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

PirateShampoo

T.S Elliott's "The Wasteland"


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 
And the dry stone no sound of water.
Only There is shadow under this red rock, 
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either 
Your shadow at morning striding behind you 
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.



I can thank Stephen King's "The Dark Tower" for introducing me to that one.

Mr Benevolent

On Time - John Milton


FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when, as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd
And last of all thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss,
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us, as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good,
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine,
About the supreme throne
Of Him, to whose happy-making sight, alone,
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time

SocSocPol

THIS BE THE VERSE

They fúck 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 fúcked 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.

Philip Larkin

SocSocPol

The Prodigal Son
Brendan Kennelly


To go away is not to die
And to return is to begin again
But with a difference.

I had a lot to spend; I spent it;
Men’s eyes opened in wonder
At my extravagance.

You know what it is to spend --
Ecstatic moments of release
That spring from, lead to boredom.

But in the spending was the joy
Those who hoarded never knew --
Know-alls, planners, calculators,

Safe adventurers who watched me as I
Flung my portion to the wind and women.
Some seemed to love me. They did not. They soon forgot.

Lose! Lose! Beat in my ears from dawn to dark
The only lesson one should learn,
The exacting savage art.

Not forgetting anyone, but outstripping all,
I cross your threshold once again
With such a history of loss

It stirs what you believe is your forgiveness.
Forgive yourself, forgiving me.
You offer, I accept.

We’ll go into a room. Draw up two chairs,
Share a bottle till the early hours
I have things to tell you before I begin.