*Poem of the day thread
- Thread starter RubyToogood
- Start date
heinous seamus
Perfect in an empty room
Absence
My shadow -
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire
so that I got up and looked out half-asleep
at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below?
Without fire
Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you
came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging
to my elbow, your eyes spoke
what I could not grasp -
Nothing, if you were here!
The wind of the early quiet
merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets?
Are you at my heels? Are you here?
And I throw back the sheets.
Edwin Morgan
My shadow -
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire
so that I got up and looked out half-asleep
at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below?
Without fire
Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you
came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging
to my elbow, your eyes spoke
what I could not grasp -
Nothing, if you were here!
The wind of the early quiet
merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets?
Are you at my heels? Are you here?
And I throw back the sheets.
Edwin Morgan
Blue Evening
My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
Knowing that always, exquisitely,
This April twilight on the river
Stirs anguish in the heart of me.
For the fast world in that rare glimmer
Puts on the witchery of a dream,
The straight grey buildings, richly dimmer,
The fiery windows, and the stream
With willows leaning quietly over,
The still ecstatic fading skies...
And all these, like a waiting lover,
Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes,
Drift close to me, and sideways bending
Whisper delicious words.
(But I)
Stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending,
Shaken with love; and laugh; and cry.
My agony made the willows quiver;
I heard the knocking of my heart
Die loudly down the windless river,
I heard the pale skies fall apart,
And the shrill stars' unmeaning laughter,
And my voice with the vocal trees
Weeping. And Hatred followed after,
Shrilling madly down the breeze.
In peace from the wild heart of clamour,
A flower in moonlight, she was there,
Was rippling down white ways of glamour
Quietly laid on wave and air.
Her passing left no leaf a-quiver.
Pale flowers wreathed her white, white brows.
Her feet were silence on the river;
And "Hush!" she said, between the boughs.
~ Rupert Brooke
My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
Knowing that always, exquisitely,
This April twilight on the river
Stirs anguish in the heart of me.
For the fast world in that rare glimmer
Puts on the witchery of a dream,
The straight grey buildings, richly dimmer,
The fiery windows, and the stream
With willows leaning quietly over,
The still ecstatic fading skies...
And all these, like a waiting lover,
Murmur and gleam, lift lustrous eyes,
Drift close to me, and sideways bending
Whisper delicious words.
(But I)
Stretch terrible hands, uncomprehending,
Shaken with love; and laugh; and cry.
My agony made the willows quiver;
I heard the knocking of my heart
Die loudly down the windless river,
I heard the pale skies fall apart,
And the shrill stars' unmeaning laughter,
And my voice with the vocal trees
Weeping. And Hatred followed after,
Shrilling madly down the breeze.
In peace from the wild heart of clamour,
A flower in moonlight, she was there,
Was rippling down white ways of glamour
Quietly laid on wave and air.
Her passing left no leaf a-quiver.
Pale flowers wreathed her white, white brows.
Her feet were silence on the river;
And "Hush!" she said, between the boughs.
~ Rupert Brooke
Wing and a Prayer
by KY
--------------------------------------
Poetry wi'uneven line and lack of rhyme?
What's that all about?, they ask,
Sounds like pretentious wank to me, they say,
I tend to agree, a philistine born'n'bred that's me,
Never tried this before, leaving saftey o'nursery,
Bound to fudge it, not well 'nuff read,
Chances or getting it working remote,
Between slim and none and that's if I'm lucky,
I'm on a wing and a prayer.
by KY
--------------------------------------
Poetry wi'uneven line and lack of rhyme?
What's that all about?, they ask,
Sounds like pretentious wank to me, they say,
I tend to agree, a philistine born'n'bred that's me,
Never tried this before, leaving saftey o'nursery,
Bound to fudge it, not well 'nuff read,
Chances or getting it working remote,
Between slim and none and that's if I'm lucky,
I'm on a wing and a prayer.
Zeitgeist
by KY
---------------
London's skyline soars with grace,
hardly a smile on any face.
Cosmopolitan beyond belief,
yet still the facists causing grief.
The finance sector flying high,
poverty's end still far from neigh.
Oylmpic success 2012? who knows?
John Bull paying through the nose.
Super heros climbing cranes,
Terrorists? Come on use your brains.
Museums now are free for all,
just the thing when the rain does fall.
The tube breaks down for any reason,
regardless of the day or season.
Drugs abound in every club,
and Ladettes drunk in every pub.
Eastern Europe pours in quickly,
whilst Labour spin the figures slickly.
Certain ethnics are not mixing?
or just MPs a-fight-a-fixing?
Chinatown's not "integrated",
but bellies are ingratiated.
Lavish lifestyles need a diet,
no doubt we'll see more may day riots.
Half of mayfair owned by one,
Life is pretty sweet for some.
Spontaneous protest, get arrested,
at least our streets are decongested!
by KY
---------------
London's skyline soars with grace,
hardly a smile on any face.
Cosmopolitan beyond belief,
yet still the facists causing grief.
The finance sector flying high,
poverty's end still far from neigh.
Oylmpic success 2012? who knows?
John Bull paying through the nose.
Super heros climbing cranes,
Terrorists? Come on use your brains.
Museums now are free for all,
just the thing when the rain does fall.
The tube breaks down for any reason,
regardless of the day or season.
Drugs abound in every club,
and Ladettes drunk in every pub.
Eastern Europe pours in quickly,
whilst Labour spin the figures slickly.
Certain ethnics are not mixing?
or just MPs a-fight-a-fixing?
Chinatown's not "integrated",
but bellies are ingratiated.
Lavish lifestyles need a diet,
no doubt we'll see more may day riots.
Half of mayfair owned by one,
Life is pretty sweet for some.
Spontaneous protest, get arrested,
at least our streets are decongested!
heinous seamus
Perfect in an empty room
Drinking Alone By Moonlight
Three Poems
I
A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;
I drink alone, for no friend is near.
Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,
For he, with my shadow, will make three men.
The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine;
Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side.
Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave
I must make merry before the Spring is spent.
To the songs I sing the moon flickers her beams;
In the dance I weave my shadow tangles and breaks.
While we were sober, three shared the fun;
Now we are drunk, each goes his way.
May we long share our odd, inanimate feast,
And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky.
II
In the third month the town of Hsien-yang
Is thick-spread with a carpet of fallen flowers.
Who in Spring can bear to grieve alone?
Who, sober, look on sights like these?
Riches and Poverty, long or short life,
By the Maker of Things are portioned and disposed;
But a cup of wine levels life and death
And a thousand things obstinately hard to prove.
When I am drunk, I lose Heaven and Earth,
Motionless—I cleave to my lonely bed.
At last I forget that I exist at all,
And at that moment my joy is great indeed.
III
If high heaven had no love for wine,
There would not be a Wine Star in the sky.
If Earth herself had no love for wine,
'There would not be a city called Wine Springs.
Since Heaven and Earth both love wine,
I can love wine, without shame before God.
Clear wine was once called a Saint;
Thick wine was once called "a Sage."
Of Saint and Sage I have long quaffed deep,
What need for me to study spirits and hsien?
At the third cup I penetrate the Great Way;
A full gallon—Nature and I are one ...
But the things I feel when wine possesses my soul
I will never tell to those who are not drunk.
Li Po
Three Poems
I
A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;
I drink alone, for no friend is near.
Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,
For he, with my shadow, will make three men.
The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine;
Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side.
Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave
I must make merry before the Spring is spent.
To the songs I sing the moon flickers her beams;
In the dance I weave my shadow tangles and breaks.
While we were sober, three shared the fun;
Now we are drunk, each goes his way.
May we long share our odd, inanimate feast,
And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky.
II
In the third month the town of Hsien-yang
Is thick-spread with a carpet of fallen flowers.
Who in Spring can bear to grieve alone?
Who, sober, look on sights like these?
Riches and Poverty, long or short life,
By the Maker of Things are portioned and disposed;
But a cup of wine levels life and death
And a thousand things obstinately hard to prove.
When I am drunk, I lose Heaven and Earth,
Motionless—I cleave to my lonely bed.
At last I forget that I exist at all,
And at that moment my joy is great indeed.
III
If high heaven had no love for wine,
There would not be a Wine Star in the sky.
If Earth herself had no love for wine,
'There would not be a city called Wine Springs.
Since Heaven and Earth both love wine,
I can love wine, without shame before God.
Clear wine was once called a Saint;
Thick wine was once called "a Sage."
Of Saint and Sage I have long quaffed deep,
What need for me to study spirits and hsien?
At the third cup I penetrate the Great Way;
A full gallon—Nature and I are one ...
But the things I feel when wine possesses my soul
I will never tell to those who are not drunk.
Li Po
heinous seamus
Perfect in an empty room
Dinosauria, we
Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.
By Charles Bukowski
Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.
By Charles Bukowski
Barking_Mad
Non sibi sed omnibus
Diaper Bob
Flicking through the channels
for something to watch
flicking on to Jerry Springer
Jerry smiles, the audience goes wild
Jerry introduces 'Diaper Bob'
sat in a chair
wearing a nappy
Bob is 35 and has a beer belly
and a dodgy moustache
Like a two year old
with black boots on
with his diaper
the audience goes wild, again
Jerry asks Bob some questions
everyone laughs at Bob
Bob says he doesn't give a shit
After the break we get to see Bob
walking the streets of Chicago
in just his diaper
what a treat.
During the break i'm told to buy
'The Greatest present this Christmas'
-Pocket Sock
it's a pocket, in a sock
Apparently everyone is buying them
it's all the rage
you can even keep your credit card
in your 'pocket sock'
amazing.
Jerry returns to a thunder of applause
and Bob walks the streets of Chicago doing normal things:
buying a paper,
getting his boots shined,
in his diaper
apparently in summer he gets a bad diaper rash
and he wears a tu-tu
pretty in pink.
Back in the studio we get to meet Bob's Mum
she doesn't like Bob wearing diapers
and neither does the audience
"You're sick" screams his Mum
the audience pop collective blood vessels in agreement.
Bob's step-dad Sean likes Bob even less
Bob's step-dad has a long mullet,
almost as bad as wearing a diaper
He punches Bob in the face
SMACK!
two grown men
one in jeans and t-shirt
one in a diaper
rolling round on the studio floor.
Bob's ex-friend Pete comes on to the show
and says he gave Bob a place to stay
but claims he repaid him by waking him up
whilst standing over his bed
in just his diaper
Pete's girlfriend didn't appreciate this either.
After the next break Bob is going to eat....
dog food.
I consider rushing out to buy 'Pocket Sock'
but I want to see Bob chowing down
'Pocket Sock' will have to wait.
Bob tells Jerry he wants to sign his life away
to a dominatrix.
Jerry introduces Mistress Jade.
She walks out on stage with two men
on leather dog leashes
Jerry cracks a joke
the audience laugh
I laugh.
Mistress Jade orders Bob to eat the dog food
like the bitch that he is
Bob crawls on his hands and knees
and eats the dog food
he is one sick puppy.
Bob says he'd do anything for her
and suggests Jerry tries it
Jerry says he's a vegetarian
Everyone laughs
except Bob.
As Bob is about to sign his life away to Mistress Jade
his Mum, step-dad and ex-friend come back on stage
and tear up the contract
Bob is upset
he waves his arms
sticks out his pigeon-chest
shouting and swearing on national tv
eating dog food
wearing a diaper
no wonder he's angry.
It's obvious Bob needs help
so Jerry brings on a psychiatrist called Alan
The audience love Alan,
they chant his name
and pop another collective blood vessel.
Alan says Bob needs re-conditioning
to wear trousers
just like 'normal people'.
Bob throws the trousers away
Alan picks a girl from the audience
she's told to tell Bob how sexy he is,
"You're soooo sexy Bob"
Bob doesn't believe her
She tries again
but Bob is having none of it.
Jerry finishes the show by saying
Bob's ok to wear diapers
as long as he doesn't steal them
and that he should really find out what's wrong
The diapers are probably covering up
a bigger mess than we think.
Flicking through the channels
for something to watch
flicking on to Jerry Springer
Jerry smiles, the audience goes wild
Jerry introduces 'Diaper Bob'
sat in a chair
wearing a nappy
Bob is 35 and has a beer belly
and a dodgy moustache
Like a two year old
with black boots on
with his diaper
the audience goes wild, again
Jerry asks Bob some questions
everyone laughs at Bob
Bob says he doesn't give a shit
After the break we get to see Bob
walking the streets of Chicago
in just his diaper
what a treat.
During the break i'm told to buy
'The Greatest present this Christmas'
-Pocket Sock
it's a pocket, in a sock
Apparently everyone is buying them
it's all the rage
you can even keep your credit card
in your 'pocket sock'
amazing.
Jerry returns to a thunder of applause
and Bob walks the streets of Chicago doing normal things:
buying a paper,
getting his boots shined,
in his diaper
apparently in summer he gets a bad diaper rash
and he wears a tu-tu
pretty in pink.
Back in the studio we get to meet Bob's Mum
she doesn't like Bob wearing diapers
and neither does the audience
"You're sick" screams his Mum
the audience pop collective blood vessels in agreement.
Bob's step-dad Sean likes Bob even less
Bob's step-dad has a long mullet,
almost as bad as wearing a diaper
He punches Bob in the face
SMACK!
two grown men
one in jeans and t-shirt
one in a diaper
rolling round on the studio floor.
Bob's ex-friend Pete comes on to the show
and says he gave Bob a place to stay
but claims he repaid him by waking him up
whilst standing over his bed
in just his diaper
Pete's girlfriend didn't appreciate this either.
After the next break Bob is going to eat....
dog food.
I consider rushing out to buy 'Pocket Sock'
but I want to see Bob chowing down
'Pocket Sock' will have to wait.
Bob tells Jerry he wants to sign his life away
to a dominatrix.
Jerry introduces Mistress Jade.
She walks out on stage with two men
on leather dog leashes
Jerry cracks a joke
the audience laugh
I laugh.
Mistress Jade orders Bob to eat the dog food
like the bitch that he is
Bob crawls on his hands and knees
and eats the dog food
he is one sick puppy.
Bob says he'd do anything for her
and suggests Jerry tries it
Jerry says he's a vegetarian
Everyone laughs
except Bob.
As Bob is about to sign his life away to Mistress Jade
his Mum, step-dad and ex-friend come back on stage
and tear up the contract
Bob is upset
he waves his arms
sticks out his pigeon-chest
shouting and swearing on national tv
eating dog food
wearing a diaper
no wonder he's angry.
It's obvious Bob needs help
so Jerry brings on a psychiatrist called Alan
The audience love Alan,
they chant his name
and pop another collective blood vessel.
Alan says Bob needs re-conditioning
to wear trousers
just like 'normal people'.
Bob throws the trousers away
Alan picks a girl from the audience
she's told to tell Bob how sexy he is,
"You're soooo sexy Bob"
Bob doesn't believe her
She tries again
but Bob is having none of it.
Jerry finishes the show by saying
Bob's ok to wear diapers
as long as he doesn't steal them
and that he should really find out what's wrong
The diapers are probably covering up
a bigger mess than we think.
heinous seamus
Perfect in an empty room
Libertad! Igualdad! Fraternidad!
You sullen pig of a man
you force me into the mud
with your stinking ash-cart!
Brother!
–if we were rich
we’d stick our chests out
and hold our heads high!
It is dreams that have destroyed us.
There is no more pride
in horses or in rein holding.
We sit hunched together brooding
our fate.
Well–
all things turn bitter in the end
whether you choose the right or
the left way
and–
dreams are not a bad thing.
William Carlos Williams
You sullen pig of a man
you force me into the mud
with your stinking ash-cart!
Brother!
–if we were rich
we’d stick our chests out
and hold our heads high!
It is dreams that have destroyed us.
There is no more pride
in horses or in rein holding.
We sit hunched together brooding
our fate.
Well–
all things turn bitter in the end
whether you choose the right or
the left way
and–
dreams are not a bad thing.
William Carlos Williams
heinous seamus
Perfect in an empty room
Listen. Put on Morning.
Listen. Put on morning.
Waken into falling light.
A man's imagining
Suddenly may inherit
The handclapping centuries
Of his one minute on earth.
And hear the virgin juries
Talk with his own breath
To the corner boys of his street.
And hear the Black Maria
Searching the town at night.
And hear the playropes caa
The sister Mary in.
And hear Willie and Davie
Among bracken of Narnain
Sing in a mist heavy
With myrtle and listeners.
And hear the higher town
Weep a petition of fears
At the poorhouse close upon
The public heartbeat.
And hear the children tig
And run with my own feet
Into the netting drag
Of a suiciding principle.
Listen. Put on lightbreak.
Waken into miracle.
The audience lies awake
Under the tenements
Under the sugar docks
Under the printed moments.
The centuries turn their locks
And open under the hill
Their inherited books and doors
All gathered to distil
Like happy berry pickers
One voice to talk to us.
Yes listen. It carries away
The second and the years
Till the heart's in a jacket of snow
And the head's in a helmet white
And the song sleeps to be wakened
By the morning ear bright.
Listen. Put on morning.
Waken into falling light.
W.S. Graham
Listen. Put on morning.
Waken into falling light.
A man's imagining
Suddenly may inherit
The handclapping centuries
Of his one minute on earth.
And hear the virgin juries
Talk with his own breath
To the corner boys of his street.
And hear the Black Maria
Searching the town at night.
And hear the playropes caa
The sister Mary in.
And hear Willie and Davie
Among bracken of Narnain
Sing in a mist heavy
With myrtle and listeners.
And hear the higher town
Weep a petition of fears
At the poorhouse close upon
The public heartbeat.
And hear the children tig
And run with my own feet
Into the netting drag
Of a suiciding principle.
Listen. Put on lightbreak.
Waken into miracle.
The audience lies awake
Under the tenements
Under the sugar docks
Under the printed moments.
The centuries turn their locks
And open under the hill
Their inherited books and doors
All gathered to distil
Like happy berry pickers
One voice to talk to us.
Yes listen. It carries away
The second and the years
Till the heart's in a jacket of snow
And the head's in a helmet white
And the song sleeps to be wakened
By the morning ear bright.
Listen. Put on morning.
Waken into falling light.
W.S. Graham
butchersapron
Bring back hanging
A LOVE POEM
To Webb
He was a hillbilly
up from Alabama
to work the chevy plant
He had a feel for things
natural and mechanical
their use
and their fitness
He could rebuild an engine
Or kill and skin a 'coon
matteroffactly
to drive and to eat
(I was always in awe of his ability
to handle grease
with his hands
or with his stomach
As if it was his destiny in life
To lubricate the world
And himself along with it)
He had a wife, two sons, intense pride
And deep inside he owed a
sense of ignorance
mainly his own
Which he nurtured and reworked
into a weapon
that could stop an assembly line
or harras a foreman
It was all the world gave him to work with
And he did the best he could
But it wasn't enough
So he expanded his consciousness
and sustained his pride
with whiskey
And with it
he washed away
his wife
his two sons
his pride
and his ignorance
Shit.
Marty Glaberman
To Webb
He was a hillbilly
up from Alabama
to work the chevy plant
He had a feel for things
natural and mechanical
their use
and their fitness
He could rebuild an engine
Or kill and skin a 'coon
matteroffactly
to drive and to eat
(I was always in awe of his ability
to handle grease
with his hands
or with his stomach
As if it was his destiny in life
To lubricate the world
And himself along with it)
He had a wife, two sons, intense pride
And deep inside he owed a
sense of ignorance
mainly his own
Which he nurtured and reworked
into a weapon
that could stop an assembly line
or harras a foreman
It was all the world gave him to work with
And he did the best he could
But it wasn't enough
So he expanded his consciousness
and sustained his pride
with whiskey
And with it
he washed away
his wife
his two sons
his pride
and his ignorance
Shit.
Marty Glaberman
Kenny Vermouth
Wankers
The hunter crouches in his blind
'Neath camouflage of every kind.
He conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys.
This grownup man, with pluck and luck
Is hoping to outwit a duck.
Ogden Nash
'Neath camouflage of every kind.
He conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys.
This grownup man, with pluck and luck
Is hoping to outwit a duck.
Ogden Nash
butchersapron
Bring back hanging
Only two people unable to read today. And what a classy pair.
Shit poem!
Kenny Vermouth
Wankers
I like poems that make me smirk.
A double-header from McGough
Posh
Where I live is posh
Sundays the lawns are mown
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Sushi is a favourite nosh
Each six-year-old has a mobile phone
Where I live is posh
In spring each garden is awash
with wisteria, pink and fully blown
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Radicchio thrives beneath the cloche
Cannabis is home grown
Where I live is posh
Appliances by Miele and Bosch
Sugar-free jam on wholemeal scone
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Birds hum and bees drone
The paedophile is left alone
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Where I live is posh.
Shite
Where I live is shite
An inner-city high rise shack
Social workers shoot on sight
The hospital's been set alight
The fire brigade's under attack
Where I live is shite
Police hide under their beds at night
Every road's a cul-de-sac
Social workers shoot on sight
Girls get pregnant just for spite
My mate's a repo-maniac
Where I live is shite.
Newborn junkies scratch and bite
Six-year olds swap sweets for crack
Social workers shoot on sight
Tatooed upon my granny's back
A fading wrinkled Union Jack
Social workers shoot on sight
Where I live is shite.
Posh
Where I live is posh
Sundays the lawns are mown
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Sushi is a favourite nosh
Each six-year-old has a mobile phone
Where I live is posh
In spring each garden is awash
with wisteria, pink and fully blown
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Radicchio thrives beneath the cloche
Cannabis is home grown
Where I live is posh
Appliances by Miele and Bosch
Sugar-free jam on wholemeal scone
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Birds hum and bees drone
The paedophile is left alone
My neighbours drink papaya squash
Where I live is posh.
Shite
Where I live is shite
An inner-city high rise shack
Social workers shoot on sight
The hospital's been set alight
The fire brigade's under attack
Where I live is shite
Police hide under their beds at night
Every road's a cul-de-sac
Social workers shoot on sight
Girls get pregnant just for spite
My mate's a repo-maniac
Where I live is shite.
Newborn junkies scratch and bite
Six-year olds swap sweets for crack
Social workers shoot on sight
Tatooed upon my granny's back
A fading wrinkled Union Jack
Social workers shoot on sight
Where I live is shite.
Meltingpot
Living in our pools we soon forget about the sea
Great. If life was fair, Roger McGough would have been Poet Laureate (maybe with John Cooper Clarke a close second).
He has a weekly poetry programme on Radio 4 called Poetry Please! This one by Fleur Adcock, which featured last night, is chilling IMO;
http://www.arlindo-correia.com/080305.html#Advice_to_a_Discarded_
McGough again
Melting into the Foreground
Head down and it's into the hangover.
Last night was a night best forgotten.
(Did you really kiss a strange man on the forehead?)
At first you were fine.
Melting into the foreground.
Unassuming. A good listener.
But listeners are speakers
Gagged by shyness
And soon the wine has
Pushed its velvet fingers down your throat.
You should have left then. Got your coat.
But no. You had the taste.
Your newfound gift of garbled tongue
Seemed far too good to waste.
Like a vacuum-cleaner on heat
You careered hither and thither
Sucking up the smithareens
Of half-digested chat.
When not providing the lulls in conversation
Your strangled banter
Stumbled on to disbelieving ears.
Girls braved your leering incoherences
Being too polite to mock
(Although your charm was halitoxic,
Your wit, wet sand in a sock).
When not fawning over the hostess
You were falling over the furniture
(Helped to your feet, I recall,
By the strange man with the forhead).
Gauche attempts to prise telephone numbers
From happily married ladies
Did not go unnoticed.
Nor did pocketing a bottle of Bacardi
When trying to leave
In the best coat you could find.
I'd lie low if were you.
Stay at home for a year or two.
Take up painting. Do something ceramic.
Failing that, emigrate to somewhere Islamic.
The best of luck whatever you do.
I'm baling out, you're on your own.
Cockpit blazing, out of control,
Into the hangover. Head down.
Melting into the Foreground
Head down and it's into the hangover.
Last night was a night best forgotten.
(Did you really kiss a strange man on the forehead?)
At first you were fine.
Melting into the foreground.
Unassuming. A good listener.
But listeners are speakers
Gagged by shyness
And soon the wine has
Pushed its velvet fingers down your throat.
You should have left then. Got your coat.
But no. You had the taste.
Your newfound gift of garbled tongue
Seemed far too good to waste.
Like a vacuum-cleaner on heat
You careered hither and thither
Sucking up the smithareens
Of half-digested chat.
When not providing the lulls in conversation
Your strangled banter
Stumbled on to disbelieving ears.
Girls braved your leering incoherences
Being too polite to mock
(Although your charm was halitoxic,
Your wit, wet sand in a sock).
When not fawning over the hostess
You were falling over the furniture
(Helped to your feet, I recall,
By the strange man with the forhead).
Gauche attempts to prise telephone numbers
From happily married ladies
Did not go unnoticed.
Nor did pocketing a bottle of Bacardi
When trying to leave
In the best coat you could find.
I'd lie low if were you.
Stay at home for a year or two.
Take up painting. Do something ceramic.
Failing that, emigrate to somewhere Islamic.
The best of luck whatever you do.
I'm baling out, you're on your own.
Cockpit blazing, out of control,
Into the hangover. Head down.
goldenecitrone
post tenebras lux
Slough
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
good to see the provinces don't change that much.
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
good to see the provinces don't change that much.
goldenecitrone
post tenebras lux
danny la rouge
More like *fanny* la rouge!
Toad
Stop looking like a purse. How could a purse
squeeze under the rickety door and sit,
full of satisfaction, in a man's house?
You clamber towards me on your four corners —
right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.
I love you for being a toad,
for crawling like a Japanese wrestler,
and for not being frightened.
I put you in my purse hand, not shutting it,
and set you down outside directly under
every star.
A jewel in your head? Toad,
you've put one in mine,
a tiny radiance in a dark place.
Norman MacCaig (1910-1996)
Stop looking like a purse. How could a purse
squeeze under the rickety door and sit,
full of satisfaction, in a man's house?
You clamber towards me on your four corners —
right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot.
I love you for being a toad,
for crawling like a Japanese wrestler,
and for not being frightened.
I put you in my purse hand, not shutting it,
and set you down outside directly under
every star.
A jewel in your head? Toad,
you've put one in mine,
a tiny radiance in a dark place.
Norman MacCaig (1910-1996)
The Quality Of Sprawl
Les Murray
Sprawl is the quality
of the man who cut down his Rolls-Royce
into a farm utility truck, and sprawl
is what the company lacked when it made repeated efforts
to buy the vehicle back and repair its image.
Sprawl is doing your farm work by aeroplane, roughly,
or driving a hitchhiker that extra hundred miles home.
It is the rococo of being your own still centre.
It is never lighting cigars with ten dollar notes:
that's idiot ostentation and murder of starving people.
Nor can it be bought with the ash of million dollar deeds.
Sprawl lengthens the legs; it trains greyhounds on liver and beer.
Sprawl almost never says, Why not?, with palms comically raised
nor can it be dressed for, not even in running shoes worn
with mink and a nose ring. That is Society. That's Style.
Sprawl is more like the thirteenth banana in a dozen
or anyway the fourteenth.
Sprawl is Hank Stamper in Never Give an Inch
bisecting an obstructive official's desk with a chain saw.
Not harming the official. Sprawl is never brutal,
though it's often intransigent. Sprawl is never Simon de Montfort
at a town-storming: Kill them all! God will know His own.
Knowing the man's name this was said to might be sprawl.
Sprawl occurs in art. The fifteenth to twenty-first
lines in a sonnet, for example. And in certain paintings.
I have sprawl enough to have forgotten which paintings.
Turner's glorious Burning of the Houses of Parliament
comes to mind, a doubling bannered triumph of sprawl -
except he didn't fire them.
Sprawl gets up the noses of many kinds of people
(every kind that comes in kinds) whose futures don't include it.
Some decry it as criminal presumption, silken-robed Pope Alexander
dividing the new world between Spain and Portugal.
If he smiled in petto afterwards, perhaps the thing did have sprawl.
Sprawl is really classless, though. It is John Christopher Frederick Murray
asleep in his neighbours' best bed in spurs and oilskins,
but not having thrown up:
sprawl is never Calum, who, in the loud hallway of our house
reinvented the Festoon. Rather
it's Beatrice Miles going twelve hundred ditto in a taxi,
No Lewd Advances, no Hitting Animals, no Speeding,
on the proceeds of her two-bob-a-sonnet Shakespeare readings.
An image of my country. And would thatit were more so.
No, sprawl is full gloss murals on a council-house wall.
Sprawl leans on things. It is loose-limbed in its mind.
Reprimanded and dismissed,
it listens with a grin and one boot up on the rail
of possibility. It may have to leave the Earth.
Being roughly Christian, it scratches the other cheek
And thinks it unlikely. Though people have been shot for sprawl.
Les Murray
Sprawl is the quality
of the man who cut down his Rolls-Royce
into a farm utility truck, and sprawl
is what the company lacked when it made repeated efforts
to buy the vehicle back and repair its image.
Sprawl is doing your farm work by aeroplane, roughly,
or driving a hitchhiker that extra hundred miles home.
It is the rococo of being your own still centre.
It is never lighting cigars with ten dollar notes:
that's idiot ostentation and murder of starving people.
Nor can it be bought with the ash of million dollar deeds.
Sprawl lengthens the legs; it trains greyhounds on liver and beer.
Sprawl almost never says, Why not?, with palms comically raised
nor can it be dressed for, not even in running shoes worn
with mink and a nose ring. That is Society. That's Style.
Sprawl is more like the thirteenth banana in a dozen
or anyway the fourteenth.
Sprawl is Hank Stamper in Never Give an Inch
bisecting an obstructive official's desk with a chain saw.
Not harming the official. Sprawl is never brutal,
though it's often intransigent. Sprawl is never Simon de Montfort
at a town-storming: Kill them all! God will know His own.
Knowing the man's name this was said to might be sprawl.
Sprawl occurs in art. The fifteenth to twenty-first
lines in a sonnet, for example. And in certain paintings.
I have sprawl enough to have forgotten which paintings.
Turner's glorious Burning of the Houses of Parliament
comes to mind, a doubling bannered triumph of sprawl -
except he didn't fire them.
Sprawl gets up the noses of many kinds of people
(every kind that comes in kinds) whose futures don't include it.
Some decry it as criminal presumption, silken-robed Pope Alexander
dividing the new world between Spain and Portugal.
If he smiled in petto afterwards, perhaps the thing did have sprawl.
Sprawl is really classless, though. It is John Christopher Frederick Murray
asleep in his neighbours' best bed in spurs and oilskins,
but not having thrown up:
sprawl is never Calum, who, in the loud hallway of our house
reinvented the Festoon. Rather
it's Beatrice Miles going twelve hundred ditto in a taxi,
No Lewd Advances, no Hitting Animals, no Speeding,
on the proceeds of her two-bob-a-sonnet Shakespeare readings.
An image of my country. And would thatit were more so.
No, sprawl is full gloss murals on a council-house wall.
Sprawl leans on things. It is loose-limbed in its mind.
Reprimanded and dismissed,
it listens with a grin and one boot up on the rail
of possibility. It may have to leave the Earth.
Being roughly Christian, it scratches the other cheek
And thinks it unlikely. Though people have been shot for sprawl.
From the distance of our separation
I see the whole of which I was a part;
I see the way my temper tore your heart,
And then the love beneath the laceration.
I see the landscape shaping our relation:
Your fear that I might choose with little art,
My anger at the dreams you would impart,
The ancient paths that lead to confrontation.
But knowledge needn't linger in regret,
Nor wait upon some wind to clear its sky.
We are none the worse for what is gone.
The moments that I never will forget
Are those whose careless grace must make me cry,
Safe within a heart forever won
I see the whole of which I was a part;
I see the way my temper tore your heart,
And then the love beneath the laceration.
I see the landscape shaping our relation:
Your fear that I might choose with little art,
My anger at the dreams you would impart,
The ancient paths that lead to confrontation.
But knowledge needn't linger in regret,
Nor wait upon some wind to clear its sky.
We are none the worse for what is gone.
The moments that I never will forget
Are those whose careless grace must make me cry,
Safe within a heart forever won
A Les Murray 
Performance
I starred that night, I shone:
I was footwork and firework in one,
a rocket that wriggled up and shot
darkness with a parasol of brilliants
and a peewee descant on a flung bit;
I was busters of glitter-bombs expanding
to mantle and aurora from a crown,
I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint,
para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven,
loose gold off fierce toeholds of white,
a finale red-tongued as a haka leap:
that too was a butt of all right!
As usual after any triumph, I was
of course, inconsolable.
Performance
I starred that night, I shone:
I was footwork and firework in one,
a rocket that wriggled up and shot
darkness with a parasol of brilliants
and a peewee descant on a flung bit;
I was busters of glitter-bombs expanding
to mantle and aurora from a crown,
I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint,
para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven,
loose gold off fierce toeholds of white,
a finale red-tongued as a haka leap:
that too was a butt of all right!
As usual after any triumph, I was
of course, inconsolable.
This is a repeat, but fuck it, it makes sense to me at the moment:
Lewis Carroll
You Are Old, Father William
"You are old, father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray what is the reason for that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment - one shilling a box--
Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.
Lewis Carroll
You Are Old, Father William
"You are old, father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"
"In my youth," father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
Pray what is the reason for that?"
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment - one shilling a box--
Allow me to sell you a couple?"
"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."
"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
What made you so awfully clever?"
"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.
Paulie Tandoori
shut it you egg!
Have you ever been in love?
Horrible isn't it?
It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore.
Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain.
I hate love.
i had to read this out loud recently and i was shaking by the end of it. neil gaiman btw from the sandman
Horrible isn't it?
It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore.
Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain.
I hate love.
i had to read this out loud recently and i was shaking by the end of it. neil gaiman btw from the sandman
