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quote:
Originally posted by Raggyβ™₯Doll:
Ok...this is quite crap Laugh I 'wrote' it last night when I eventually went to bed.
I think I'll call it 'Stone me':

There is a pebble in the pit of my stomach and it is me.
All that I am, bound up in stone,
Shrunken and dwarfed by the fleshy exterior;
all show and bubbly warmth.
My self hides there, among the red, beating walls of mechanical body-
feat of engineering,
biological miracle.
Thinking to itself:
'No one can see me here, right?'

Don't nick it Shake Head


I like it Rags. I like it alot.
Moonbeams
He laid her on the table
So white clean and bare.
His forehead wet with beads of sweat
He rubbed her here and there.
He touched her neck and then her breast
And then drooling felt her thigh.
The slit was wet and all was set,
He gave a joyous cry.
The hole was wide... he looked inside
All was dark and murky.
He rubbed his hands and stretched his arms...

....



....



....



.... And then he stuffed the turkey.
The Secretary
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 crΓͺpe 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 for ever: 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.
Raggyβ™₯Doll
I like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.

The old clichΓ© that everyone trots out The Road Not Taken (and clever sorts roll their eyes, but there's a reason it's popular)

Raggy I loved your poem Hug

Dirge for a Joker-Plath

Always in the middle of a kiss
Came the profane stimulus to cough;
Always from the pulpit during service
Leaned the devil prompting you to laugh.

Behind mock-ceremony of your grief
Lurked the burlesque instinct of the ham;
You never altered your amused belief
That life was a mere monumental sham.

From the comic accident of birth
To the final grotesque joke of death
Your malady of sacrilegious mirth
Spread gay contagion with each clever breath.

Now you must play the straight man for a term
And tolerate the humor of the worm.
Leccy
quote:
Originally posted by Raggyβ™₯Doll:
Ok...this is quite crap Laugh I 'wrote' it last night when I eventually went to bed.
I think I'll call it 'Stone me':

There is a pebble in the pit of my stomach and it is me.
All that I am, bound up in stone,
Shrunken and dwarfed by the fleshy exterior;
all show and bubbly warmth.
My self hides there, among the red, beating walls of mechanical body-
feat of engineering,
biological miracle.
Thinking to itself:
'No one can see me here, right?'

Don't nick it Shake Head


Big Grin I love it!! I honestly do! Clapping
Dirtyprettygirlthing
quote:
Originally posted by electric6:
quote:
Originally posted by Raggyβ™₯Doll:
I could make a fortuuuuuuuuuuuune innit Eeker

Valentine thanks ladiez

I really loved it Raggy.

You know the lyric threads we always had? I like to read lyrics like poetry... Red Face Mr L always laughs at me for that, he just likes the choons...but I always have to read the lyrics and pore over them.


'Isn't it lovely when the dawn brings the dew...' Wink
M
quote:
Originally posted by Raggyβ™₯Doll:
I am half watching 'Sylvia' the biopic of Sylvia Plath. I am quite fascinated by the relationship she had with Ted Hughes and the idea of groups of artists and poets as friends, the way they influence each other.

I write some poetry myself, sometimes when it comes to me though it's only for myself really. I'd like to be a poet but I'm probably not suicidal enough Laugh

I think the BBC has a poetry season on at the moment, missed most of it due to baby Roll Eyes I like the idea that they are trying to bring poetry back to the masses rather than being viewed as 'high brow'.

I thought we could post some poetry that we appreciate, either by poets that touch us or poems that have meant something in our lives, or even some we've written?

Whadda ya think? Razzer


:clap:

Couldnt agree more.I hate elitism in any art.Culture for the masses!
M
Watty, deep Crying

I love this one...

My doctor, the comedian
I called you every time
and made you laugh yourself
when I wrote this silly rhyme...

Each time I give lectures
or gather in the grants
you send me off to boarding school
in training pants.

God damn it, father-doctor,
I'm really thirty-six.
I see dead rats in the toilet.
I'm one of the lunatics.

Disgusted, mother put me
on the potty. She was good at this.
My father was fat on scotch.
It leaked from every orifice.

Oh the enemas of childhood,
reeking of outhouses and shame!
Yet you rock me in your arms
and whisper my nickname.

Or else you hold my hand
and teach me love too late.
And that's the hand of the arm
they tried to amputate.

Though I was almost seven
I was an awful brat.
I put it in the Easy Wringer.
It came out nice and flat.

I was an instant cripple
from my finger to my shoulder.
The laundress wept and swooned.
My mother had to hold her.

I know I was a cripple.
Of course, I'd known it from the start.
My father took the crowbar
and broke the wringer's heart.

The surgeons shook their heads.
They really didn't know-
Would the cripple inside of me
be a cripple that would show?

My father was a perfect man,
clean and rich and fat.
My mother was a brilliant thing.
She was good at that.

You hold me in your arms.
How strange that you're so tender!
Child-woman that I am,
you think that you can mend her.

As for the arm,
unfortunately it grew.
Though mother said a withered arm
would put me in Who's Who.

For years she has described it.
She sang it like a hymn.
By then she loved the shrunken thing,
my little withered limb.

My father's cells clicked each night,
intent on making money.
And as for my cells, they brooded,
little queens, on honey.

Oh boys too, as a matter of fact,
and cigarettes and cars.
Mother frowned at my wasted life.
My father smoked cigars.

My cheeks blossomed with maggots.
I picked at them like pearls.
I covered them with pancake.
I wound my hair in curls.

My father didn't know me
but you kiss me in my fever.
My mother knew me twice
and then I had to leave her.

But those are just two stories
and I have more to tell
from the outhouse, the greenhouse
where you draw me out of hell.

Father, I am thirty-six,
yet I lie here in your crib.
I'm getting born again, Adam,
as you prod me with your rib.
Leccy
Well, this is my alltime favourite ever, Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Another Robert Frost, To ET, written about Edward Thomas:

I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.

You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire
On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you--the other way.

How over, though, for even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you

Edward Thomas' Lights Out:

I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.

Many a road and track
That, since the dawn's first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.

Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends,
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter and leave alone
I know not how.

The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.

Ben Jonson's On My First Sonne:


Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh, could I lose all father now ! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age !
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.
mary_bee
Philip Larkin - Sad Steps
Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am startled by
The rapid clouds, the moon's cleanliness.

Four o'clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.
There's something laughable about this,

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow
Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart
(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)

High and preposterous and separate -
Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!
O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,

One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare

Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can't come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.
Demantoid
This one by Robert Frost makes me think about Fate.

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and Iβ€”
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
fabienne
As I have just left my home in the UK this one is close to my heart

Home


Home is the place your heart resides
Home is the place that you decide
Home is the womb that holds the soul
Home is the place where one is whole

Home is the glow you hold in your eye
Home is the emotion that makes you cry
Home is safe and a place of peace
Home is where all strivings cease

Home is protective against the others
Home is full of sisters and brothers
Home is where you find your rest
Home is where you feel your best

Home is a memory that follows your being
Home is a dream for those agreeing
Home is the place where reserves fall
Home is the place you yearn to call

Home is where the family meets
Home is a place of restful retreats
Home is the place you know you’ll be heard
Home is the pace where nothing blurs

Home is all these wonderful things
Home is the place you develop wings
Home is the place that you’ll find one day
Home is the place where your heart will stay

October 2,2008

Lisa Emry
Dolly
quote:
Originally posted by mary_bee:
Well, this is my alltime favourite ever, Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Another Robert Frost, To ET, written about Edward Thomas:

I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.

You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire
On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you--the other way.

How over, though, for even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you

Edward Thomas' Lights Out:

I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.

Many a road and track
That, since the dawn's first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.

Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends,
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter and leave alone
I know not how.

The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.

Ben Jonson's On My First Sonne:


Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh, could I lose all father now ! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age !
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.

Thank you for those. Long time no see Mary Bee Wave Hug

A poetry thread is a lovely idea. Thanks to the other contributors too - I've been doing a bit of cutting and pasting Smiler
FM
quote:
Originally posted by nosey rosie:
quote:
Originally posted by mary_bee:
Well, this is my alltime favourite ever, Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Another Robert Frost, To ET, written about Edward Thomas:

I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.

You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire
On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you--the other way.

How over, though, for even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you

Edward Thomas' Lights Out:

I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.

Many a road and track
That, since the dawn's first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.

Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends,
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter and leave alone
I know not how.

The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.

Ben Jonson's On My First Sonne:


Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh, could I lose all father now ! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age !
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.

Thank you for those. Long time no see Mary Bee Wave Hug

A poetry thread is a lovely idea. Thanks to the other contributors too - I've been doing a bit of cutting and pasting Smiler


Awwh hello you!! How're you? Hug Valentine
mary_bee
quote:
Originally posted by erinp:
I like Refugee Blues
Miss Gee
both by W.H.Auden


This is my daughters favourite

Funereal Blues

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 policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North,my South,my East,my 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 hte moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the oceans and swwep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
M

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