Poems and Poetry

[Houdini Logic]

Inspired by the beautiful poems over in the LCFC forum I thought I'd start a poetry thread here for people to post their favourite or their own poems.
I love a good poem though I'll confess I don't know a great deal about poetry.
What better way to start off than with this incredibly downbeat number.

 

'Funeral Blues' by WH Auden:

 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message “He is Dead”.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

[Guest MattP]

A.E Housman.

 

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

 

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

[bovril]

Here, Philip Larkin.

 

Swerving east, from rich industrial shadows
And traffic all night north; swerving through fields
Too thin and thistled to be called meadows,
And now and then a harsh-named halt, that shields
Workmen at dawn; swerving to solitude
Of skies and scarecrows, haystacks, hares and pheasants,
And the widening river’s slow presence,
The piled gold clouds, the shining gull-marked mud,

 

Gathers to the surprise of a large town:
Here domes and statues, spires and cranes cluster
Beside grain-scattered streets, barge-crowded water,
And residents from raw estates, brought down
The dead straight miles by stealing flat-faced trolleys,
Push through plate-glass swing doors to their desires -
Cheap suits, red kitchen-ware, sharp shoes, iced lollies,
Electric mixers, toasters, washers, driers –

 

A cut-price crowd, urban yet simple, dwelling
Where only salesmen and relations come
Within a terminate and fishy-smelling
Pastoral of ships up streets, the slave museum,
Tattoo-shops, consulates, grim head-scarfed wives;
And out beyond its mortgaged half-built edges
Fast-shadowed wheat-fields, running high as hedges,
Isolate villages, where removed lives

 

Loneliness clarifies. Here silence stands
Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken,
Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken,
Luminously-peopled air ascends;
And past the poppies bluish neutral distance
Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach
Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence:
Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.

[foxfanazer]

Gay!

[kingcarr21]

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Im shit at poetry

Show me your tits

[Alf Bentley]

Here, Philip Larkin.

 

Swerving east, from rich industrial shadows

And traffic all night north; swerving through fields

Too thin and thistled to be called meadows,

And now and then a harsh-named halt, that shields

Workmen at dawn; swerving to solitude

Of skies and scarecrows, haystacks, hares and pheasants,

And the widening river’s slow presence,

The piled gold clouds, the shining gull-marked mud,

 

Gathers to the surprise of a large town:

Here domes and statues, spires and cranes cluster

Beside grain-scattered streets, barge-crowded water,

And residents from raw estates, brought down

The dead straight miles by stealing flat-faced trolleys,

Push through plate-glass swing doors to their desires -

Cheap suits, red kitchen-ware, sharp shoes, iced lollies,

Electric mixers, toasters, washers, driers –

 

A cut-price crowd, urban yet simple, dwelling

Where only salesmen and relations come

Within a terminate and fishy-smelling

Pastoral of ships up streets, the slave museum,

Tattoo-shops, consulates, grim head-scarfed wives;

And out beyond its mortgaged half-built edges

Fast-shadowed wheat-fields, running high as hedges,

Isolate villages, where removed lives

 

Loneliness clarifies. Here silence stands

Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken,

Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken,

Luminously-peopled air ascends;

And past the poppies bluish neutral distance

Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach

Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence:

Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.

 

Excellent. Thanks for that.

 

I was almost put off poetry for life by my ultra-traditional secondary school, which took the view that the only purpose of education was to pass exams and that the only purpose of poetry was to be quoted to pass exams.

 

My Dad has always been a great reader/reciter of poetry, but now that he's elderly he's been getting rid of a lot of his books, so I took a few poetry books to try to re-educate myself.

 

I still have a mental block to most if it, but love this one. Brilliant imagery, insight, pacing and rhythm ("metre", is that the right word? Am very out-of-touch, as I say). It reminds me slightly of that fillm "Koyaanisqatsi", which shows images sweeping across cities and landscapes (probably 25 years since I saw, but it made an impression). I must look again at my Dad's Larkin volume; Auden is the one that I've mainly appreciated so far, but don't know his stuff well enough to quote one.

[Bellend Sebastian]

Very Bad Dog, John Hegley

 

I took Rover over to the park the other day
I met another bloke with another dog on the way
His dog was an alsatian
My dog was not
He said is that dog an alsatian
I said no
And he said why don’t you get a proper dog?
And I said Rover
Ignore this copper
And I pick up a stick
And I hold it over Rover
And say Rover jump out of the clover
And get stuck into the stick
And Rover jumps out of the clover
And bites me in the arm
ALARM ALARM
My dog my dog why hast thou mistaken me?
I am not calm
My dog has done me harm
In my arm
I show him the toothmarks
See Rover where the skin is mauver
Rover sees these nasty marks
He barks
And he begs
For forgiveness
Yet I know I must break his legs

[Smudge]

These are the words from a Bob Dylan song called "Who killed Davey Moore" it's about a boxer who was killed in the ring.

I think this is poetry albeit lyrics to a song.

Who killed Davey Moore

Why an’ what’s the reason for?

“Not I,” says the referee

“Don’t point your finger at me

I could’ve stopped it in the eighth

An’ maybe kept him from his fate

But the crowd would’ve booed, I’m sure

At not gettin’ their money’s worth

It’s too bad he had to go

But there was a pressure on me too, you know

It wasn’t me that made him fall

No, you can’t blame me at all”

Who killed Davey Moore

Why an’ what’s the reason for?

“Not us,” says the angry crowd

Whose screams filled the arena loud

“It’s too bad he died that night

But we just like to see a fight

We didn’t mean for him t’ meet his death

We just meant to see some sweat

There ain’t nothing wrong in that

It wasn’t us that made him fall

No, you can’t blame us at all”

Who killed Davey Moore

Why an’ what’s the reason for?

“Not me,” says his manager

Puffing on a big cigar

“It’s hard to say, it’s hard to tell

I always thought that he was well

It’s too bad for his wife an’ kids he’s dead

But if he was sick, he should’ve said

It wasn’t me that made him fall

No, you can’t blame me at all”

Who killed Davey Moore

Why an’ what’s the reason for?

“Not me,” says the gambling man

With his ticket stub still in his hand

“It wasn’t me that knocked him down

My hands never touched him none

I didn’t commit no ugly sin

Anyway, I put money on him to win

It wasn’t me that made him fall

No, you can’t blame me at all”

Who killed Davey Moore

Why an’ what’s the reason for?

“Not me,” says the boxing writer

Pounding print on his old typewriter

Sayin’, “Boxing ain’t to blame

There’s just as much danger in a football game”

Sayin’, “Fistfighting is here to stay

It’s just the old American way

It wasn’t me that made him fall

No, you can’t blame me at all”

Who killed Davey Moore

Why an’ what’s the reason for?

“Not me,” says the man whose fists

Laid him low in a cloud of mist

Who came here from Cuba’s door

Where boxing ain’t allowed no more

“I hit him, yes, it’s true

But that’s what I am paid to do

Don’t say ‘murder,’ don’t say ‘kill’

It was destiny, it was God’s will”

Who killed Davey Moore

Why an’ what’s the reason for?

Copyright © 1964, 1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1992, 1993 by Special Rider

[Trav Le Bleu]

Teeth - Spike Milligan

 

English Teeth, English Teeth!
Shining in the sun
A part of British heritage
Aye, each and every one.
English Teeth, Happy Teeth!
Always having fun
Clamping down on bits of fish
And sausages half done.
English Teeth! HEROES' Teeth!
Hear them click! and clack!
Let's sing a song of praise to them -
Three Cheers for the Brown Grey and Black.

[foxsake]

Three poems from some of my favourite poets:

 

 

When You Are Old

 

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

 

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

 

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

 

-- WB Yeats, 1893.

 

 

 

Gacela of Unforseen Love

 

Nobody understood the perfume

of the dark magnolia of your womb

Nobody knew that you crushed to death

a humming-bird of love between your teeth

 

A thousand little Persian horses slumbered

in the moonlit plaza of your forehead,

meanwhile through four nights I embraced

the enemy of snow, your waist.

 

Between the plaster and the jasmines, your glance

was a pale, seed-bearing branch.

I sought to give you, in my breast, 

the ivory letters that spell always,

 

"siempre", "siempre" : garden of my agony,

your body elusive always,

that blood of your veins in my mouth,

your mouth already lightless for my death. 

 

Federico Garcia Lorca, 1931-34.

 

 

 

Any fool can get into an ocean   

But it takes a Goddess   

To get out of one.

What’s true of oceans is true, of course,

Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming   

Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweed

You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess

To get back out of them

Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly

Out in the middle of the poem

They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the

    water hardly moves

You might get out through all the waves and rocks

Into the middle of the poem to touch them

But when you’ve tried the blessed water long

Enough to want to start backward

That’s when the fun starts

Unless you’re a poet or an otter or something supernatural

You’ll drown, dear. You’ll drown

Any Greek can get you into a labyrinth

But it takes a hero to get out of one

What’s true of labyrinths is true of course

Of love and memory. When you start remembering.

 

Jack Spicer, 1945-50.

[David Guiza]

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy

Who grinned at life in empty joy,

Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,

And whistled early with the lark.

 

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,

With crumps and lice and lack of rum,

He put a bullet through his brain.

No one spoke of him again.

 

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye

Who cheer when soldier lads march by,

Sneak home and pray you'll never know

The hell where youth and laughter go.

 

S. Sassoon

[Houdini Logic]

Something a bit lighter...


And now the end is near for me,
a father, husband, employee,
and through it all, I’m bound to say,
I did it someone else’s way.

 

--

My accent when I'm talking to
A builder or mechanic
Turns slightly more malt vinegar
And slightly less balsamic.

 

--

Knowledgeable-nonchalant
I tell the waiter ‘Fine’
when really what I’m thinking is
‘I’m fairly sure it’s wine.’

[bovril]

I still have a mental block to most if it, but love this one. Brilliant imagery, insight, pacing and rhythm ("metre", is that the right word? Am very out-of-touch, as I say). It reminds me slightly of that fillm "Koyaanisqatsi", which shows images sweeping across cities and landscapes (probably 25 years since I saw, but it made an impression). I must look again at my Dad's Larkin volume; Auden is the one that I've mainly appreciated so far, but don't know his stuff well enough to quote one.

 

Larkin was all about imagery. Not the slit-your-wrists kind of poet many have him down as. His evocations of provincial England life were second to none. I particularly like this one as it's about heading north on the train on the East Coast, a journey I often do.

[Vlad the Fox]

Came across this today.

 

A Kite for Aibhin

 

Seamus Heaney, 1939 - 2013

After “L’Aquilone” by Giovanni Pascoli (1855-1912)

 

Air from another life and time and place,
Pale blue heavenly air is supporting
A white wing beating high against the breeze,

And yes, it is a kite! As when one afternoon
All of us there trooped out
Among the briar hedges and stripped thorn,

I take my stand again, halt opposite
Anahorish Hill to scan the blue,
Back in that field to launch our long-tailed comet.

And now it hovers, tugs, veers, dives askew,
Lifts itself, goes with the wind until
It rises to loud cheers from us below.

Rises, and my hand is like a spindle
Unspooling, the kite a thin-stemmed flower
Climbing and carrying, carrying farther, higher

The longing in the breast and planted feet
And gazing face and heart of the kite flier
Until string breaks and—separate, elate—

The kite takes off, itself alone, a windfall.

[Webbo]

Invictus

BY WILLIAM ERNEST 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.

[Buce]

I don't get poetry.

I am a Philistine.

[foxinexile]

A bit of 'punk poetry' by John Cooper Clarke ...

 

TWAT

 

Like a Night Club in the morning, you're the bitter end.

Like a recently disinfected shit-house you're clean round the bend.

You give me the horrors

too bad to be true.

All of my tomorrows are lousy 'cos of you.

You put the Shat in Shatter

Put the Pain in Spain.

Your germs are splattered about

Your face is just a stain.

 

You're certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag.

Do us all a favour, here ... wear this polythene bag.

 

You're like a dose of scabies,

I've got you under my skin.

You make life a fairy tale ... Grimm!

 

People mention murder, the moment you arrive.

I'd consider killing you if I thought you were alive.

You've got this slippery quality,

it makes me think of phlegm,

and a dual personality

I hate both of them.

 

Your bad breath vamps disease, destruction and decay.

Please, please, please, please take yourself away.

Like a death at a birthday party,

you ruin all the fun.

Like a sucked and spat out smartie,

you're no use to anyone.

Like the shadow of the guillotine

on a dead consumptive's face.

Speaking as an outsider,

what do you think of the human race?

 

You went to a progressive psychiatrist.

He recommended suicide ...

before scratching your bad name off his list,

and pointing the way outside.

 

You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart.

You're heading for a breakdown,

better pull yourself apart.

 

Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss.

Your attitudes are platitudes,

just make me wanna piss.

 

What kind of creature bore you,

was it some kind of bat.

They can't find a good word for you,

but I can ... 

TWAT.

 

One of the best live poets I've seen by far.

[Voll Blau]

Simon Armitage - Hitcher

 

Read it at school and it's always stuck with me.

 

 

I'd been tired, under
the weather, but the ansaphone kept screaming. 
One more sick-note. mister, and you're finished. Fired. 
I thumbed a lift to where the car was parked. 
A Vauxhall Astra. It was hired. 

 

I picked him up in Leeds. 
He was following the sun to west from east 
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed. The truth, 
he said, was blowin' in the wind, 
or round the next bend. 

I let him have it 
on the top road out of Harrogate -once 
with the head, then six times with the krooklok 
in the face -and didn't even swerve. 

I dropped it into third 
and leant across 
to let him out, and saw him in the mirror 
bouncing off the kerb, then disappearing down the verge. 
We were the same age, give or take a week. 
He'd said he liked the breeze 

to run its fingers 
through his hair. It was twelve noon. 
The outlook for the day was moderate to fair. 
Stitch that, I remember thinking, 
you can walk from there.

[Steve_Guppy_Left_Foot]

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

[Stadt]

It's goodbye half of Egypt

The Maldives take a dive

And not much more of Bangledesh

Lookslikely to survive.

Europe too will alter,

Book flights to Venice now.

It won't be there in fiftyyears -

Great City Pity, Ciao.

But we don't care

We won't be there,

Our acid greenhouse party

Will carry on

Until we're gone,

So bad luck Kiribati

- And all the other atolls

That sink beneath the seas,

The millions who will suffer from

Drought, famine and disease.

The weather map is changing

But what are we to do?

Let's have another conference on

The ills of CO2

Oh global warming

's habit-forming,

But do not rock the boat;

We're doing our best,

Although we're pressed

(The future has no vote)

[Unabomber]

I froze your tears and made a dagger,
and stabbed it in my cock forever.
It stays there like Excalibur,
Are you my Arthur?
Say you are.

Take this cool dark steeled blade,
Steal it, sheath it, in your lake.
I’d drown with you to be together.
Must you breathe? Cos I need Heaven.

[Rincewind]

It may be a long shot asking but I am trying to find a poem written about 1812 concerning a peasants revolt, It is a long one where they marched into London and was faced by the army. Even forgot who wrote it. Would be a lot easier if i could remember any of it but all i know is it told of women and children being struck down. The ending of one of mine was inspired by it.

 

Just found it. I remembered Ye are many, they are few and it helped with thesearch. It s very long so persevere with it and enjoy.

Percy Bysshe Shelley - The Mask of Anarchy

Written on the occasion of the massacre carried out by the British Government
at Peterloo, Manchester 1819

As I lay asleep in ItalyThere came a voice from over the Sea,And with great power it forth led meTo walk in the visions of Poesy.[spoiler]I met Murder on the way -He had a mask like Castlereagh -Very smooth he looked, yet grim;Seven blood-hounds followed him:All were fat; and well they mightBe in admirable plight,For one by one, and two by two,He tossed the human hearts to chewWhich from his wide cloak he drew.Next came Fraud, and he had on,Like Eldon, an ermined gown;His big tears, for he wept well,Turned to mill-stones as they fell.And the little children, whoRound his feet played to and fro,Thinking every tear a gem,Had their brains knocked out by them.Clothed with the Bible, as with light,And the shadows of the night,Like Sidmouth, next, HypocrisyOn a crocodile rode by.And many more Destructions playedIn this ghastly masquerade,All disguised, even to the eyes,Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.Last came Anarchy: he rodeOn a white horse, splashed with blood;He was pale even to the lips,Like Death in the Apocalypse.And he wore a kingly crown;And in his grasp a sceptre shone;On his brow this mark I saw -'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'With a pace stately and fast,Over English land he passed,Trampling to a mire of bloodThe adoring multitude.And a mighty troop around,With their trampling shook the ground,Waving each a bloody sword,For the service of their Lord.And with glorious triumph, theyRode through England proud and gay,Drunk as with intoxicationOf the wine of desolation.O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,Passed the Pageant swift and free,Tearing up, and trampling down;Till they came to London town.And each dweller, panic-stricken,Felt his heart with terror sickenHearing the tempestuous cryOf the triumph of Anarchy.For with pomp to meet him came,Clothed in arms like blood and flame,The hired murderers, who did sing'Thou art God, and Law, and King.'We have waited, weak and loneFor thy coming, Mighty One!Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,To the earth their pale brows bowed;Like a bad prayer not over loud,Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -Then all cried with one accord,'Thou art King, and God and Lord;Anarchy, to thee we bow,Be thy name made holy now!'And Anarchy, the skeleton,Bowed and grinned to every one,As well as if his educationHad cost ten millions to the nation.For he knew the PalacesOf our Kings were rightly his;His the sceptre, crown and globe,And the gold-inwoven robe.So he sent his slaves beforeTo seize upon the Bank and Tower,And was proceeding with intentTo meet his pensioned ParliamentWhen one fled past, a maniac maid,And her name was Hope, she said:But she looked more like Despair,And she cried out in the air:'My father Time is weak and grayWith waiting for a better day;See how idiot-like he stands,Fumbling with his palsied hands!He has had child after child,And the dust of death is piledOver every one but me -Misery, oh, Misery!'Then she lay down in the street,Right before the horses' feet,Expecting, with a patient eye,Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.When between her and her foesA mist, a light, an image rose,Small at first, and weak, and frailLike the vapour of a vale:Till as clouds grow on the blast,Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,And glare with lightnings as they fly,And speak in thunder to the sky,It grew - a Shape arrayed in mailBrighter than the viper's scale,And upborne on wings whose grainWas as the light of sunny rain.On its helm, seen far away,A planet, like the Morning's, lay;And those plumes its light rained throughLike a shower of crimson dew.With step as soft as wind it passedO'er the heads of men - so fastThat they knew the presence there,And looked, - but all was empty air.As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,As waves arise when loud winds call,Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.And the prostrate multitudeLooked - and ankle-deep in blood,Hope, that maiden most serene,Was walking with a quiet mien:And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,Lay dead earth upon the earth;The Horse of Death tameless as windFled, and with his hoofs did grindTo dust the murderers thronged behind.A rushing light of clouds and splendour,A sense awakening and yet tenderWas heard and felt - and at its closeThese words of joy and fear aroseAs if their own indignant EarthWhich gave the sons of England birthHad felt their blood upon her brow,And shuddering with a mother's throeHad turned every drop of bloodBy which her face had been bedewedTo an accent unwithstood, -As if her heart had cried aloud:'Men of England, heirs of Glory,Heroes of unwritten story,Nurslings of one mighty Mother,Hopes of her, and one another;'Rise like Lions after slumberIn unvanquishable number,Shake your chains to earth like dewWhich in sleep had fallen on you -Ye are many - they are few.'What is Freedom? - ye can tellThat which slavery is, too well -For its very name has grownTo an echo of your own.'Tis to work and have such payAs just keeps life from day to dayIn your limbs, as in a cellFor the tyrants' use to dwell,'So that ye for them are madeLoom, and plough, and sword, and spade,With or without your own will bentTo their defence and nourishment.'Tis to see your children weakWith their mothers pine and peak,When the winter winds are bleak, -They are dying whilst I speak.'Tis to hunger for such dietAs the rich man in his riotCasts to the fat dogs that lieSurfeiting beneath his eye;'Tis to let the Ghost of GoldTake from Toil a thousandfoldMore that e'er its substance couldIn the tyrannies of old.'Paper coin - that forgeryOf the title-deeds, which yeHold to something of the worthOf the inheritance of Earth.'Tis to be a slave in soulAnd to hold no strong controlOver your own wills, but beAll that others make of ye.'And at length when ye complainWith a murmur weak and vain'Tis to see the Tyrant's crewRide over your wives and you -Blood is on the grass like dew.'Then it is to feel revengeFiercely thirsting to exchangeBlood for blood - and wrong for wrong -Do not thus when ye are strong.'Birds find rest, in narrow nestWhen weary of their wingèd questBeasts find fare, in woody lairWhen storm and snow are in the air.'Asses, swine, have litter spreadAnd with fitting food are fed;All things have a home but one -Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!'This is slavery - savage menOr wild beasts within a denWould endure not as ye do -But such ills they never knew.'What art thou Freedom? O! could slavesAnswer from their living gravesThis demand - tyrants would fleeLike a dream's dim imagery:'Thou art not, as impostors say,A shadow soon to pass away,A superstition, and a nameEchoing from the cave of Fame.'For the labourer thou art bread,And a comely table spreadFrom his daily labour comeIn a neat and happy home.'Thou art clothes, and fire, and foodFor the trampled multitude -No - in countries that are freeSuch starvation cannot beAs in England now we see.'To the rich thou art a check,When his foot is on the neckOf his victim, thou dost makeThat he treads upon a snake.'Thou art Justice - ne'er for goldMay thy righteous laws be soldAs laws are in England - thouShield'st alike the high and low.'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen neverDream that God will damn for everAll who think those things untrueOf which Priests make such ado.'Thou art Peace - never by theeWould blood and treasure wasted beAs tyrants wasted them, when allLeagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.'What if English toil and bloodWas poured forth, even as a flood?It availed, Oh, Liberty,To dim, but not extinguish thee.'Thou art Love - the rich have kissedThy feet, and like him following Christ,Give their substance to the freeAnd through the rough world follow thee,'Or turn their wealth to arms, and makeWar for thy belovèd sakeOn wealth, and war, and fraud - whence theyDrew the power which is their prey.'Science, Poetry, and ThoughtAre thy lamps; they make the lotOf the dwellers in a cotSo serene, they curse it not.'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,All that can adorn and blessArt thou - let deeds, not words, expressThine exceeding loveliness.'Let a great Assembly beOf the fearless and the freeOn some spot of English groundWhere the plains stretch wide around.'Let the blue sky overhead,The green earth on which ye tread,All that must eternal beWitness the solemnity.'From the corners uttermostOf the bounds of English coast;From every hut, village, and townWhere those who live and suffer moan,'From the workhouse and the prisonWhere pale as corpses newly risen,Women, children, young and oldGroan for pain, and weep for cold -'From the haunts of daily lifeWhere is waged the daily strifeWith common wants and common caresWhich sows the human heart with tares -'Lastly from the palacesWhere the murmur of distressEchoes, like the distant soundOf a wind alive around'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,Where some few feel such compassionFor those who groan, and toil, and wailAs must make their brethren pale -'Ye who suffer woes untold,Or to feel, or to beholdYour lost country bought and soldWith a price of blood and gold -'Let a vast assembly be,And with great solemnityDeclare with measured words that yeAre, as God has made ye, free -'Be your strong and simple wordsKeen to wound as sharpened swords,And wide as targes let them be,With their shade to cover ye.'Let the tyrants pour aroundWith a quick and startling sound,Like the loosening of a sea,Troops of armed emblazonry.Let the charged artillery driveTill the dead air seems aliveWith the clash of clanging wheels,And the tramp of horses' heels.'Let the fixèd bayonetGleam with sharp desire to wetIts bright point in English bloodLooking keen as one for food.'Let the horsemen's scimitarsWheel and flash, like sphereless starsThirsting to eclipse their burningIn a sea of death and mourning.'Stand ye calm and resolute,Like a forest close and mute,With folded arms and looks which areWeapons of unvanquished war,'And let Panic, who outspeedsThe career of armèd steedsPass, a disregarded shadeThrough your phalanx undismayed.'Let the laws of your own land,Good or ill, between ye standHand to hand, and foot to foot,Arbiters of the dispute,'The old laws of England - theyWhose reverend heads with age are gray,Children of a wiser day;And whose solemn voice must beThine own echo - Liberty!'On those who first should violateSuch sacred heralds in their stateRest the blood that must ensue,And it will not rest on you.'And if then the tyrants dareLet them ride among you there,Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, -What they like, that let them do.'With folded arms and steady eyes,And little fear, and less surprise,Look upon them as they slayTill their rage has died away.'Then they will return with shameTo the place from which they came,And the blood thus shed will speakIn hot blushes on their cheek.'Every woman in the landWill point at them as they stand -They will hardly dare to greetTheir acquaintance in the street.'And the bold, true warriorsWho have hugged Danger in warsWill turn to those who would be free,Ashamed of such base company.'And that slaughter to the NationShall steam up like inspiration,Eloquent, oracular;A volcano heard afar.'And these words shall then becomeLike Oppression's thundered doomRinging through each heart and brain,Heard again - again - again -'Rise like Lions after slumberIn unvanquishable number -Shake your chains to earth like dewWhich in sleep had fallen on you -Ye are many - they are few.'

[Webbo]

It may be a long shot asking but I am trying to find a poem written about 1812 concerning a peasants revolt, It is a long one where they marched into London and was faced by the army. Even forgot who wrote it. Would be a lot easier if i could remember any of it but all i know is it told of women and children being struck down. The ending of one of mine was inspired by it.

The Peasants revolt was 1381

[Rincewind]

The Peasants revolt was 1381

It was the above one I was thimking of. According tosome the peasants are always revolting.

[Rocket-Ron]

Gyles Brandreth's ode to a goldfish

"Oh wet pet"