National Poetry Day

[davieG]

Today

Anyone got any good poems?

[lookwhaticando]

A favourite of mine was John Cooper Clark's I wanna be yours.

[Thracian]

I'm a squash club doobie,

A fall guy of sorts,

I search for opponents,

And pays for their courts,

My body's not made.

For a game fo such pace,

I'm large round the middle,

And red in the face.

This young guy I'm playing,

He's fit and he's strong,

What he does it right,

What I does is wrong,

He hits every ball,

An inch from the tin,

Not where I'm going,

But where I've just been!

But wait now,

A rally's about to begin,

He serves to me,

And I miss again,

But if you think I'm downhearted,

To get beat sweatin blood,

It's not true at all,

........I make others look good.

Just an edited version of some reflections on squash.

[Smudge]

A favourite of mine was John Cooper Clark's I wanna be yours.

Very romantic, I''ll be sure to send that one with my wifes anniversary gift, which this year will be an ironing board; top of the line of course.

[lookwhaticando]

Very romantic, I''ll be sure to send that one with my wifes anniversary gift, which this year will be an ironing board; top of the line of course.

:laugh:

I refer thee to some sound advice, in joke form, which I posted yesterday evening.

[Smudge]

The only one I can remember but I did like it a lot at school

Cargoes by John Masefield

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.

[Libertine]

I'm a poetic genius to be honest, and I'd love to put some of my work up.

But I don't feel like it.

[Smudge]

:laugh:

I refer thee to some sound advice, in joke form, which I posted yesterday evening.

Thanks mate, I'll take the ironing board back, any recommendations as to size, colour, make; nearest hospital

[lookwhaticando]

Wilfred Owen - Dulce et Decorum est sticks in mind from my time in Secondary School.

We never saw any of Owen's work in high school over here, so I did my poetry project in grade 11 on Wilfred Owen. The list of poets we were suggested to work from was pretty slim pickings, so I asked to work with the work of Owen instead.

[stez]

john hegley is my favourite poet

edinburgh tattoo

I'm afraid I won't be going to the Edinburgh

tattoo

because to me

a parade of weaponry

and the capacity to hurt

is about as pleasing as dog dirt

on the shoe

only poo

is easier than the tattoo

to get rid of

to you

it may be taboo

to poo-poo

the tattoo

but to me

the tattoo

is something to say tat-ta to

and:

...I keep my cards so near my chest

even I can't see the way I feel.

I used to be closer to my emotions

or maybe they were close to me.

In the past I've been very open

the last time was when I was twenty-three

months.

They say bashing pillows is beneficial

and it helps to hug a tree.

They say problems shared are problems halved

but they don't say it to me

because revealing how I'm feeling it isn't my Darjeeling.

you have to hear him saying that though

also, untitled 2 by adrian mole:

Untitled 2

I stroke the places Pandora has sat

Wearing her jodphurs and riding hat.

Goodbye, brown horse.

I turn and retreat,

The rain and mud are wetting my feet.

[lookwhaticando]

Thanks mate, I'll take the ironing board back, any recommendations as to size, colour, make; nearest hospital

12 inches. Skin. Doesn't matter. Dunno where you live, so can't answer that. (Answers to respective questions in the order stated)

[Rincewind]

I always liked this one.

ALBERT AND THE LION

from the Stanley Holloway record

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool

That's noted for fresh air and fun

And Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom

Went there with young Albert, their son.

A fine little lad were young Albert,

All dressed in his best, quite a swell.

He'd a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle;

The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much to the ocean,

The waves they were piddlin' and small.

There were no wrecks and nobody drownded,

'Fact, nothin' to laugh at at all!

So, seeking for further amusement,

They paid, and went into the zoo,

Where they'd lions and tigers and camels

And cold ale and sandwiches, too.

There were one great big lion called Wallace

Whose nose was all covered with scars;

He lay in a som-no-lent posture

With the side of 'is face on the bars.

Now Albert 'ad 'eard about lions-

'Ow they was ferocious and wild;

To see lion lyin' so peaceful

Just didn't seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,

Not showin' a morsel of fear,

Took 'is stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle

And stuck it in Wallace's ear.

You could see that the lion din't like it,

For givin' a kind of a roll,

'E pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im

And swallered the little lad - 'ole!

Now Mother 'ad seen this occurrence,

And not knowin' what to do next,

She 'ollered "Yon lion's et Albert!"

An' Father said "Ee, I am vexed."

They complained to an animal keeper

Who said "My, wot a nasty mis'ap;

Are you sure it's your boy 'e's eaten?"

Pa said, "Am I sure? There's 'is cap!"

The manager 'ad to be sent for;

'E came and 'e said "Wot's to-do?"

Ma said "Yon lion's et Albert,

And 'im in 'is Sunday clothes, too!"

Father said "Right's right, young feller-

I think it's a shame and a sin

To 'ave our son et by a lion

And after we paid to come in."

The manager wanted no trouble;

He took out his purse right away,

Sayin' "'Ow much to settle the matter?"

Pa said "Wot do you usually pay?"

But Mother 'ad turned a bit awkward

When she saw where 'er Albert 'ad gone.

She said "No, someone's got to be summonsed!"

So that was decided upon.

And off they all went to p'lice station

In front of a Magistrate chap;

They told what 'ad 'appened to Albert

And proved it by showing 'is cap.

The Magistrate gave 'is opinion

That no one was really to blame,

And 'e said that 'e 'oped the Ramsbottoms

Would 'ave further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazin':

"And thank you, sir, kindly," said she-

"Wot, spend all our lives raisin' children

To feed ruddy lions? Not me!"

I have a collection of my own but they may not be appreciated. I reproduced a couple on the blog part in myspace.

[Thracian]

I always liked this one.

ALBERT AND THE LION

from the Stanley Holloway record

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool

That's noted for fresh air and fun

And Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom

Went there with young Albert, their son.

A fine little lad were young Albert,

All dressed in his best, quite a swell.

He'd a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle;

The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much to the ocean,

The waves they were piddlin' and small.

There were no wrecks and nobody drownded,

'Fact, nothin' to laugh at at all!

So, seeking for further amusement,

They paid, and went into the zoo,

Where they'd lions and tigers and camels

And cold ale and sandwiches, too.

There were one great big lion called Wallace

Whose nose was all covered with scars;

He lay in a som-no-lent posture

With the side of 'is face on the bars.

Now Albert 'ad 'eard about lions-

'Ow they was ferocious and wild;

To see lion lyin' so peaceful

Just didn't seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,

Not showin' a morsel of fear,

Took 'is stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle

And stuck it in Wallace's ear.

You could see that the lion din't like it,

For givin' a kind of a roll,

'E pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im

And swallered the little lad - 'ole!

Now Mother 'ad seen this occurrence,

And not knowin' what to do next,

She 'ollered "Yon lion's et Albert!"

An' Father said "Ee, I am vexed."

They complained to an animal keeper

Who said "My, wot a nasty mis'ap;

Are you sure it's your boy 'e's eaten?"

Pa said, "Am I sure? There's 'is cap!"

The manager 'ad to be sent for;

'E came and 'e said "Wot's to-do?"

Ma said "Yon lion's et Albert,

And 'im in 'is Sunday clothes, too!"

Father said "Right's right, young feller-

I think it's a shame and a sin

To 'ave our son et by a lion

And after we paid to come in."

The manager wanted no trouble;

He took out his purse right away,

Sayin' "'Ow much to settle the matter?"

Pa said "Wot do you usually pay?"

But Mother 'ad turned a bit awkward

When she saw where 'er Albert 'ad gone.

She said "No, someone's got to be summonsed!"

So that was decided upon.

And off they all went to p'lice station

In front of a Magistrate chap;

They told what 'ad 'appened to Albert

And proved it by showing 'is cap.

The Magistrate gave 'is opinion

That no one was really to blame,

And 'e said that 'e 'oped the Ramsbottoms

Would 'ave further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazin':

"And thank you, sir, kindly," said she-

"Wot, spend all our lives raisin' children

To feed ruddy lions? Not me!"

I have a collection of my own but they may not be appreciated. I reproduced a couple on the blog part in myspace.

Surely one of the best poems ever written!

And if not it sure is one of my favourites.

[davieG]

One from MrsG written in 1996.

LEICESTERSHIRE BLUES

Leicester Cathedral is rather small,

There’s not much left of our Roman wall.

We don’t have a wealth of Tudor beams,

And Leicester’s Castle is not what it seems.

The Abbey is crumbling on Abbey Park,

There’s not much to see in the town after dark.

Our clock tower isn’t impressive in stature,

We’ve no City roofs in need of a thatcher.

All the best buildings have been pulled down,

The war memorial is way out of town.

Englebert Humperdink is always away,

And Gary Lineker doesn’t want to play.

Lady Jane Grey was barely a queen,

We haven’t reared stars of the stage and screen.

We’re famous for corsets, pork pies and socks,

Our best City player is Filbert the fox.

You’ll find a large dinosaur in the museum,

But if you like mountains, you’re struggling to see ‘em.

Richard the Third was just passing by,

Like Cardinal Wolsey he came here to die.

Simon De Montfort was a bit of a rogue,

And a Leicestershire accent is hardly in vogue.

Our most famous band was Showaddywaddy,

The Haymarket Centre is terribly shoddy.

Daniel Lambert was just a fat man,

But he was Leicestershire’s ‘biggest’ fan.

So what would make Leicestershire good in his eyes,

It’s our Rosemary’s diet for ‘Hips and Thighs.’

[stez]

One from MrsG written in 1996.

LEICESTERSHIRE BLUES

Leicester Cathedral is rather small,

There’s not much left of our Roman wall.

We don’t have a wealth of Tudor beams,

And Leicester’s Castle is not what it seems.

The Abbey is crumbling on Abbey Park,

There’s not much to see in the town after dark.

Our clock tower isn’t impressive in stature,

We’ve no City roofs in need of a thatcher.

All the best buildings have been pulled down,

The war memorial is way out of town.

Englebert Humperdink is always away,

And Gary Lineker doesn’t want to play.

Lady Jane Grey was barely a queen,

We haven’t reared stars of the stage and screen.

We’re famous for corsets, pork pies and socks,

Our best City player is Filbert the fox.

You’ll find a large dinosaur in the museum,

But if you like mountains, you’re struggling to see ‘em.

Richard the Third was just passing by,

Like Cardinal Wolsey he came here to die.

Simon De Montfort was a bit of a rogue,

And a Leicestershire accent is hardly in vogue.

Our most famous band was Showaddywaddy,

The Haymarket Centre is terribly shoddy.

Daniel Lambert was just a fat man,

But he was Leicestershire’s ‘biggest’ fan.

So what would make Leicestershire good in his eyes,

It’s our Rosemary’s diet for ‘Hips and Thighs.’

tis all true!

on a lighter note, i was pleased with 'our rosemary's diet for hips and thighs' as the money it made ment she could afford to employ me!

[Rincewind]

Criticise this if you must but It took ages to get it right. I took one of WS sonnets (18 I think) and adapted it as my own by changing the words. I had to get each line with the right number of sylibles (14) and it had to scan. Very rewarding when the finished result comes right but theres nothing better than just writing down your thoughts as in free poetry. I have a poem entitled 'Little Children' which I have always been pleased with. Despite having none of mine own I have been told by some people that they can relate to it.

I don't have it on my blog so it would mean copying it out. Not in the mood for doing that tonight. Sorry.

-------------------Mother--------------

When all alone, quiet, and lost in thought,

I see again the times when I was young.

I smile for attention I often sought,

Knowing if I was sad then you would come.

You would dry the teardrops that then would flow

Be my bedside nurse on a restless night.

A soothing word and I'd forget my woe,

Consoled that you were not far from my sight.

Your wrath confused me when I misbehaved,

Never believing I was ever wrong.

But now I see love through your stormy rage,

With your wise words I have grown Oh so strong.

So when I think of you, Mother and friend,

All regrets are over, all sorrows end.

Written around 1996 and based loosely on one of W.S.'s sonnets. It took several attempts before I got the correct number of sylables (sp) in each line. So if you criticise take that into consideration.

[Head Honcho]

One of my favourite JCC poems

Kung Fu International

Outside the take-away, Saturday night

a bald adolescent, asks me out for a fight

He was no bigger than a two-penny fart

he was a deft exponent of the martial art

He gave me three warnings:

Trod on me toes, stuck his fingers in my eyes

and kicked me in the nose

A rabbit punch made me eyes explode

My head went dead, I fell in the road

I pleaded for mercy

I wriggled on the ground

he kicked me in the balls

and said something profound

Gave my face the millimetre tread

Stole me chop suey and left me for dead

Through rivers of blood and splintered bones

I crawled half a mile to the public telephone

pulled the corpse out the call box, held back the bile

and with a broken index finger, I proceeded to dial

I couldn’t get an ambulance

the phone was screwed

The receiver fell in half

it had been kung fu’d

A black belt karate cop opened up the door

demanding information about the stiff on the floor

he looked like an extra from Yang Shang Po

he said “What’s all this then

ah so, ah so, ah so.â€Â

he wore a bamboo mask

he was gen’ned on zen

He finished his devotions and he beat me up again

Thanks to that embryonic Bruce Lee

I’m a shadow of the person that I used to be

I can’t go back to Salford

the cops have got me marked

Enter the Dragon

Exit Johnny Clarke

[Ultra]

From Benjamin Zephaniah

At the bottom of my garden

There's a hedgehog and a frog

And a lot of creepy-crawlies

Living underneath a log,

There's a baby daddy long legs

And an easy-going snail

And a family of woodlice,

All are on my nature trail.

There are caterpillars waiting

For their time to come to fly,

There are worms turning the earth over

As ladybirds fly by,

Birds will visit, cats will visit

But they always chose their time

And I've even seen a fox visit

This wild garden of mine.

Squirrels come to nick my nuts

And busy bees come buzzing

And when the night time comes

Sometimes some dragonflies come humming,

My garden mice are very shy

And I've seen bats that growl

And in my garden I have seen

A very wise old owl.

My garden is a lively place

There's always something happening,

There's this constant search for food

And then there's all that flowering,

When you have a garden

You will never be alone

And I believe we all deserve

A garden of our own.

[Smudge]

Shall I compare thee to a summers day - Sonnet 18

William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;

Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

[Daggers]

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought--

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One two! One two!

And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

[lcfc_jme]

I don't tend to read poetry and am not a big fan of it, but I'll contribute to this thread anyway with a poem that I actually do like and have done since I first heard it on this day a couple of years ago:

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep:

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

[Thracian]

I don't tend to read poetry and am not a big fan of it, but I'll contribute to this thread anyway with a poem that I actually do like and have done since I first heard it on this day a couple of years ago:

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep:

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Poignant indeed. Makes me smile about those I've lost.

[lcfc_jme]

Poignant indeed. Makes me smile about those I've lost.

That it is and that it does. Not as masterful as some that have already been posted, not as long either. But just as good and just as effective. Brings a smile from even the most emotionless people

[lookwhaticando]

As with jme, I'm not a keen follower/reader of poetic material, but I do know a few that I like (as posted previously).

Oddly enough, much of the poetry I like is War poetry - including, or especially the likes of Wilfred Owen.

[Thracian]

The poem about not weeping at the grave

reminded me of something I wrote in Brackley for the wife of our local postman when he passed away...

I never saw our postman pat our dog beside the steps,

Nor ever heard him wheel his bike a-ticking down the yard,

Or saw the clicking gat-latch nod its greeting to the man,

Whose daily work would finish 'er most of ours began...

I never saw his ruddy face that glowed and lit his way,

On days of mist and rain before the spring sun sent its rays,

To arrow, warm and friendly, down the avenues of his round,

And to blink about his peddling frame as he trundled through the town.

Not one front door escaped his call, the letters dropped within,

And good or bad, rich or poor, were all the same to him,

The postman, bringing scary news to those who could not cope,

But posting too those special words of luck, and love, and hope.

Alas now, though he wasn't old, his earthly duty's done,

Brackley's whistling postman's found a new round in the sun,

And there the strangest irony that in his time below,

Our postman was a humble sort, just seen to come and go.

But further on where spirits dwell, no vacancies exist,

For contemptuous folk whose way was just to scheme and twist,

Instead the souls just wait for news of every life on earth,

Those who waste their waking hours, those who prove their worth,

And who should haul that vital news

Atop "Immortal Hill",

But Brackley's faithful postman....

........At peace - and whistlng still.