Poorly chicken

[Mrs Frugal]

Good poem, isn't it .

[Guest]

Good poem, isn't it .

 

course it is, it's about me!

[Mrs Frugal]

Nope, you're wrong there! It's my poem .

[Guest]

Nope, you're wrong there! It's my poem .

 

IMO, that's what makes a good poem, the fact that you can identify with the sentiments expressed in it, that and it's funny and clever

[Mrs Frugal]

Yes, I agree with you there. I think a lot of us will identify with what she's written.

[EmmaJC]

When I was at college the poetry part of my English A'level was the letters and poems of John Keats. In the weeks before I started the module on Keats I almost lost a very close family member to a suicide attempt. I was at home alone at night in the days which followed whilst the rest of my family were at the hospital with her and I read the first few pages of my textbook which contained Ode to a Nightingale.

 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness, -

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

 

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

 

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

 

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

 

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -

To thy high requiem become a sod.

 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

[chickenNutter]

My chicken's on the Internet.

She surfs the web all day.

I've tried to stop her browsing

but, so far, there's just no way.

 

She jumps up on the mouse

and then she flaps around like mad

to click on every hyperlink

and every pop-up ad.

 

She plays all sorts of chicken games.

She messages her folks.

She watches chicken videos

and forwards chicken jokes.

 

She writes a blog for chickens

and she uploads chicken pics.

She visits chicken chat rooms

where she clucks about her chicks.

 

I wouldn't mind so much

except my keyboard's now a wreck.

She hasn't learned to type yet;

she can only hunt and peck.

 

Kenn Nesbitt

[A chickychickychick-ENN!!]

[chickenNutter]

Glad you liked it!

[dippy bird]

This one was read at my dads funeral - it actually made me feel a bit better.

Do Not Cry

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain;

I am the gentle autumn's rain.

When you awaken in the morning hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there; I did not die.

[Guest]

very good Kenn

[sadietoo]

I have hesitated to post on this thread, because truth be told (as Ness would say) I'm not a huge fan of poetry and am very very picky about what I do like, (for example I detest the romantics (ducks whilst fellow omleteers throw old eggs at her) I had to study Keats Byron et al for A level, and it was enough to put me off the English degree I had been considering!) ...however, this poem has always sent shivers down my spine (and still does on re-reading). It is of course Dylan Thomas

 

 

POEM IN OCTOBER

 

 

It was my thirtieth year to heaven

Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood

And the mussel pooled and the heron

Priested shore

The morning beckon

With water praying and call of seagull and rook

And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall

Myself to set foot

That second

In the still sleeping town and set forth.

 

My birthday began with the water-

Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name

Above the farms and the white horses

And I rose

In a rainy autumn

And walked abroad in shower of all my days

High tide and the heron dived when I took the road

Over the border

And the gates

Of the town closed as the town awoke.

 

A springful of larks in a rolling

Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling

Blackbirds and the sun of October

Summery

On the hill's shoulder,

Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly

Come in the morning where I wandered and listened

To the rain wringing

Wind blow cold

In the wood faraway under me.

 

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour

And over the sea wet church the size of a snail

With its horns through mist and the castle

Brown as owls

But all the gardens

Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales

Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.

There could I marvel

My birthday

Away but the weather turned around.

 

It turned away from the blithe country

And down the other air and the blue altered sky

Streamed again a wonder of summer

With apples

Pears and red currants

And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's

Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother

Through the parables

Of sunlight

And the legends of the green chapels

 

And the twice told fields of infancy

That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.

These were the woods the river and the sea

Where a boy

In the listening

Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy

To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.

And the mystery

Sang alive

Still in the water and singing birds.

 

And there could I marvel my birthday

Away but the weather turned around. And the true

Joy of the long dead child sang burning

In the sun.

It was my thirtieth

Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon

Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.

O may my heart's truth

Still be sung

On this high hill in a year's turning.

[tooties]

Its taken me a while to find them but here are two of my favourites:

 

"To have this warm glow that comes from someone else's eyes. To remember who they are and not to be the person that everyone thinks they are and, a little bit, not to be the person they know they are" - This is taken from a story called The Wink and explains why the woman kissed someone other than her husband. The authors name is Carolyn Steele Agosta and theres also a lovely reference to 'We talk and dance and his arms go around my waist, which has mainly been used to apron strings and babies' monkey legs and my husband's arms"

The whole story is brilliant, I love the way she uses words http://www.conversely.com/Stori/st017.shtml

 

I'm not sure where I got this one from (anyone know who its by?), but I think its very poignant:

We struggle to erect

the music-stands and deck-chairs of life

only to find

the song ended

and the sun about to set

[majorbloodnock]

Here's an interesting one. The title is below, along with the original text and author.

 

I was walking in the woods

Just on a whim of mine,

And seeking nothing,

That was my intention.

 

In the shade I saw

A little flower standing

Like stars glittering

Like beautiful little eyes.

 

I wanted to pick it

When it said delicately:

Should I just to wilt

Be picked?

 

I dug it out with all

Its little roots.

To the garden I carried it

By the lovely house.

 

And replanted it

In this quiet spot;

Now it keeps branching out

And blossoms ever forth.

 

 

Gefunden (Found)

 

Ich ging im Walde

So für mich hin,

Und nichts zu suchen,

Das war mein Sinn.

 

Im Schatten sah ich

Ein Blümchen stehn,

Wie Sterne leuchtend

Wie Äuglein schön.

 

Ich wollt es brechen,

Da sagt' es fein:

Soll ich zum Welken,

Gebrochen sein?

 

Ich grubs mit allen

Den Würzeln aus,

Zum Garten trug ichs

Am hübschen Haus.

 

Und pflanzt es wieder

Am stillen Ort;

Nun zweigt es immer

Und blüht so fort.

- Goethe

[chickenNutter]

Major, can you translate that into English for us, then we can understand it?

 

Equally poignant I think is;-

 

 

QWxtzt zqtkposht

 

qwejk;ltrjqwiot;p jgdasio wtklpzzzm sjigpowjg;

j;ogkj;a smkl sjiot

kjfa;ojgiopajtigo[ dsnmio enkjoln fdkonmt

btiponhjaijo kngdaopjg!!!!!

 

Short and to the point I feel, and I love the humorous last line. Those Klingons really know how to pile on the humour!

[majorbloodnock]

Major, can you translate that into English for us, then we can understand it?

 

Equally poignant I think is;-

 

 

QWxtzt zqtkposht

 

qwejk;ltrjqwiot;p jgdasio wtklpzzzm sjigpowjg;

j;ogkj;a smkl sjiot

kjfa;ojgiopajtigo[ dsnmio enkjoln fdkonmt

btiponhjaijo kngdaopjg!!!!!

 

Short and to the point I feel, and I love the humorous last line. Those Klingons really know how to pile on the humour!

 

The top half was the English translation, whilst the bottom half was the German original.

 

Where's a "blow a raspberry" smiley when you need it?

[chickenNutter]

[Mrs Webmuppet]

Please forgive me but this is my favorite poem ( and the only one I used to be able to recite from memory - concentrating on the words of this poem have sustained me through many an unpleasant medical appointment)

 

 

The Jaberwocky by Lewis Carroll

 

 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

 

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

 

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

 

And as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

 

One, two! One, two! and through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

 

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

[A chickychickychick-ENN!!]

Goethe was such a fey little sap. I hated doing him at uni.

[The Dogmother]

I've only just picked this up, but my favourite is Alfred Lord Tennyson's The Brook; I had to learn and recite it when I was about 11 and it has stuck with me ever since.... so evocative.

 

'Tis a long one, so I shan't repeat it.

[Busybird]

The only poem I could ever recite correctly from start to finish was The Owl And The Pussy-Cat by Edward Lear

 

I

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

 

II

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?'

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

 

III

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?'Said the Piggy,'I will.'

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

[Busybird]

And one that my kids also love is Teddy Bear by AA Milne

 

A bear, however hard he tries,

Grows tubby without exercise.

Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,

Which is not to be wondered at;

He gets what exercise he can

By falling off the ottoman,

But generally seems to lack

The energy to clamber back.

 

Now tubbiness is just the thing

Which gets a fellow wondering;

And Teddy worried lots about

The fact that he was rather stout.

He thought: "If only I were thin!

But how does anyone begin?"

He thought: "It really isn't fair

To grudge one exercise and air."

 

For many weeks he pressed in vain

His nose against the window-pane,

And envied those who walked about

Reducing their unwanted stout.

None of the people he could see

"Is quite" (he said) "as fat as me!"

Then, with a still more moving sigh,

"I mean" (he said) "as fat as I!

 

One night it happened that he took

A peep at an old picture-book,

Wherein he came across by chance

The picture of a King of France

(A stoutish man) and, down below,

These words: "King Louis So and So,

Nicknamed 'The Handsome!'" There he sat,

And (think of it!) the man was fat!

 

Our bear rejoiced like anything

To read about this famous King,

Nicknamed "The Handsome." There he sat,

And certainly the man was fat.

Nicknamed "The Handsome." Not a doubt

The man was definitely stout.

Why then, a bear (for all his tub)

Might yet be named "The Handsome Cub!"

 

"Might yet be named." Or did he mean

That years ago he "might have been"?

For now he felt a slight misgiving:

"Is Louis So and So still living?

Fashions in beauty have a way

Of altering from day to day.

Is 'Handsome Louis' with us yet?

Unfortunately I forget."

 

Next morning (nose to window-pane)

The doubt occurred to him again.

One question hammered in his head:

"Is he alive or is he dead?"

Thus, nose to pane, he pondered; but

The lattice window, loosely shut,

Swung open. With one startled "Oh!"

Our Teddy disappeared below.

 

There happened to be passing by

A plump man with a twinkling eye,

Who, seeing Teddy in the street,

Raised him politely to his feet,

And murmured kindly in his ear

Soft words of comfort and of cheer:

"Well, well!" "Allow me!" "Not at all."

"Tut-tut! A very nasty fall."

 

Our Teddy answered not a word;

It's doubtful if he even heard.

Our bear could only look and look:

The stout man in the picture-book!

That 'handsome' King - could this be he,

This man of adiposity?

"Impossible," he thought. "But still,

No harm in asking. Yes I will!"

 

"Are you," he said,"by any chance

His Majesty the King of France?"

The other answered, "I am that,"

Bowed stiffly, and removed his hat;

Then said, "Excuse me," with an air,

"But is it Mr Edward Bear?"

And Teddy, bending very low,

Replied politely, "Even so!"

 

They stood beneath the window there,

The King and Mr Edward Bear,

And, handsome, if a trifle fat,

Talked carelessly of this and that....

Then said His Majesty, "Well, well,

I must get on," and rang the bell.

"Your bear, I think," he smiled. "Good-day!"

And turned, and went upon his way.

 

A bear, however hard he tries,

Grows tubby without exercise.

Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,

Which is not to be wondered at.

But do you think it worries him

To know that he is far from slim?

No, just the other way about -

He's proud of being short and stout.

[The Dogmother]

There's another version of the Owl & Pussy Cat, which really makes me laugh:

 

The Owl and the Astronaut

 

The Owl and the Astronaut

Sailed through space

In their intergalactic ship

They kept hunger at bay

With three pills a day

And drank through a protein drip.

The Owl dreamed of mince

And slices of quince

And remarked how life had gone flat;

“It may be all right

To fly faster than light

But I preferred the boat and the cat.”

 

Gareth Owen

[A chickychickychick-ENN!!]

That's ace Claret!

[The Dogmother]

Rosie came up with it from school once, still makes me laugh. I almost prefer it to the original.