Poetry
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Smudger
Established Member
This moves me every time:
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
(and he never wrote again)
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
(and he never wrote again)
Smudger
Established Member
Swan of Avon, last act of The Tempest. Prospero (read Shakespeare) 'abjures his art'. The magnificent ending to one of the greatest creative outpourings that this sad and fallible humanity can boast of.
I should have known! But that's one of Will's that I haven't read.
I was introduced the Shakespeare's works by a factory labourer and many years later I was 'caught' by some of the lads working under me rading Shakepeare during a lunch break.
With the usual banter over I read this piece to them, you will I'm sure be familiar with it.
Our Will could make a fortune today as a political speech writer!
What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Warwick? No, my fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will, I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It ernes me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honor
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace, I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it presently through my host
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live t'old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say, "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian."
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
And say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words --
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester --
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by
From this day to the ending of the world
But we in it shall be rememberèd,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Roy.
I was introduced the Shakespeare's works by a factory labourer and many years later I was 'caught' by some of the lads working under me rading Shakepeare during a lunch break.
With the usual banter over I read this piece to them, you will I'm sure be familiar with it.
Our Will could make a fortune today as a political speech writer!
What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Warwick? No, my fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will, I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It ernes me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honor
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace, I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O do not wish one more.
Rather proclaim it presently through my host
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live t'old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say, "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian."
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
And say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words --
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester --
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by
From this day to the ending of the world
But we in it shall be rememberèd,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Roy.
Smudger
Established Member
Good stuff.
I saw Julius Caesar at the Globe a couple of years ago - I had never realised just how radical Shakespeare was - the call for democracy (and religious freedom) was much clearer there than just reading the play.
As Johnson said, a man for all time.
I saw Julius Caesar at the Globe a couple of years ago - I had never realised just how radical Shakespeare was - the call for democracy (and religious freedom) was much clearer there than just reading the play.
As Johnson said, a man for all time.
One of the disadvantages of my deafness Dick is that the pleasure of the live theatre is now denied me. But I have very happy memories of Hamlet at the Old Vic many years ago with none other than Richard Burton playing the lead.
At the other end of the scale I enjoyed a rendition of the Pirates of Penzance.
Those monologues remind me of an event, I was then the stage manager of an amateur drama group and the group had decided on one of the 'Whitehall Farces'
The opening scene began with a serving girl entering SL, she looks around and calls out, 'Sam! Sam!' at which point I added, 'Pick up thy musket!'
Though everybody laughed the producer demonstrated her lack of humour.
I pointed out that we should get used to the comment as IMO it was inevitable that someone in the audience would respond in a similar manner.
'Not every one has your childish sense of humour!' I was informed.
Opening night, curtain goes back, servant enters SL and calls 'Sam! Sam!'
and from the audience comes 'Pick up thy musket!'.
Every night for the next few weeks! :lol:
For those not familiar with it...
It occurred on the evening before Waterloo,
As troops were lined up on parade.
And sergeant inspecting 'em, he were a terror,
Of whom every man were afraid.
All excepting one man, he were in't front rank,
A man by t'name of Sam Small.
And he and t'sergeant were both daggers drawn,
They thought nowt of each other at all.
As sergeant walked past he was swinging his arms,
And he happened to brush against Sam.
And knocking t'musket clean out of 'is hand,
It fell t'ground wi' a slam.
"Pick it up!" said sergeant, abrupt like, but cool.
But Sam wi' a shake of 'is 'ead.
Said "Seeing as tha knocked it out of my hand,
P'rhaps tha'll pick t' thing up instead.
Sam, Sam, pick up tha musket!
The sergeant exclaimed with a roar.
Sam said tha' knocked it down reasonin'
Tha'll pick it up, or it stays, where t'is on the floor.
The sound of high words very soon reached
The ears of an officer, Lieutenant Bird.
Who says to the sergeant "Now what's all this 'ere?",
And the sergeant told what had occurred.
"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket !",
Lieutenant exclaimed with some heat.
Sam says he knocked it down, reasonin he picks it up,
Or it stays where't is at my feet.
It caused quite a stir when the Captain arrived,
To find out the cause of the trouble,
And every man there all, excepting old Sam,
Was full of excitement and bubble.
"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket!",
Said Captain, for strictness renowned.
Sam says he knocked it down, reasonin he picks it up,
Or it stays where't is on the ground.
The same thing occurred when the Major and Colonel
Both tried to get Sam to see sense.
But when old Duke of Wellington came into view,
Well then the excitement was tense.
Up rode the Duke on a lovely white horse
To "Find out the cause of the bother."
He looked at the musket, and then at old Sam,
And he talked to old sam like a brother.
"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket.", the Duke
Said as quiet as could be,
"Sam, Sam-Sam-Sam, pick up thy musket.",
Come on lad just to please me.
All right Duke says old Sam just for thee I'll oblige,
And to show thee I meant no offence.
So Sam picked it up. "Gradely lad." said the Duke.
"Righto boys let battle commence."
Roy.
At the other end of the scale I enjoyed a rendition of the Pirates of Penzance.
Those monologues remind me of an event, I was then the stage manager of an amateur drama group and the group had decided on one of the 'Whitehall Farces'
The opening scene began with a serving girl entering SL, she looks around and calls out, 'Sam! Sam!' at which point I added, 'Pick up thy musket!'
Though everybody laughed the producer demonstrated her lack of humour.
I pointed out that we should get used to the comment as IMO it was inevitable that someone in the audience would respond in a similar manner.
'Not every one has your childish sense of humour!' I was informed.
Opening night, curtain goes back, servant enters SL and calls 'Sam! Sam!'
and from the audience comes 'Pick up thy musket!'.
Every night for the next few weeks! :lol:
For those not familiar with it...
It occurred on the evening before Waterloo,
As troops were lined up on parade.
And sergeant inspecting 'em, he were a terror,
Of whom every man were afraid.
All excepting one man, he were in't front rank,
A man by t'name of Sam Small.
And he and t'sergeant were both daggers drawn,
They thought nowt of each other at all.
As sergeant walked past he was swinging his arms,
And he happened to brush against Sam.
And knocking t'musket clean out of 'is hand,
It fell t'ground wi' a slam.
"Pick it up!" said sergeant, abrupt like, but cool.
But Sam wi' a shake of 'is 'ead.
Said "Seeing as tha knocked it out of my hand,
P'rhaps tha'll pick t' thing up instead.
Sam, Sam, pick up tha musket!
The sergeant exclaimed with a roar.
Sam said tha' knocked it down reasonin'
Tha'll pick it up, or it stays, where t'is on the floor.
The sound of high words very soon reached
The ears of an officer, Lieutenant Bird.
Who says to the sergeant "Now what's all this 'ere?",
And the sergeant told what had occurred.
"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket !",
Lieutenant exclaimed with some heat.
Sam says he knocked it down, reasonin he picks it up,
Or it stays where't is at my feet.
It caused quite a stir when the Captain arrived,
To find out the cause of the trouble,
And every man there all, excepting old Sam,
Was full of excitement and bubble.
"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket!",
Said Captain, for strictness renowned.
Sam says he knocked it down, reasonin he picks it up,
Or it stays where't is on the ground.
The same thing occurred when the Major and Colonel
Both tried to get Sam to see sense.
But when old Duke of Wellington came into view,
Well then the excitement was tense.
Up rode the Duke on a lovely white horse
To "Find out the cause of the bother."
He looked at the musket, and then at old Sam,
And he talked to old sam like a brother.
"Sam, Sam, pick up thy musket.", the Duke
Said as quiet as could be,
"Sam, Sam-Sam-Sam, pick up thy musket.",
Come on lad just to please me.
All right Duke says old Sam just for thee I'll oblige,
And to show thee I meant no offence.
So Sam picked it up. "Gradely lad." said the Duke.
"Righto boys let battle commence."
Roy.
Roy,
I would have no problem calmly discussing politics. I believe argument should be logical and not emotional. However I live in the great land of OZ so have no idea how Pom politics fare these days.
Jerry
I would have no problem calmly discussing politics. I believe argument should be logical and not emotional. However I live in the great land of OZ so have no idea how Pom politics fare these days.
Jerry
Woodmagnet
Established Member
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Thanks Roy, i've never seen that before, but i like it. :wink:
Vormulac
Established Member
Thanks for that dose of Henry V, Roy. Certain excerpts from Shakespeare send chills down my spine - that's one of them. Ready to face the day now!
Good Surname or what ?
Established Member
Digit,
What a great thread. I love poetry. Thanks for starting it
Here are three of my favourites by Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins and Roger McGough.
First for all the Welshmen here.
Lament - Dylan Thomas
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
For Smudger another Gerard Manley Hopkins. I too fall into the irreligious category but when I hear this read by Richard Burton I can't help but wonder about our place in the world.
The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo - Gerard Manley Hopkins
(Maidens’ song from St. Winefred’s Well)
THE LEADEN ECHO
HOW to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, … from vanishing away?
Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankéd wrinkles deep,
Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?
No there ’s none, there ’s none, O no there ’s none,
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,
Do what you may do, what, do what you may,
And wisdom is early to despair:
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done
To keep at bay
Age and age’s evils, hoar hair,
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death’s worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;
So be beginning, be beginning to despair.
O there ’s none; no no no there ’s none:
Be beginning to despair, to despair,
Despair, despair, despair, despair.
THE GOLDEN ECHO
Spare!
There ís one, yes I have one (Hush there!);
Only not within seeing of the sun,
Not within the singeing of the strong sun,
Tall sun’s tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth’s air,
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,
Oné. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,
Where whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that ’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face,
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,
Never fleets móre, fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an everlastingness of, O it is an all youth!
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace—
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,
And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver.
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair
Is, hair of the head, numbered.
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept,
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold
What while we, while we slumbered.
O then, weary then why
When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care,
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder
A care kept.—Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.—
Yonder.—What high as that! We follow, now we follow.—Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,
Yonder.
And finally.
Let me die a young man's death - Roger McGough
Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns
burst in and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
What a great thread. I love poetry. Thanks for starting it
Here are three of my favourites by Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins and Roger McGough.
First for all the Welshmen here.
Lament - Dylan Thomas
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
For Smudger another Gerard Manley Hopkins. I too fall into the irreligious category but when I hear this read by Richard Burton I can't help but wonder about our place in the world.
The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo - Gerard Manley Hopkins
(Maidens’ song from St. Winefred’s Well)
THE LEADEN ECHO
HOW to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep
Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, … from vanishing away?
Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankéd wrinkles deep,
Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey?
No there ’s none, there ’s none, O no there ’s none,
Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair,
Do what you may do, what, do what you may,
And wisdom is early to despair:
Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done
To keep at bay
Age and age’s evils, hoar hair,
Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death’s worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay;
So be beginning, be beginning to despair.
O there ’s none; no no no there ’s none:
Be beginning to despair, to despair,
Despair, despair, despair, despair.
THE GOLDEN ECHO
Spare!
There ís one, yes I have one (Hush there!);
Only not within seeing of the sun,
Not within the singeing of the strong sun,
Tall sun’s tingeing, or treacherous the tainting of the earth’s air,
Somewhere elsewhere there is ah well where! one,
Oné. Yes I can tell such a key, I do know such a place,
Where whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that ’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us and swiftly away with, done away with, undone,
Undone, done with, soon done with, and yet dearly and dangerously sweet
Of us, the wimpled-water-dimpled, not-by-morning-matchèd face,
The flower of beauty, fleece of beauty, too too apt to, ah! to fleet,
Never fleets móre, fastened with the tenderest truth
To its own best being and its loveliness of youth: it is an everlastingness of, O it is an all youth!
Come then, your ways and airs and looks, locks, maiden gear, gallantry and gaiety and grace,
Winning ways, airs innocent, maiden manners, sweet looks, loose locks, long locks, lovelocks, gaygear, going gallant, girlgrace—
Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath,
And with sighs soaring, soaring síghs deliver
Them; beauty-in-the-ghost, deliver it, early now, long before death
Give beauty back, beauty, beauty, beauty, back to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver.
See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair
Is, hair of the head, numbered.
Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould
Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept,
This side, that side hurling a heavyheaded hundredfold
What while we, while we slumbered.
O then, weary then why
When the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care,
Fonder a care kept than we could have kept it, kept
Far with fonder a care (and we, we should have lost it) finer, fonder
A care kept.—Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where.—
Yonder.—What high as that! We follow, now we follow.—Yonder, yes yonder, yonder,
Yonder.
And finally.
Let me die a young man's death - Roger McGough
Let me die a young man's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns
burst in and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a young man's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Smudger
Established Member
I did!
Thanks.
Thanks.
This one is so relevant today...
GOING, GOING by Philip Larkin. (January 1972)
I thought it would last my time -
The sense that, beyond the town,
There would always be fields and farms,
Where the village louts could climb
Such trees as were not cut down;
I knew there'd be false alarms
In the papers about old streets
And split level shopping, but some
Have always been left so far;
And when the old part retreats
As the bleak high-risers come
We can always escape in the car.
Things are tougher than we are, just
As earth will always respond
However we mess it about;
Chuck filth in the sea, if you must:
The tides will be clean beyond.
- But what do I feel now? Doubt?
Or age, simply? The crowd
Is young in the M1 cafe;
Their kids are screaming for more -
More houses, more parking allowed,
More caravan sites, more pay.
On the Business Page, a score
Of spectacled grins approve
Some takeover bid that entails
Five per cent profit (and ten
Per cent more in the estuaries): move
Your works to the unspoilt dales
(Grey area grants)! And when
You try to get near the sea
In summer . . .
It seems, just now,
To be happening so very fast;
Despite all the land left free
For the first time I feel somehow
That it isn't going to last,
That before I snuff it, the whole
Boiling will be bricked in
Except for the tourist parts -
First slum of Europe: a role
It won't be hard to win,
With a cast of crooks and tarts.
And that will be England gone,
The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,
The guildhalls, the carved choirs.
There'll be books; it will linger on
In galleries; but all that remains
For us will be concrete and tyres.
Most things are never meant.
This won't be, most likely; but greeds
And garbage are too thick-strewn
To be swept up now, or invent
Excuses that make them all needs.
I just think it will happen, soon.
GOING, GOING by Philip Larkin. (January 1972)
I thought it would last my time -
The sense that, beyond the town,
There would always be fields and farms,
Where the village louts could climb
Such trees as were not cut down;
I knew there'd be false alarms
In the papers about old streets
And split level shopping, but some
Have always been left so far;
And when the old part retreats
As the bleak high-risers come
We can always escape in the car.
Things are tougher than we are, just
As earth will always respond
However we mess it about;
Chuck filth in the sea, if you must:
The tides will be clean beyond.
- But what do I feel now? Doubt?
Or age, simply? The crowd
Is young in the M1 cafe;
Their kids are screaming for more -
More houses, more parking allowed,
More caravan sites, more pay.
On the Business Page, a score
Of spectacled grins approve
Some takeover bid that entails
Five per cent profit (and ten
Per cent more in the estuaries): move
Your works to the unspoilt dales
(Grey area grants)! And when
You try to get near the sea
In summer . . .
It seems, just now,
To be happening so very fast;
Despite all the land left free
For the first time I feel somehow
That it isn't going to last,
That before I snuff it, the whole
Boiling will be bricked in
Except for the tourist parts -
First slum of Europe: a role
It won't be hard to win,
With a cast of crooks and tarts.
And that will be England gone,
The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,
The guildhalls, the carved choirs.
There'll be books; it will linger on
In galleries; but all that remains
For us will be concrete and tyres.
Most things are never meant.
This won't be, most likely; but greeds
And garbage are too thick-strewn
To be swept up now, or invent
Excuses that make them all needs.
I just think it will happen, soon.
Five pages of poetry! Glad you are enjoying it Phil, as I said earlier, I am amazed at the interest.
I can write fiction but poetry is beyond me and there is so much of it out there to be enjoyed.
I think 'Leisure' and 'If' will strike a chord with most people but there is something for everyone in the genre and perhaps we will have raised a spark in at least a few.
Roy.
I can write fiction but poetry is beyond me and there is so much of it out there to be enjoyed.
I think 'Leisure' and 'If' will strike a chord with most people but there is something for everyone in the genre and perhaps we will have raised a spark in at least a few.
Roy.
Steve Maskery
Established Member
I'm pretty impressed, myself, Roy, as I don't think of myself at all of a poetophile, yet I've really enjoyed this thread.
Aren't we a deep lot?
S
Aren't we a deep lot?
S
Steve Maskery
Established Member
Steady, Roy, Charley has only a limited amount of disk space, you know.
S
S
Beautiful poetry but for terrible events, I imagine that many will know part of both poems, but here is the full text...
For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Roy.
For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
by John McCrae, May 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Roy.
Smudger
Established Member
Flanders Fields is an interesting poem, because most people who 'know' it seem to think that it is in some way anti-war, whereas the last stanza shows that it isn't at all! In fact, it is a call to arms, to continue the struggle.
It's a shame that, by and large, the poetry of WW1 which is still remembered is anti-war. If you look in documents of the time (newspapers and magazines) there was a lot of pro-war stuff published. Unfortunately it was largely lost in the revisionism of the late 20s and 30s. And, of course, a lot of it was 'amateur'.
It's a shame that, by and large, the poetry of WW1 which is still remembered is anti-war. If you look in documents of the time (newspapers and magazines) there was a lot of pro-war stuff published. Unfortunately it was largely lost in the revisionism of the late 20s and 30s. And, of course, a lot of it was 'amateur'.
