Poem Thread

[Hootad Binky]

Here's a couple about Spring from Gerard Manley Hopkins:

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring—
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush ;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing ;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue ; that blue is all in a rush
With richness ; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden...

(excerpt: "Spring")


...skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change...

(excerpt: "Pied Beauty")

What are your favourite poems?

[LesBonsTemps]

Excellent poems! I've always been a Hopkins fan.Here are two of my favorites:

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling-
firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

e e cummings, & Sonnets-Actualities, XXIV







That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth steal away,
Death's second self, which seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

-- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 73

[Hootad Binky]

Wow! I'd forgot about that one!

I always remember the 29th sonnet "When in men's eyes..." (?) or the "do shake the darling buds of May" one.

ee cummings always reminds me of William Carlos Williams:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


good stuff here:

List of Poets - Famous Poets and Poems

[Dougal]

Will Shake using morning as a metaphor:

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

[DrB0b]

One of my favourites from e e cummings. Best read aloud I think, I love the imagery and moods it conjures up and I'm astounded by the way his simple words carry such complex meaning.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

One day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

[DrB0b]

And this one from W.H. Auden dealing with the standard poetic themes of love, aging, and loss but again with imagery that sometimes leaves me breathless.

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

'O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

[ChiangMai noon]

Y Rhugl Groen



gan Dafydd ap Gwilym (1320-1370)

Fal yr oeddwn, fawl rwyddaf,
y rhyw ddiwrnod o’r haf
dan wŷdd rhwng mynydd a maes
yn gorllwyn fy nyn geirllaes,
dyfod a wnaeth, nid gwaeth gwad,
lle’r eddewis, lloer ddiwad.
Cydeistedd, cywiw destun,
amau o beth, mi a bun;
cyd-draethu, cyn henu hawl,
geiriau â bun ragorawl.
A ni felly, anhy oedd,
yn deall serch ein deuoedd,
yn celu murn, yn cael medd,
dyfod a wnaeth, noethfaeth nych,
dan gri, rhyw feistri fystrych,
salw ferw fach sain gwtsach sail
o begor yn rhith bugail;
a chanto’r oedd, cyhoedd cas,
rugl groen flin gerngrin gorngras.
Canodd, felengest westfach,
Y rhugl; och I’r hegl grach!
Ac yno cyn digoni
gwiw fun a wylltiodd; gwae fi!
Pan glybu hon, fron fraenglwy,
Nithio’r main, ni thariai mwy.
Dan Grist ni bu dôn o Gred
can oer ben ffon yn sonio,
cloch sain o grynfain a gro.
Crwth cerrig Seisnig yn sôn
crynedig mewn croen eidion.
Cawell teirmil o chwilod,
callor dygfor, du god.
Ceidwades gwam, cydoes gwellt,
Groenddu, feichiog o grynddellt.
Cas ei hacen gan heniwrch,
cloch ddiawl, a phawl yn ei ffwrch;
greithgrest garegddwyn grothgro,
yn gareiau byclau y bo.
Oerfel I’r carl gwasgarlun,
Amen, a wylltiodd fy mun.

.....

[DrB0b]

This poem by Yeats, used in the approriate setting, is guaranteed to
get any native English speaking girlie into the sack with you;

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

[ChiangMai noon]

I'll see if I can't translate that later, or find a decent translation.
suffice to say it is a poem about shagging and the power of the erection.

[DrB0b]

Mad Maudlin's Search for Her Tom of Bedlam (1700)


For to see Mad Tom of Bedlam,
Ten thousand miles I've travelled.

Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes,
For to save her shoes from gravel
Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.
I went down to Satan's Kitchen
For to get me food one morning
And there I got souls piping hot
All on the spit a-turning
Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.
There I took up a cauldron
Where boiled ten thousand harlots
Though full of flame I drank the same
To the health of all such varlets
Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.
My staff has murdered giants
My bag a long knife carries
To cut mince pies from children's thighs,
And feed them to the faeries
Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.
The spirits white as lightening
Will on my travels guide me
The stars would shake and the moon would quake
Whenever they espied me
Still I sing bonney boys, Bonney mad boys,
Bedlam boys are bonney,
For they all go bare, and they live by the air,
And they want no drink nor money.
And when that I'll be murdering
The man in the moon to a powder
His staff I'll break and his dog I'll shake
And there'll howl no demon louder

[DrB0b]

This is from the "Tain Bo Cuailgne", the Cattle Raid of Cooley. An early Irish epic about the wars between the men of Connacht led by Queen Maebh and the men of Ulster whose mightiest warrior was Cuchullain. The Tain was first written down in the 8th century but the society it describes is Bronze Age Celtic society and it may have originated as far back as the 5th century BC. The speaker is The Badb or The Morrigan, an aspect of the triple war-goddess in the form of a raven, a major battle is about to begin and the Raven Goddess, perched on a standing stone, speaks. The format is an early Irish bardic style. Cuailgne or Cooley is in the north of Ireland so this 2,500 year old poem could also be considered a prophecy.

Dark one are you restless
do you guess they gather
to certain slaughter
the wise raven
groans aloud
that enemies infest
the fair fields
ravaging in packs
learn I discern
rich plains
softly wavelike
baring their necks
greenness of grass
beauty of blossoms
on the plains war
grinding heroic
hosts to dust
cattle groans the Badb
the raven ravenous
among corpses of men
affliction and outcry
and war everlasting
raging over Cuailnge
deaths of sons
death of kinsmen
death death!

The above is Thomas Kinsella's translation/interpretation. This is part of the original in Old Irish.

In fitir in dub dusáim can eirc n-echdaig
dál désnad fiacht fiach nadeól ceurtid
namaib ar tuáith brega bith indáinib
tathum rún rofiastar dub díanísa maí
muin tonna fér forglass forlaich lilestai
aéd ág asamag meldait slóig scoith nia
boidb bó geimnech feochair fiach fír
mairm rád n-ingir cluiph Cualngi coigde
dia bas mórmacni...iar féic muintire do écaib

And a more accurate translation would be;

Knows not the restless Brown of the
truly dead fray that is not uncertain?
A ravens cloak
The raven that does not conceal
Foes range your checkered plain
Wealth of flowers' splendour
Badb's cow-lowing
Wild the raven
Dead the men
A tale of woe
Battle-storm on Cuailnge evermore,
to the death of mighty sons
Kith looking on the death of kin!

[peterpan]

Ohhh Look, I can join in this poofy thread too, I gotta poem.
One Man's Fish

One man's fowl
Is another mans fish
A skinny girl, that’s
My ideal dish
I like them thin
And I like them lean
Because it takes a waif
To keep me keen
A skinny girl that’s
My ideal treat
For the nearer the bone
The sweeter the meat

[DrB0b]

Ohhh Look, I can join in this poofy thread too

Somebody calling himself peterpan is accusing other people of being poofy? How's Tinkerbell?

[Dougal]

I like my poetry to be constructive and educational. Here is Swift with a lesson on how ladies and gentlemen should conduct themselves:

Of Chloe all the town has rung,
By every size of Poets sung:
So beautiful a nymph appears
But once in twenty thousand years;
By nature form'd with nicest care,
And faultless to a single hair.
Her graceful mein, her shape, and face,
Confest her of no mortal race:
And then so nice, and so genteel;
10: Such cleanliness from head to heel:
No humours gross, or frowzy steams,
No noisom whiffs, or sweaty streams,
Before, behind, above, below,
Could from her taintless body flow.
Would so discreetly things dispose,
None ever saw her pluck a rose.
Her dearest comrades never caught her
Squat on her hams, to make maid's water.
You'd swear that so divine a creature
20: Felt no necessities of nature.
In summer had she walk'd the town,
Her arm-pits would not stain her gown:
At country-dances not a nose
Could in the dog-days smell her toes.
Her milk-white hands, both palms and backs,
Like ivory dry, and soft as wax.
Her hands, the softest ever felt,
Though cold would burn, though dry would melt.
Dear Venus, hide this wondrous maid,
30: Nor let her loose to spoil your trade.
While she engrosseth every swain,
You but o'er half the world can reign.
Think what a case all men are now in,
What ogling, sighing, toasting, vowing!
What powder'd wigs! what flames and darts!
What hampers full of bleeding hearts!
What sword-knots! what poetic strains!
What billet-doux, and clouded cains!
But, Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong,
40: He blew a settlement along;
And bravely drove his rivals down
With coach and six, and house in town.
The bashful nymph no more withstands,
Because her dear papa commands.
The charming couple now unites:
Proceed we to the marriage-rites.
Imprimis, at the temple porch
Stood hymen with a flaming torch:
The smiling Cyprian Goddess brings
50: Her infant-loves with purple wings:
And pigeons billing, sparrows treading,
Fair emblems of a fruitful wedding.
The Muses next in order follow,
Conducted by their squire, Apollo:
Then Mercury with silver tongue,
And Hebe, goddess ever young.
Behold the bridegroom and his bride,
Walk hand in hand, and side by side;
She, by the tender Graces drest,
60: But he, by Mars, in scarlet vest.
The Nymph was cover'd with her flammeum
And Phoebus sung th' epithalamium.
And last, to make the matter sure,
Dame Juno brought a priest demure.
Luna was absent, on pretence
Her time was not till nine months hence.
The rites perform'd, the parson paid,
In state return'd the grand parade;
With loud huzza's from all the boys,
70: That now the pair must crown their joys.
But still the hardest part remains:
Strephon had long perplex'd his brains,
How with so high a nymph he might
Demean himself the wedding-night:
For, as he view'd his person round,
Meer mortal flesh was all he found:
His hand, his neck, his mouth, and feet,
Were duly wash'd, to keep them sweet;
With other Parts that shall be nameless,
80: The ladies else might think me shameless.
The weather and his love were hot;
And should he struggle; I know what --
Why, let it go, if I must tell it --
He'll sweat, and then the nymph may smell it;
While she, a goddess dy'd in grain,
Was unsusceptible of stain,
And, Venus-like, her fragrant skin
Exhal'd ambrosia from within.
Can such a deity endure
90: A mortal human touch impure?
How did the humbled swain detest
His prickly beard, and hairy breast!
His night-cap, border'd round with lace,
Could give no softness to his face.
Yet, if the Goddess could be kind,
What endless raptures must he find!
And Goddesses have now and then
Come down to visit mortal men;
To visit and to court them too:
100: A certain Goddess, God knows who,
(As in a book he heard it read)
Took Colonel Peleus to her bed.
But what if he should lose his life
By venturing on his heavenly wife!
(For Strephon could remember well,
That, once he heard a school-boy tell,
How Semele, of mortal race,
By thunder died in Jove's embrace.)
And what if daring Strephon dies
110: By Lightning shot from Chloe's Eyes?
While these reflections fill'd his head,
The bride was put in form to bed:
He follow'd, stript, and in he crept,
But awfully his distance kept.
Now, "ponder well ye parents dear;"
Forbid your daughters guzzling beer;
And make them every afternoon
Forbear their tea, or drink it soon;
That, ere to bed they venture up,
120: They may discharge it every sup;
If not, they must in evil plight
Be often forc'd to rise at night.
Keep them to wholsome food confin'd,
Nor let them taste what causes wind:
'Tis this the Sage of Samos means,
Forbidding his disciples beans.
O! think what evils must ensue;
Miss Moll the jade will burn it blue:
And, when she once has got the art,
130: She cannot help it for her heart;
But out it flies, ev'n when she meets
Her bridegroom in the wedding-sheets.
Carminative and diuretick,
Will damp all passion sympathetic:
And Love such nicety requires,
One blast will put out all his fires.
Since husbands get behind the scene,
The wife should study to be clean;
Nor give the smallest room to guess
140: The time when wants of nature press;
But after marriage practise more
Decorum than she did before;
To keep her spouse deluded still,
And make him fancy what she will.
In bed we left the married pair:
'Tis time to shew how things went there.
Strephon, who had been often told
That fortune still assists the bold,
Resolv'd to make the first attack;
150: But Chloe drove him fiercely back.
How could a nymph so chaste as Chloe,
With constitution cold and snowy,
Permit a brutish man to touch her?
Ev'n lambs by instinct fly the butcher.
Resistance on the wedding-night
Is what our maidens claim by right:
And Chloe, 'tis by all agreed,
Was maid in thought, and word, and deed.
Yet some assign a diff'rent reason;
160: That Strephon chose no proper season.
Say, Fair-ones, must I make a pause,
Or freely tell the secret cause?
Twelve cups of tea (with grief I speak)
Had now constrain'd the nymph to leak.
This Point must needs be settled first:
The bride must either void or burst.
Then see the dire effect of pease;
Think what can give the colick ease.
The nymph oppres'd before, behind,
170: As ships are toss't by waves and wind,
Steals out her hand, by nature led,
And brings a vessel into bed;
Fair utensil, as smooth and white
As Chloe's skin, almost as bright.
Strephon, who heard the fuming rill
As from a mossy cliff distill,
Cry'd out, Ye Gods! what sound is this?
Can Chloe, heav'nly Chloe, piss?
But when he smelt a noysom steam
180: Which oft' attends that luke-warm stream:
(Salerno both together joins,
As sovereign medicines for the loins
And though contriv'd, we may suppose,
To slip his ears, yet struck his nose:
He found her, while the scent increas'd,
As mortal as himself at least.
But soon, with like occasions prest,
He boldly sent his hand in quest
(Inspir'd with courage from his bride)
190: To reach the pot on t'other side:
And as he fill'd the reeking vase,
Let fly a rouzer in her face.
The little Cupids hovering round,
(As pictures prove, with garlands crown'd)
Abash'd at what they saw and heard,
Flew off, nor evermore appear'd.
Adieu to ravishing delights,
High raptures, and romantic flights;
To goddesses so heavenly sweet,
200: Expiring shepherds at their feet;
To silver meads and shady bowers,
Drest up with amaranthine flowers.
How great a change! how quickly made!
They learn to call a spade, a spade.
They soon from all constraint are freed;
Can see each other do their need.
On box of cedar sits the wife,
And makes it warm for dearest life;
And, by the beastly way of thinking,
210: Find great society in stinking.
Now Strephon daily entertains
His Chloe in the homeliest strains;
And Chloe, more experienc'd grown,
With interest pays him back his own.
No maid at court is less asham'd,
Howe'er for selling bargains fam'd,
Than she to name her parts behind,
Or when a-bed to let out wind.
Fair decency, celestial maid!
220: Descend from heaven to beauty's aid!
Though beauty may beget desire,
'Tis thou must fan the lover's fire:
For, Beauty, like supreme dominion,
Is best supported by Opinion:
If Decency brings no supplies,
Opinion falls, and Beauty dies.
To see some radiant nymph appear
In all her glittering birth-day gear,
You think some Goddess from the sky
230: Descended, ready cut and dry:
But, ere you sell your self to laughter,
Consider well what may come after;
For fine ideas vanish fast,
While all the gross and filthy last.
O Strephon, ere that fatal day
When Chloe stole your heart away,
Had you but through a cranny spy'd
On house of ease your future bride,
In all the postures of her face,
240: Which nature gives in such a case;
Distortions, groanings, strainings, heavings,
'Twere better you had lick'd her leavings,
Than from experience find too late
Your goddess grown a filthy mate.
Your fancy then had always dwelt
On what you saw, and what you smelt;
Would still the same ideas give ye,
As when you spy'd her on the privy;
And, spight of Chloe's charms divine,
250: Your heart had been as whole as mine.
Authorities, both old and recent,
Direct that women must be decent;
And from the spouse each blemish hide,
More than from all the world beside.
Unjustly all our nymphs complain
Their empire holds so short a reign;
Is, after marriage, lost so soon,
It hardly holds the honey-moon:
For, if they keep not what they caught,
260: It is entirely their own fault.
They take possession of the crown,
And then throw all their weapons down;
Though, by the politicians scheme,
Whoe'er arrives at power supreme,
Those arts, by which at first they gain it,
They still must practise to maintain it.
What various ways our females take
To pass for wits before a rake!
And in the fruitless search pursue
270: All other methods but the true!
Some try to learn polite behaviour
By reading books against their Saviour;
Some call it witty to reflect
On every natural defect;
Some shew they never want explaining,
To comprehend a double-meaning.
But sure a tell-tale out of school
Is of all wits the greatest fool;
Whose rank imagination fills
280: Her heart, and from her lips distills;
You'd think she utter'd from behind,
Or at her mouth was breaking wind.
Why is a handsome wife ador'd
By every coxcomb but her lord?
From yonder puppet-man inquire,
Who wisely hides his wood and wire;
Shews sheba's queen completely drest,
And Solomon in royal vest:
But view them litter'd on the floor,
290: Or strung on pegs behind the door;
Punch is exactly of a piece
With Lorraine's duke, and prince of Greece.
A Prudent builder should forecast
How long the stuff is like to last;
And carefully observe the ground,
To build on some foundation sound.
What house, when its materials crumble,
Must not inevitably tumble?
What edifice can long endure,
300: Rais'd on a basis unsecure?
Rash mortals, ere you take a wife,
Contrive your pile to last for life:
Since beauty scarce endures a day,
And youth so swiftly glides away;
Why will you make yourself a bubble,
To build on sand with hay and stubble?
On sense and wit your passion found,
By decency cemented round;
Let prudence with good-nature strive,
310: To keep esteem and love alive.
Then, come old age whene'er it will,
Your friendship shall continue still:
And thus a mutual gentle fire
Shall never but with life expire.

[ChiangMai noon]

Dr Bob.
They used to hold poetry / spoken word reading evenings at the Oirish bar in Chiangmai.
Not sure if they still do.
Ever go to them?

[DrB0b]

Dr Bob.
They used to hold poetry / spoken word reading evenings at the Oirish bar in Chiangmai.
Not sure if they still do.
Ever go to them?

No, never have. I don't get to go out much any more and I don't know any foreigners in Chiangmai to have a drink with . I used to go to some readings back in Dublin and Glasgow and I enjoyed them a lot. Even when I'm reading poetry by myself I like to read it aloud, the Irish and Welsh bards held that written poetry had no power and it was only real poetry when recited.

[LesBonsTemps]

Dark one are you restless
do you guess they gather
to certain slaughter
the wise raven
groans aloud
that enemies infest
the fair fields
ravaging in packs
learn I discern
rich plains
softly wavelike
baring their necks
greenness of grass
beauty of blossoms
on the plains war
grinding heroic
hosts to dust
cattle groans the Badb
the raven ravenous
among corpses of men
affliction and outcry
and war everlasting
raging over Cuailnge
deaths of sons
death of kinsmen
death death!

Thanks for this one! I showed it to my husband, and he quite enjoyed it -- he's a former infantry officer, and we're both Scot-Irish.

I'm consistently reminded when coming across a poem or music how it will speak and sing to one's "ancient blood."

[LesBonsTemps]

One of my favourites from e e cummings...

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did...

And here's another e e cummings, best read aloud, and FUNNY!!!

Nobody Loses All The Time

E. E. Cummings

nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrasel
uxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlesslyadded
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Solhad a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold anddied and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)


I've used this one for recitation at the beginning of public speaking classes -- the challenge is to keep a straight face.

[DrB0b]

Rudyard Kipling, Recessional



God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung batle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine -
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!


The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!


Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!


If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law -
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!


For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word -
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

[DrB0b]

Rudyard Kipling, Mesopotamia


As relevant now as it was was when it was written in 1917.
British Mesopotamia, for those who don't know, is today Syria and Iraq;


They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?

They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slain
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?

Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide -
Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?

Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour?
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?

Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,
Even while they make a show of fear,
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends,
To confirm and re-establish each career?

Their lives cannot repay us - their death could not undo -
The shame that they have laid upon our race.
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
Shall we leave it unabated in its place?

[mrsquirrel]

Address to the Toothache

My curse upon your venom'd stang.
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An thro my lug gies monie a twang Wi gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi bitter pang,
Like racking engines! A' down my beard the slavers trickle,
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle.
While round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup.
An raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were i' their doup!
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neebors sympathise to ease us,
Wi pitying moan;
But thee! - thou hell o a' diseases -
They mock our groan!
Of a' the numerous human dools -
Ill-hairsts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy frien's laid i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o knaves, or fash o fools -
Thou bear'st the gree!
Whare'er that place be priests ca' Hell,
Whare a' the tones o misery yell,
An ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a'!
O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o discord squeel,
Till human kind aft dance a reel
In gore, a shoe-thick,
Gie a' the faes o Scotland's weal
A towmond's toothache!

Bruce and the Spider

For Scotland's and for freedom's right,
The Bruce his part has played;
In five successive fields of fight,
Been conquered and dismayed:
Once more against the English host,
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive, forlorn,
A hut's lone shelter sought. And cheerless was that resting-place,
For him who claimed a throne;
His canopy, devoid of grace,
The rude, rough beams alone;
The heather couch his only bed -
Yet well I ween had slumber fled,
From couch of eider down!
Through darksome night till dawn of day,
Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay,
Of Scotland and her crown.
The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,
And tinged with light each shapeless beam,
Which roofed the lowly shed;
When, looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try
His filmy thread to fling
From beam to beam of that rude cot -
And well the insect's toilsome lot,
Taught Scotland's future king.
Six times the gossamery thread
The wary spider threw;
In vain the filmy line was sped,
For powerless or untrue,
Each aim appeared, and back recoiled,
The patient insect, six times foiled,
And yet unconquered still;
And soon the Bruce, with eager eye,
Saw him prepare once more to try
His courage, strength, and skill.
One effort more, his seventh and last!
The hero hailed the sign!
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender silken line!
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen; for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even "he who runs may read,"
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.

Scotland the land of great poetry.

[Lily]

An Australian one that every schoolchild learns (or used to)

My Country
by Dorothea MacKellar

The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens,
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft dim skies,
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror,
This wide brown land for me.


The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The saphirre misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart around us
We watch the cattle die -
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze

An opal hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land-
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand -
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

[DrB0b]

Righteous Anger by Daithi O'Bruaidair, Translated from Irish by James Stephens

The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:
May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair,
And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will see
On virtue’s path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
Came roaring and raging the minute she looked on me,
And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!

If I asked her master he’d give me a cask a day;
But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may
The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.

[DrB0b]

The First Poem in Ireland. Spoken by Amergin the Druid as he stepped for the first time on the shores of Ireland after disembarking from the fleet of the Sons of Mil. This poem is an incantation taking the island of Ireland for the human Milesians from the spirits/Gods already resident there, the Tuatha De Danaan.

I INVOKE the land of Ireland:
Much-coursed be the fertile sea,
Fertile be the fruit-strewn mountain,
Fruit-strewn be the showery wood,
Showery be the river of waterfalls,
Of waterfalls be the lake of deep pools,
Deep-pooled be the hill-top well,
A well of tribes be the assembly,
An assembly of kings be Tara,
Tara be the hill of the tribes,
The tribes of the sons of Mil,
Of Mil of the ships, the barks!

Let the lofty bark be Ireland,
Lofty Ireland, darkly sung,
An incantation of great cunning:
The great cunning of the wives of Bres,
The wives of Bres, of Buaigne;
The great lady, Ireland,
Eremon hath conquered her,
I, Eber, have invoked for her.
I invoke the land of Ireland!

[LesBonsTemps]

To add to the "war" poems, here's one by Wilbur Owen (WWI):



Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.


(Does anyone remember the Latin translation of the "lie"? I understood it as "It is good and it is right to die for one's country" but that might not be accurate.)