Poorly chicken

[Rhapsody]

I love the inclusion of all the nonsense verse here! As an ex- Eng Lit student I probably should post up something obscure and worthy, but this poem by Mattew Arnold always makes me catch my breath as the final verse repeats.

 

Longing

 

 

 

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

 

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,

A messenger from radiant climes,

And smile on thy new world, and be

As kind to others as to me!

 

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,

Come now, and let me dream it truth,

And part my hair, and kiss my brow,

And say, My love why sufferest thou?

 

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again!

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

 

 

 

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

[ClaireG]

I have a couple of favs from my school days. We used to have a poetry reading comp every year and these are two i remember saying 30 odd years ago

 

The Purist

by Ogden Nash

 

I give you now Professor Twist,

A conscientious scientist,

Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"

And sent him off to distant jungles.

Camped on a tropic riverside,

One day he missed his loving bride.

She had, the guide informed him later,

Been eaten by an alligator.

Professor Twist could not but smile.

"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."

 

 

 

Tarantela, by Hilaire Belloc

 

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda?

Do you remember an Inn?

And the tedding and the shredding

Of the straw for a bedding,

And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,

And the wine that tasted of tar?

And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers

(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,

Do you remember an Inn?

And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers

Who hadn't got a penny,

And who weren't paying any,

And the hammer at the doors and the din?

And the hip! hop! hap!

Of the clap

Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl

Of the girl gone chancing,

Glancing,

Dancing,

Backing and advancing,

Snapping of the clapper to the spin

Out and in-

And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!

Do you remember an Inn,

Miranda?

Do you remember an Inn?

 

Never more;

Miranda,

Never more.

Only the high peaks hoar;

And Aragon a torrent at the door.

No sound

in the walls of the halls where falls

The tread

Of the feet of the dead to the ground,

No sound:

But the boom

Of the far waterfall like doom.

[Cinnamon]

I love this - it makes me tingle

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by: Robert Frost

 

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

 

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

 

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of the easy wind and downy flake.

 

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

..and this just makes me grin

 

Furry Bear

 

If I were a bear,

And a big bear too,

I shouldn’t much care

If it froze or snew;

I shouldn’t much mind

If it snowed or friz —

I’d be all fur-lined

With a coat like his!

 

For I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap,

And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap.

I’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws,

And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws.

With a big brown furry-down up to my head,

I’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed.

[Mrs Frugal]

High Flight

 

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untresspassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

 

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee

Killed 11 December 1941

[WarrensWorld]

Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

 

""Ooops, word censored!"ody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

 

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

 

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning".

 

_______________________

 

W B Yeats 'Golden apples of the Sun'.

 

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

 

________________________

 

I was going to post THE one by Philip Larkin, but I thought better not....

[theherd123]

....

 

When I was a student nurse I hadn't got the hang of small talk yet and I used to recite verses to my patients who were chronically ill....

 

what a thoughtful thing to do!

 

I was just about to post the same thing!

 

Great minds Poet!

[Guest]

this is 2 shed's favourite poem, sends shivers down my spine this one!

 

Robert Browning-Porphyria's Lover

 

THE rain set early in to-night,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listen'd with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And call'd me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me—she

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I look'd up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily oped her lids: again

Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untighten'd next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propp'd her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorn'd at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gain'd instead!

Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirr'd,

And yet God has not said a word!

[Old Speckled Hen]

A favourite poem from one of my favourite modern poets.

 

 

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

 

Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,

Vanished from my hand,

Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.

My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,

I have no one to meet

And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming.

 

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

 

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,

My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip,

My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels

To be wanderin'.

I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade

Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,

I promise to go under it.

 

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

 

Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun,

It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run

And but for the sky there are no fences facin'.

And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme

To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind,

I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're

Seein' that he's chasing.

 

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

 

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,

Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,

The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,

Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,

Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,

With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,

Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

 

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

 

Not particularly clever but it reminds me of my carefree youth and doesn't make me cry

[tooties]

I love this thread!! Theres some great ones on here

 

When I was a Nanny I used to tell this one to the kids:

 

I eat my peas with honey

I've done so all my life

It makes them taste quite funny

But it keeps them on the knife

 

And does anyone like this one?

 

I haven't cried for you as yet

excepting the lone tear I found myself letting

slip down my cheek

In your arms only can I weep

as timeless despair begins to seep

through my body and my mind

[bronze]

I have loads

 

The Solitary Reaper

 

by William Wordsworth

 

 

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass !

Reaping and singing by herself ;

Stop here, or gently pass !

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain ;

O listen ! for the vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

 

No nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands :

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? –

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago :

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day ?

Some natural sorry, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again ?

 

Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending ;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending ; –

I listened, motionless and still ;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

 

 

Obviously doing the war poets at school struck a chord as these two are both but very different

 

our Attention Please by Peter Porter

 

The Polar DEW has just warned that

A nuclear rocket strike of

At least one thousand megatons

Has been launched by the enemy

Directly at our major cities.

This announcement will take

Two and a quarter minutes to make,

You therefore have a further

Eight and a quarter minutes

To comply with the shelter

Requirements published in the Civil

Defence Code - section Atomic Attack.

A specially shortened Mass

Will be broadcast at the end

Of this announcement -

Protestant and Jewish services

Will begin simultaneously -

Select your wavelength immediately

According to instructions

In the Defence Code. Do not

Tale well-loved pets (including birds)

Into your shelter - they will consume

Fresh air. Leave the old and bed-

Ridden, you can do nothing for them.

Remember to press the sealing

Switch when everyone is in

The shelter. Set the radiation

Aerial, turn on the Geiger barometer.

Turn off your television now.

Turn off your radio immediately

The services end. At the same time

Secure explosion plugs in the ears

Of each member of your family. Take

Down your plasma flasks. Give your children

The pills marked one and two

In the C D green container, then put

Them to bed. Do not break

The inside airlock seals until

The radiation All Clear shows

(Watch for the cuckoo in your

Perspex panel), or your District

Touring Doctor rings your bell.

If before this your air becomes

Exhausted or if any of your family

Is critically injured, administer

The capsules marked 'Valley Forge'

(Red pocket in No 1 Survival Kit)

For painless death. (Catholics

Will have been instructed by their priests

What to do in this eventuality.)

This announcement is ending. Our President

Has already given orders for

Massive retaliation - it will be

Decisive. Some of us may die.

Remember, statistically

It is not likely to be you.

All flags are flying fully dressed

On Government buildings - the sun is shining.

Death is the least we have to fear.

We are all in the hands of God,

Whatever happens happens by His will.

Now go quickly to your shelters.

 

 

Futility

by Wilfred Owen

 

Move him into the sun -

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

 

Think how it wakes the seeds, -

Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,

Full-nerved -still warm -too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?

[Mrs Frugal]

And does anyone like this one?

 

I haven't cried for you as yet

excepting the lone tear I found myself letting

slip down my cheek

In your arms only can I weep

as timeless despair begins to seep

through my body and my mind

 

Yes!! I do ! Who wrote that?

[Mrs Frugal]

Spike Milligan was terrific but I love his serious, touching poems more than his comic ones

 

 

When I Suspected

 

There will be a time when it will end.

Be it parting

Be it death

So each passing minute with you

Pendulummed with sadness.

So many times

I looked long into your face.

I could hear the clock ticking.

 

Mirror Mirror

 

A young spring-tender girl

combed her joyous hair

'You are very ugly' said the mirror.

But,

on her lips hung

a smile of dove-secret loveliness,

for only that morning had not

the blind boy said,

'You are beautiful'?

[Old Speckled Hen]

Spike Milligan was terrific but I love his serious, touching poems more than his comic ones

 

 

When I Suspected

 

There will be a time when it will end.

Be it parting

Be it death

So each passing minute with you

Pendulummed with sadness.

So many times

I looked long into your face.

I could hear the clock ticking.

 

 

OMG

My first husband left me that passage in his will.

I suspect he put it in there when he was very ill but he recovered and must have forgotten it.

I howled when I read it

[Mrs Frugal]

For a poem from a funny man, it's incredibly moving, isn't it. I have it pencilled in a poetry book after stumbling across it years ago.

[A chickychickychick-ENN!!]

My favourite really deep poem(s) is(are) TS Eliot's Four Quartets. It's too long to put up here.

 

These are some of my favourites. This is a serious goody by Auden. It's called The Fall of Rome. Check that last stanza:

 

The piers are pummelled by the waves;

In a lonely field the rain

Lashes an abandoned train;

Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

 

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;

Agents of the Fisc pursue

Absconding tax-defaulters through

The sewers of provincial towns.

 

Private rites of magic send

The temple prostitutes to sleep;

All the literati keep

An imaginary friend.

 

Cerebrotonic Cato may

Extol the Ancient Disciplines,

But the muscle-bound Marines

Mutiny for food and pay.

 

Caesar's double-bed is warm

As an unimportant clerk

Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK

On a pink official form.

 

Unendowed with wealth or pity,

Little birds with scarlet legs,

Sitting on their speckled eggs,

Eye each flu-infected city.

 

Altogether elsewhere, vast

Herds of reindeer move across

Miles and miles of golden moss,

Silently and very fast.

 

 

Another serious but beautiful one by Carol Ann Duffy:

 

Prayer

 

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer

utters itself. So, a woman will lift

her head from the sieve of her hands and stare

at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

 

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth

enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;

then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth

in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

 

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales

console the lodger looking out across

a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls

a child's name as though they named their loss.

 

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -

Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

 

 

and two frivolous goodies from The World's Wife collection, also by Carol Ann Duffy:

 

Mrs Icarus

 

I’m not the first or the last

to stand on a hillock,

watching the man she married

prove to the world

he’s a total, utter, absolute Grade A pillock.

 

 

Mrs Darwin

 

Went to the Zoo.

I said to Him—

Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me of you.

[hillfamily]

And does anyone like this one?

 

I haven't cried for you as yet

excepting the lone tear I found myself letting

slip down my cheek

In your arms only can I weep

as timeless despair begins to seep

through my body and my mind

 

Yes!! I do ! Who wrote that?

 

That is beautiful ...brought a tear to my eye.

[Busybird]

Ithaca by CP Cavafy

 

When you set out for Ithaka

ask that your way be long,

full of adventure, full of instruction.

The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,

angry Poseidon - do not fear them:

such as these you will never find

as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare

emotion touch your spirit and your body.

The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,

angry Poseidon - you will not meet them

unless you carry them in your soul,

unless your soul raise them up before you.

 

Ask that your way be long.

At many a Summer dawn to enter

with what gratitude, what joy -

ports seen for the first time;

to stop at Phoenician trading centres,

and to buy good merchandise,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

and sensuous perfumes of every kind,

sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;

to visit many Egyptian cities,

to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

 

Have Ithaka always in your mind.

Your arrival there is what you are destined for.

But don't in the least hurry the journey.

Better it last for years,

so that when you reach the island you are old,

rich with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.

Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.

Without her you would not have set out.

She hasn't anything else to give you.

 

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.

So wise you have become, of such experience,

that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean.

[bronze]

 

 

 

Mrs Icarus

 

I’m not the first or the last

to stand on a hillock,

watching the man she married

prove to the world

he’s a total, utter, absolute Grade A pillock.

 

 

I love it!

[WarrensWorld]

Wilfred Owen, Anthem for Doomed Youth

 

"What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

- Only the monstruous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

 

 

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds".

 

I first heard this poem in 1961, it was on the television. The only time I saw my Grandfather get choked up. He ran away and joined the army in 1912 as a boy entrant aged 14. He survived the great war, but he never talked about it. The only thing he ever said, was his platoon saw four red tabs (staff officers) dead in the same shell hole and they all laughed. He'd had a few, it was the Christmas before he died.

I can't read this without getting choked up, my Grandfather was gassed but survived.

 

Wilfred Owen. 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".

[Mrs Frugal]

Being Boring

 

'May you live in interesting times.' Chinese curse

 

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say

Except that the garden is growing.

I had a slight cold but it's better today.

I'm content with the way things are going.

Yes, he is the same as he usually is,

Still eating and sleeping and snoring.

I get on with my work. He gets on with his.

I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:

Tears and passion - I've used up a tankful.

No news is good news, and long may it last,

If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.

A happier cabbage you never did see,

My vegetable spirits are soaring.

If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.

I want to go on being boring.

I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,

If you don't need to find a new lover?

You drink and you listen and drink a bit more

And you take the next day to recover.

Someone to stay home with was all my desire

And, now that I've found a safe mooring,

I've just one ambition in life: I aspire

To go on and on being boring.

 

Wendy Cope

[tooties]

And does anyone like this one?

 

I haven't cried for you as yet

excepting the lone tear I found myself letting

slip down my cheek

In your arms only can I weep

as timeless despair begins to seep

through my body and my mind

 

Yes!! I do ! Who wrote that?

 

That is beautiful ...brought a tear to my eye.

 

 

ah.... thanks ladies, I wrote it - I know the thread was really supposed to be for our favourite poems but I couldn't resist seeing if anyone liked it!!

[Mrs Frugal]

It's lovely. It's just the sort of thing I copy into my favourite poetry book.................(off to find book!)

 

back in a mo.........

[hillfamily]

It truly is beautiful tooties :D

 

Clever you for finding your inner poet

[Cinnamon]

Wow, I am very impressed - that is gorgeous

Thanks so much for sharing it with us.

[Guest]

Being Boring

 

'May you live in interesting times.' Chinese curse

 

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say

Except that the garden is growing.

I had a slight cold but it's better today.

I'm content with the way things are going.

Yes, he is the same as he usually is,

Still eating and sleeping and snoring.

I get on with my work. He gets on with his.

I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:

Tears and passion - I've used up a tankful.

No news is good news, and long may it last,

If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.

A happier cabbage you never did see,

My vegetable spirits are soaring.

If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.

I want to go on being boring.

I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,

If you don't need to find a new lover?

You drink and you listen and drink a bit more

And you take the next day to recover.

Someone to stay home with was all my desire

And, now that I've found a safe mooring,

I've just one ambition in life: I aspire

To go on and on being boring.

 

Wendy Cope