Poetry Corner!

[splodge0]

Sonnet XVIII: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


:colour:

[Romantic Old Bird]

Why Splodge :blush::blush:

You are too kind!

Hamlet 2.2.316:

'This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory;
This most excellent canopy, the air, look you,
This brave o’erhanging firmament,
This majestical roof fretted with golden fire,
Why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

What a piece of work is a man!
How noble in reason!
How infinite in faculty!
In form and moving how express and admirable!
In action how like an angel!
In apprehension how like a god!'

:thumbs:

[Mairi]

Daffodils
William Wordsworth

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

http://www.cfmsinc.org/Photos/ddweb/P0000848s.jpg

[Boris]

Noah’s Ark

A long time ago, when God looked down,
Everything he saw made him frown,
The people were cruel, the people were bad,
Everything he saw made him sad.

Then God saw Noah, a very good man,
Do this for me Noah, said God, if you can,
Build a great big boat, take the animals in,
Then I can save you all from this world full of sin.

So the boat was built, it was called ‘the Ark’
With a place for each creature from the lion to the lark,
When the rain started falling, a new path was set,
The world had changed; it was wet, wet, wet.

But Noah and his family, and the animals too,
Were all waiting there, to start a new.

Our songs tell a story,
In the Bible it is read,
The story of a man,
Who did as God said.

Boris ....2003

( introduction to next weeks Parents Assembly by the Reception children !)
http://www.thewoodentoyemporium.co.uk/toys/images/tv210_noahs_ark-large.jpg

[peachy]

I know it's rather obscure and it's a bit rude in a 17thc way but I love it. I've put up just the last part. Basically he's trying to persuade her to ...how shall I put it...give her all.

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

...But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

[Janette]

Mice
by Rose Fyleman

I think mice are rather nice.
Their tails are long
Their faces small,
They haven't any
Chins at all.
Their ears are pink,
Their teeth are white,
They run about
The house at night.
They nibble things
They shouldn't touch
And no one seems
To like them much.
But I think mice
Are rather nice!


http://www.sanfords.net/Spots_free_graphics/Mouses_Mice/mouse.gif


:thumbs:

[Mairi]

The Tyger
William Blake (1757–1827)

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

http://www.uselessgraphics.com/whitetiger.gif

[Janette]

Hey Diddle Diddle
By Anon


Hey diddle diddle
the cat did a piddle
all over the kitchen floor,
the little dog laughed
to see such fun,
so the cat did a little bit more!


:laugh:


http://www.uselessgraphics.com/cat5.gif

[Mairi]

Janette, will you please stop lowering the tone? :nono::nono::nono:

[Romantic Old Bird]

This one is from Peachy, and I think it's an anthem for Floss and Bunty:

Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple

By Jenny Joseph






When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple

with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired

and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

and run my stick along the public railings

and make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

and pick the flowers in other people's gardens

and learn to spit.



You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

and eat three pounds of sausages at a go

or only bread and pickles for a week

and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.



But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

and pay our rent and not swear in the street

and set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

[Romantic Old Bird]

This one's from me:

THE JUMBLIES

http://www.ongoing-tales.com/SERIALS/oldtime/POETRY/graphics/jumblies.gif

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all there freinds could say,
On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea!
And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, 'You'll all be drowned'
They called aloud, 'Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! we don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

II

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,
In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil
Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast;
And every one said, who saw them go,
'O won't they be soon upset, you know!
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong
In a Sieve to sail so fast!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.


III

The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, 'How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

IV

And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down,
They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong,
In the shade of the mountains brown.
'O Timballo! How happy we are,
When we live in a sieve and a crockery jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale,
We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

V

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

VI

And in twenty years they all came back,
In twenty years or more,
And every one said, 'How tall they,ve grown!
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore;
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast
Of dumplings made with beautiful yeast;
And every one said, 'If we only live,
We too will go to sea in a Sieve, -
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!'
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

[splodge0]

I am off to M & S as we speak..........

(have run out of purple briefs)

[Boris]

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple....etc.


Dear Peachy and Floss....I aready am and do !!!

[Romantic Old Bird]

THE MORE LOVING ONE

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total darkness sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.


WH Auden

[LEE]

I think Maya Angelou is an inspiration and we can all learn a lot from her about coping with adversity.


Still I Rise
Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you behest with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got goldmines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise?
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the hurts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

[LEE]

I studied this at school a long time ago (god was it really that long ago :shocked: ) and have always loved it since.

The Thought Fox
Ted Hughes

I imagine this midnight moments forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still: the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

[Mairi]

I'd not read either of your poems before, LEE.

One was so joyful and one was so sad but both were really beautiful.

:wavey:

[Boris]

The Thought Fox
Ted Hughes

Good Grief LEE. I can't believe it. I answered questions about this in my 'A' level examinations, also one about 'Cows' by Ted Hughs and a very poignant one by Christina Rossetti.

[LEE]

Ted Huges was one of my A Level authors as well Boris.

[peachy]

There are some beautiful poems on this thread. Thanks all the contributors. I really enjoyed them, even Janette's!

Let's have a few more shall we.

I know it's a bit bleak, but it's a fabulous poem and somehow suits the dreadful times we are living through:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Dylan Thomas

[Mairi]

I've enjoyed them all too, Peachy.

Here's another:

True Love
N. Chisholm

She sat there very quietly
He said "Come, sit upon my knee"
And when she did as she was told
He sighed "Be good for me"
Then gently he did stroke her neck
Caressed her tiny ears
He pulled her closer to him
And he banished all her fears
He said "You are a darling"
And did not want to go
She snuggled deeper in his arms
And did not want to go
Her face it was so pretty
Her eyes how they did shine
She was only a tiny kitten
And he was only nine

:love::love::love::love::love:

[Boris]

What a cultured lot we have turned out to be.

Thanks everyone.:spin2:

[splodge0]

This is not exactly poetry BUT......

ON CHILDREN

AND a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, Speak to us of
Children.

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.


YOU may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of to-morrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the Archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow
that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran
The Prophet

[Mairi]

It may not be poetry as such, Splodge0 but it's beautiful nonetheless.

I've never heard of Kahlil Gibran but I appreciate the truth of what he's saying.

:wavey:

[splodge0]

Worth buying the book!!:elephant:

:colour::colour::colour:
:colour::colour:
:colour:

[Romantic Old Bird]

That's great Splodge! So true...I will send it to the parents of my grandchild to be immediately!

Here's a little Omar Khayyam:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

[Romantic Old Bird]

Let's continue with the culture folks! I love this one by Maya Angelou:

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
you may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise

[Mairi]

Meeting at Night
Robert Browning

The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

:love:

[Sticks]

I came across this a while ago. Not certain of the authorship.

The Taxi Driver's Lords prayer
Our Father, which art in Hendon
Harrow be thy name
Thy Kingston come, thy Wimbledon
In Erith as it is in Debdon
Give us our diesel, free from lead
And forgive us our bypasses
As we forgive those that park cars against us
Lead us not into Thames Ditton, and deliver us from Ealing
For thine is the Kingston, the Tower and the Aulbry
For Epping and Everton
Big Ben

[splodge0]

More of "The Prophet" for the "Romatically(!)" inclined..........

On Love

Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

When love beckons to you follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

[Romantic Old Bird]

Splodge, you old smoothie you!

Here's another one for the romantic amongst us:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

[Sticks]

This one was used for a Drink Drive campaign with footage of children knocked down and killed by drunk drivers.

Remember
Christina G. Rossetti 1830-94

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

[Sticks]

Another one on a similar theme.

Do Not Stand
Bombardier Stephen Cummings
32 Heavy Regiment Royal Artillery

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's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.
I did not die.

[Sticks]

From Four Weddings and a Funeral

Stop All the Clocks
W H Auden - Twelve Songs IX
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


Sorry about the subject matter, but it seems that kind of day http://www.click-smilies.de/sammlung/traurig/sad-smiley-052.gif

[Mairi]

Don't apologise, Sticks. I loved every one of them, especially "Do Not Stand".

:wavey:

[Sticks]

I finally camer across this poem. Some what apt given current news.

The Soldier
Rupert Brooke
If I should die, think only this of me
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust that England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams, happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

[Mairi]

Silver
Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees.
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breast peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

[Sticks]

To add to the collection.

Dulce Et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like old 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 flound’ring 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 writing 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.

[Mairi]

The Cat's in the Cradle
Sandra Chapin

My child arrived just the other day,
He came to the world in the usual way.
But there were planes to catch, and bills to pay.
He learned to walk while I was away.
And he was talking 'fore I knew it, and as he grew,
He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, dad.
You know I'm gonna be like you."

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

My son turned ten just the other day.
He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play.
Can you teach me to throw?" I said, "Not today,
I got a lot to do." He said, "That's ok."
And he walked away, but his smile, lemme tell you,
Said, "I'm gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I'm gonna be like him."

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, dad?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then.
You know we'll have a good time then."

Well, he came from college just the other day,
So much like a man I just had to say,
"Son, I'm proud of you. Can you sit for a while?"
He shook his head, and he said with a smile,
"What I'd really like, dad, is to borrow the car keys.
See you later. Can I have them please?"

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then, dad.
You know we'll have a good time then."

I've long since retired and my son's moved away.
I called him up just the other day.
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind."
He said, "I'd love to, dad, if I could find the time.
You see, my new job's a hassle, and the kid's got the flu,
But it's sure nice talking to you, dad.
It's been sure nice talking to you."
And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me,
He'd grown up just like me.
My boy was just like me.

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon,
Little boy blue and the man in the moon.
"When you coming home, son?" "I don't know when,
But we'll get together then, dad.
You know we'll have a good time then."

[Kaz]

I remember studying your last poem (by Wilfred Owen) at school, Sticks. Very powerful images conveyed.

'Dulce et Decorum est pro Patria Mori' - translates as 'It is Sweet and Fitting to Die for One's Country'.

After reading the words of the poem . . . . . . is it?

[Janette]

The simple answer to that, Kaz is no!


Here's my offering for "poem to make you think"



If
~ Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

[blinkinlovely]

Until recently, I was going to type out the wotds to my fav benji Zephaniah poem - about clever Trevor who scores a goal .................................. but now I feel all insignificant with the hi brow nature of recent posts!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:shocked::shocked::shocked:: shocked:
:conf::conf::conf:
:bawling::bawling::bawling::bawling:

[splodge0]

And for England..........

written by William Blake (©Year)
Milton, Preface by William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green and pleasant land.

William Blake.

:colour:

[Romantic Old Bird]

Much as I love the classics and WW1 poetry I think Blinkin has a point, so - in an effort to lift the mood a little, here's a lighter one:

Granny


Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny-
But most of all, it blew on Granny!

Spike Milligan

[Sticks]

Ok using that style.....

They walked together in the moonlight
The sky was covered in stars
Together they reached the gatepost
For her he lifted the bars
But alas she did not thank him
Alas she knew not how
For he was but the farmers boy....









...... And she was a Jersey Cow
:laugh::dance:

[Mairi]

Originally posted by blinkinlovely
I was going to type out the words to my fav benji Zephaniah poem - about clever Trevor who scores a goal ..................................

Go for it, Blinkin!!

:hello::hello::hello:

[Romantic Old Bird]

I wish I were a caterpillar
Life would be a farce,
I'd climb up on a cabbage leaf
and slide down on my hands and knees....
:spin2:

[Kaz]

Here's one that those of you who work in an office environment might appreciate:

I Love My Job!

I love my job. I love the pay!
I love it more and more each day.
I love my boss, he is the best!
I love his boss and all the rest.

I love my office and its location.
I hate to have to go on vacation.
I love my furniture, drab and grey,
and piles of paper that grow each day!

I think my job is really swell,
there's nothing else I love so well.
I love to work among my peers,
I love their leers and jeers and sneers.

I love my computer and its software
I hug it often though it won't care.
I love each programme and every file,
I'd love them more if they worked a while.

I'm, happy to be here. I am, I am.
I'm the happiest slave of the Firm, I am.
I love this work. I love these chores.
I love the meetings with deadly bores.

I love my job - I'll say it again.
I even love those friendly men.
Those friendly men who've come today,
in clean white coats to take me away!!!!

:laugh:

[Romantic Old Bird]

http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Studios/7253/johnframed.gif

Words are flowing out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow waves of joy
are drifting through my open mind
Possessing and caressing me

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Images of broken light which
dance before me like a million eyes
That call me on and on across the universe
Thoughts meander like a
restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as
they make their way across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Sounds of laughter shades of earth
are ringing through my opened ears
inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universe

LISTEN>>>>>>>>>>>> (http://www.geocities.com/beatlegged/across.wav)

[Feebs]

Time for one from me:spin2:
Taught to me by my mother:

The Ride-by-Nights

Up on their brooms the Witches stream,
Crooked and black in the crescent's gleam;
One foot high, and one foot low,
Bearded, cloaked, and cowled, they go.
'Neath Charlie's Wain they twitter and tweet,
And away they swarm 'neath the Dragons' feet.
With a whoop and a flutter they swing and sway,
And surge pell-mell down the Milky Way.
Betwixt the legs of the glittering Chair
They hover and squeak in the empty air.
Then round they swoop past the glimmering Lion
To where Sirius barks behind huge Orion;
Up, then, and over to wheel amain,
Under the silver, and home again.

--Walter de la Mare


:laugh:Still a favourite now:laugh:

[Romantic Old Bird]

The Lady of Shalott


On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."


Alfred Lord Tennyson

http://www.wl.k12.in.us/english/images/waterhouse19.jpg

[Boris]

I wish I were a caterpillar
Life would be a farce,
I'd climb up on a cabbage leaf
and slide down on my hands and knees....

now that's more at my level Rob !:joker:

Have to admit to loving the 'Lady' and that beautiful picture is one of my favourites . Thanks for both.

[Sticks]

Naming of Parts
Henry Reed (b. 1914)

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have that to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the garden their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you can see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

[peachy]

Oh Sticks thanks, I'd forgotten that wonderful poem. One of the very, very few poems to come out of the Second World War and isn't it a cracker? On a beautiful day like today and in the times in which we live it is spot on.

Cheers, old fruit. It's made me all nostalgic for my university days, and made me appreciate TiBB all over again (after the grumpiness of my last post, see Malachi thread).

[Romantic Old Bird]

Thanks Sticks. I have never read that poem before. It is quite stunning.

[Romantic Old Bird]

Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody 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.

[Mairi]

Absolutely brilliant, Sticks. I've never come across that one before.

And, ROB. Another stunner. Many thanks to all contributors on this thread. I'm thoroughly enjoying the variety of poems that have been posted up.

:wavey:

[Mairi]

The Donkey
G. K. Chesterton

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood,
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms about my feet!

http://heatheranne.freeservers.com/famous/animal1.gif

[Romantic Old Bird]

That made me think of a little ladybird book I once had about Neddy the donkey, aaaah, thanks Mairi!

Which made me think about the Anthology 'When we were very young' by A A Milne

Here's one of the poems from that:
Alan Alexander Milne 1882-1956
( A. A. Milne)

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
Alice is marrying one of the guard.
"A soldier's life is terrible hard,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
We saw a guard in a sentry-box.
"One of the sergeants looks after their socks,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
We looked for the King, but he never came.
"Well, God take care of him, all the same,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
They've great big parties inside the grounds.
"I wouldn't be King for a hundred pounds,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
A face looked out, but it wasn't the King's.
"He's much too busy a-signing things,"
Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
"Do you think the King knows all about me?"
"Sure to, dear, but it's time for tea,"
Says Alice


http://www.penguinputnam.com/static/packages/us/yreaders/pooh75/characters/images/christopher.jpg

[peachy]

I thought I'd lower the tone right down with what is probably Philip Larkin's most well-known poem. I definitely don't agree with the gloomy old s**'s sentiments in the last verse, but it is still the one I quote from quite often (I've censored it slightly, of course).

This Be the Verse by Philip Larkin

They ******* you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ********* up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.

[blinkinlovely]

Originally posted by Mairi
Originally posted by blinkinlovely
I was going to type out the words to my fav benji Zephaniah poem - about clever Trevor who scores a goal ..................................

Go for it, Blinkin!!

:hello::hello::hello:


I will type this out - but my book is at school so please wait another week!!!!!!:shocked::shocked::shocked::shocked::sle ep::sleep:

[Mairi]

Look forward to it, Blinkin. :wavey:

This is the first poem I can remember learning as a small child.

Cats
Eleanor Farjeon

Cats sleep
Anywhere,
Any table,
Any chair,
Top of piano,
Window ledge,
In the middle,
On the edge,
Open drawer,
Empty shoe,
Anybody's
Lap will do,
Fitted in a
Cardboard box,
In the cupboard
With your frocks -
Anywhere!
They don't care!
Cats sleep
Anywhere.

http://www.uselessgraphics.com/450cat.gif

[Romantic Old Bird]

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er the brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

George Gordon - Lord Byron (local lad)


http://www.artofeurope.com/byron/byronalb.jpg

[BusyBee]

I know its not a professional one, but my son reminded me of this effort I did for his 21st birthday. Hope you like it.


Sons like you don't grow on trees
No fresh veg, just tinned green peas
But sons like you are just the best
Head and shoulders above the rest
Over the years you drove us mad
But those childhood times were never bad
Snotty noses and dirty nappies
Have changed to smelly boots and football sockies
From broken ankles to glandular fever
When you're well we all shout Viva!
21 years have just flown by
But you've turned out to be quite a guy
So to finish this poem I'd like to say
What DO you want for your Birthday?

[Mairi]

Aww, that's lovely, BusyBee.

Men are so hard to buy for, aren't they? Did you ever find out what he DID want for his birthday?

:laugh::laugh::laugh:

[Sticks]

From a living poet

I wish I looked After my teeth
Pam Ayres
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth,
And spotted the perils beneath,
All the toffees I chewed,
And the sweet sticky food,
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

I wish I'd been that much more willin'
When I had more tooth there than fillin'
To pass up gobstoppers,
From respect to me choppers
And to buy something else with me shillin'.

When I think of the lollies I licked,
And the liquorice allsorts I picked,
Sherbet dabs, big and little,
All that hard peanut brittle,
My conscience gets horribly pricked.

My Mother, she told me no end,
"If you got a tooth, you got a friend"
I was young then, and careless,
My toothbrush was hairless,
I never had much time to spend.

Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right,
I flashed it about late at night,
But up-and-down brushin'
And pokin' and fussin'
Didn't seem worth the time... I could bite!

If I'd known I was paving the way,
To cavities, caps and decay,
The murder of fiIlin's
Injections and drillin's
I'd have thrown all me sherbet away.

So I lay in the old dentist's chair,
And I gaze up his nose in despair,
And his drill it do whine,
In these molars of mine,
"Two amalgum," he'll say, "for in there."

How I laughed at my Mother's false teeth,
As they foamed in the waters beneath,
But now comes the reckonin'
It's me they are beckonin'
Oh, I wish I'd looked after me teeth.

I have a slight dental problem myself :bawling:

[splodge0]

?

[Romantic Old Bird]

Splodge you have evidently transgressed some internet regs there old chum!

I feel today is important enough to require me to do a little composition.....


Ode to Paul Clarke

How well I still recall the day
I saw you first and paused to say:
'He doesn't look that lush to me
There's nothing special there to see.'

Then I watched for just a little while
And saw that every time you smile
There's a kindness that you can't disguise,
In those warm and gentle big brown eyes.

Although I really hate to moan
Your voice is rather monotone
But as I watched you more and more
I overlooked this little flaw.

I watched your strength when things were bad
I saw you looking very sad
You didn't whinge, you didn't moan
You quietly took it on your own

The weeks went by, and slow and sure
We saw saw you falling more and more
In love with someone with whom you
Could do whate'er you wanted to

But you were Honourable until the end
You stayed a gentleman and friend.
And when you had to leave her there
I cried for you - they didn't care!

Still they said you were not true
They really had it in for you!
I cried for Helen too, and she
Was pining there for all to see

At last came Friday, we would see
If you and her were meant to be
And as she saw you through the dark
She shouted: 'Oh My God, Paul Clarke!'

I hoped in time we'd see you more,
That you would be more to the fore
But in your wisdom you could see
That you didn't want celebrity

I miss you Paul, but hope that you
Will get all you deserve to do
You're living out a normal life
So don't you think you need a wife?

I know my love is all in vain
And that my loss is Helen's gain
So please do what you have to do
And ask that girl to marry you!

[rachb]

I love that ROB!!!:I do hope he listens to your message!
love::love::love:


Here is one for Sticks:
An Aura Of Gloom

An aura of inpending doom
envelopes all the earth.
The mood is black and rife with gloom,
no sign of joy or mirth.

While man, distrustful in his heart-
holds hatred toward his brother.
And terror rules as men obsessed
with death kill one another.

A lonesomme child sobs quietly-
From friends she's set apart.
Obliviuos to all time and place,
she finds peace in her heart.

She does not feel that sense of doom
or dreadful boding fear.
She gently holds an injured cat-
All life to her is dear.

This child can feel the love of god
which she tries to impart
to others with the rays of love
from sunshine in her heart.

Why cannot men,just like this child
be bound by love,not hate,
and not let gloom control their lives,
but leave to god their fate.





:spin2::spin2::spin2:

[BusyBee]

Oh ROB how well you have expressed my feelings, for one about the birthday boy. I couldnt have done better myself.:joker::joker:

Oh how I am with you about the need to take him a wife. Perhaps we should send him a book on wedding etiquette for his birthday.:devil::devil:

[BusyBee]

Further to your kind enquiry Mairi son had a day driving a four wheeled vehicle off road at Castle Coombe Racing Track.

Had a whale of a time.:elephant::elephant::elephant::elephant:

[BusyBee]

Having been rightfully admonished by ROB for my tardiness in sending Paul birthday greetings, I discovered this just now that I wrote about a year ago. Hope you like it. I know its on the same line as ROB, but its my outlook on the happy situation that has arisen.


Ode to BB2

In the summer of 2001 we all were hooked
By day and night at our TVs we looked
What was the show that caught our eye
It was BB2 we all will sigh

The housemates were a great bunch we knew
We watched their antics through and through
Brian’s comedy, plus Dean’s guitar
Elizabeth’s cooking, they’ll all go far

But the pair that we all loved the best
For us they stood out from the rest
Can you guess just who I mean
The two that made us oh so keen
To watch that tv throughout the night
Til morning broke and it got light
Yes, you’re right is H and Paul
Those two together, they sure had a ball

Their antics made for headline news
The way they were treated brought loads of boos
We argued, we discussed, could it be true
That love was growing between those two
Us true supporters would never waiver
Leave them alone, do them a favour
Just give them a chance to prove us right
Helen and Paul together both day and night

When Paul was evicted he missed his Hel
Couldn’t wait for Friday he did yell
In the house Helen was missing her Paul
Oh I hope he’s alright she often did call
But cupid’s arrow had truly struck
Those two just couldn’t believe their luck
To go into a house and meet your mate
All they could say was it’s got to be fate

Let’s hope in the future all goes well
And before too long there’s a wedding bell
They’re part of the family we all hold dear
We’ll always be interested that much is clear
We’re not nosey, just want to make sure
That all’s going well and their love is pure
So we wish them luck their whole life through
And their love remains both strong and true

:love::love::love::love::love::love:

[Mairi]

Originally posted by BusyBee
Further to your kind enquiry Mairi son had a day driving a four wheeled vehicle off road at Castle Coombe Racing Track.


Brilliant pressie, BusyBee. I'm sure he DID have a whale of a time.

ROB, you're an absolute wonder. Your poem for Paul is beautiful. I hope you won't mind me adding it to my collection.

And Rachb, I loved your poem and I hope Sticks takes note!! Who was it who said "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?"

:wavey:

[splodge0]

Listening to the Fame students and I had to add this............

On Pleasure

Then a hermit, who visited the city once a year, came forth and said, "Speak to us of Pleasure."

And he answered, saying:

Pleasure is a freedom song,

But it is not freedom.

It is the blossoming of your desires,

But it is not their fruit.

It is a depth calling unto a height,

But it is not the deep nor the high.

It is the caged taking wing,

But it is not space encompassed.

Ay, in very truth, pleasure is a freedom-song.

And I fain would have you sing it with fullness of heart; yet I would not have you lose your hearts in the singing.

Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it were all, and they are judged and rebuked.

I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek.

For they shall find pleasure, but not her alone:

Seven are her sisters, and the least of them is more beautiful than pleasure.

Have you not heard of the man who was digging in the earth for roots and found a treasure?

And some of your elders remember pleasures with regret like wrongs committed in drunkenness.

But regret is the beclouding of the mind and not its chastisement.

They should remember their pleasures with gratitude, as they would the harvest of a summer.

Yet if it comforts them to regret, let them be comforted.

And there are among you those who are neither young to seek nor old to remember;

And in their fear of seeking and remembering they shun all pleasures, lest they neglect the spirit or offend against it.

But even in their foregoing is their pleasure.

And thus they too find a treasure though they dig for roots with quivering hands.

But tell me, who is he that can offend the spirit?

Shall the nightingale offend the stillness of the night, or the firefly the stars?

And shall your flame or your smoke burden the wind?

Think you the spirit is a still pool which you can trouble with a staff?

Oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure you do but store the desire in the recesses of your being.

Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?

Even your body knows its heritage and its rightful need and will not be deceived.

And your body is the harp of your soul,

And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.

And now you ask in your heart, "How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?"

Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,

But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.

For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,

And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love,

And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.

People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees.

"The PROPHET"
Kahlil Gibran



:colour:

[Boris]

There was a young lady from Spa,

Picked up for a ride in a car,

But the driver was MAD,

He turned out to be DAD,

And took her straight home toher MA !!!

:shocked::hugesmile::shocked::hugesmile::shocked:: hugesmile:

Some people have no culture !:nono:

[splodge0]

I suppose we all need to get out more Boris, me included..............:laugh::laugh::laugh:

:colour:

[Boris]

Think I would be a great disappointment to my English 'A' level teacher if he knew what I had posted on a poetry thread !:blush:(....and I studied it as an adult)

[Romantic Old Bird]

http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/images/modeng/public/LonHiaw/LonH1.gif

Hiawatha's Departure

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1855

By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.
All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him, through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighboring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing In the sunshine.
Bright above him shone the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;
From its bosom leaped the sturgeon,
Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,
Motionless beneath the water.
From the brow of Hiawatha
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
As the mist from off the meadow.
With a smile of joy and triumph,
With a look of exultation,
As of one who in a vision
Sees what is to be, but is not,
Stood and waited Hiawatha.
Toward the sun his hands were lifted,
Both the palms spread out against it,
And between the parted fingers
Fell the sunshine on his features,
Flecked with light his naked shoulders,
As it falls and flecks an oak-tree
Through the rifted leaves and branches.
O'er the water floating, flying,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the mists of morning,
Loomed and lifted from the water,
Now seemed floating, now seemed flying,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
Was it Shingebis the diver?
Or the pelican, the Shada?
Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah?
Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa,
With the water dripping, flashing,
From its glossy neck and feathers?
It was neither goose nor diver,
Neither pelican nor heron,
O'er the water floating, flying,
Through the shining mist of morning,
But a birch canoe with paddles,
Rising, sinking on the water,
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine;
And within it came a people
From the distant land of Wabun,
From the farthest realms of morning
Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,
He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face,
With his guides and his companions.
And the noble Hiawatha,
With his hands aloft extended,
Held aloft in sign of welcome,
Waited, full of exultation,
Till the birch canoe with paddles
Grated on the shining pebbles,
Stranded on the sandy margin,
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,
With the cross upon his bosom,
Landed on the sandy margin.
Then the joyous Hiawatha
Cried aloud and spake in this wise:
"Beautiful is the sun, O strangers,
When you come so far to see us!
All our town in peace awaits you,
All our doors stand open for you;
You shall enter all our wigwams,
For the heart's right hand we give you.
"Never bloomed the earth so gayly,
Never shone the sun so brightly,
As to-day they shine and blossom
When you come so far to see us!
Never was our lake so tranquil,
Nor so free from rocks, and sand-bars;
For your birch canoe in passing
Has removed both rock and sand-bar.
"Never before had our tobacco
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor,
Never the broad leaves of our cornfields
Were so beautiful to look on,
As they seem to us this morning,
When you come so far to see us!'
And the Black-Robe chief made answer,
Stammered In his speech a little,
Speaking words yet unfamiliar:
"Peace be with you, Hiawatha,
Peace be with you and your people,
Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon,
Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!"
Then the generous Hiawatha
Led the strangers to his wigwam,
Seated them on skins of bison,
Seated them on skins of ermine,
And the careful old Nokomis
Brought them food in bowls of basswood,
Water brought in birchen dippers,
And the calumet, the peace-pipe,
Filled and lighted for their smoking.
All the old men of the village,
All the warriors of the nation,
All the Jossakeeds, the Prophets,
The magicians, the Wabenos,
And the Medicine-men, the Medas,
Came to bid the strangers welcome;
"It is well", they said, "O brothers,
That you come so far to see us!"
In a circle round the doorway,
With their pipes they sat In silence,
Waiting to behold the strangers,
Waiting to receive their message;
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face,
From the wigwam came to greet them,
Stammering in his speech a little,
Speaking words yet unfamiliar;
"It Is well," they said, "O brother,
That you come so far to see us!"
Then the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet,
Told his message to the people,
Told the purport of his mission,
Told them of the Virgin Mary,
And her blessed Son, the Saviour,
How in distant lands and ages
He had lived on earth as we do;
How he fasted, prayed, and labored;
How the Jews, the tribe accursed,
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him;
How he rose from where they laid him,
Walked again with his disciples,
And ascended into heaven.
And the chiefs made answer, saying:
"We have listened to your message,
We have heard your words of wisdom,
We will think on what you tell us.
It is well for us, O brothers,
That you come so far to see us!"
Then they rose up and departed
Each one homeward to his wigwam,
To the young men and the women
Told the story of the strangers
Whom the Master of Life had sent them
From the shining land of Wabun.
Heavy with the heat and silence
Grew the afternoon of Summer;
With a drowsy sound the forest
Whispered round the sultry wigwam,
With a sound of sleep the water
Rippled on the beach below it;
From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena;
And the guests of Hiawatha,
Weary with the heat of Summer,
Slumbered in the sultry wigwam.
Slowly o'er the simmering landscape
Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
And the long and level sunbeams
Shot their spears into the forest,
Breaking through its shields of shadow,
Rushed into each secret ambush,
Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow;
Still the guests of Hiawatha
Slumbered In the silent wigwam.
From his place rose Hiawatha,
Bade farewell to old Nokomis,
Spake in whispers, spake in this wise,
Did not wake the guests, that slumbered.
"I am going, O Nokomis,
On a long and distant journey,
To the portals of the Sunset.
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin.
But these guests I leave behind me,
In your watch and ward I leave them;
See that never harm comes near them,
See that never fear molests them,
Never danger nor suspicion,
Never want of food or shelter,
In the lodge of Hiawatha!"
Forth into the village went he,
Bade farewell to all the warriors,
Bade farewell to all the young men,
Spake persuading, spake in this wise:
I am going, O my people,
On a long and distant journey;
Many moons and many winters
Will have come, and will have vanished,
Ere I come again to see you.
But my guests I leave behind me;
Listen to their words of wisdom,
Listen to the truth they tell you,
For the Master of Life has sent them
From the land of light and morning!"
On the shore stood Hiawatha,
Turned and waved his hand at parting;
On the clear and luminous water
Launched his birch canoe for sailing,
From the pebbles of the margin
Shoved it forth into the water;
Whispered to it, "Westward! westward!"
And with speed it darted forward.
And the evening sun descending
Set the clouds on fire with redness,
Burned the broad sky, like a prairie,
Left upon the level water
One long track and trail of splendor,
Down whose stream, as down a river,
Westward, westward Hiawatha
Sailed into the fiery sunset,
Sailed into the purple vapors,
Sailed into the dusk of evening:
And the people from the margin
Watched him floating, rising, sinking,
Till the birch canoe seemed lifted
High into that sea of splendor,
Till it sank into the vapors
Like the new moon slowly, slowly
Sinking in the purple distance.
And they said, "Farewell forever!"
Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the forests, dark and lonely,
Moved through all their depths of darkness,
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the waves upon the margin
Rising, rippling on the pebbles,
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
From her haunts among the fen-lands,
Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!"
Thus departed Hiawatha,
Hiawatha the Beloved,
In the glory of the sunset,.
In the purple mists of evening,
To the regions of the home-wind,
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keewaydin,
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter


http://www.arttotheworld.com/Hiawatha-anim.gif

[Sticks]

Here is one I found on some very old files of mine.

If Dr Suess wrote computer manuals

Here's an easy game to play
Here's an easy thing to say:

If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port
and the bus is interrupted as a very last resort
and the address of the memory makes your floppy disk abort
then the socket packet pocket has an error to report!

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash
and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash
and your data is corrupted 'cause the index doesn't hash
then your situation's hopeless and your system's gonna crash!

You can't say this?
What a shame sir!
We'll find you another game sir.

If the label on the cable on the table at your house
says the network is connected to the button on your mouse
but your packets want to tunnel on another protocol
that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall,

And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss
so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse
then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang,
'cause as sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang!

When the copy of the floppy's getting sloppy on the disc
and the microcode instructions cause unnecessary RISC
then you have to flash your memory and you'll want to RAM your ROM.
Quickly turn off the computer and be sure to tell your mom!

anon, from the internet.

[splodge0]

Definitely one of your better ones sticks old bean. Jolly good!!:laugh:

:colour::colour::colour:
:colour::colour:
:colour:

[Mairi]

Here's a very old poem from which my mother used to quote when I was just a wee thing if ever I said to her "I can't do that, Mammy".

The Giant and the Dwarf
(The author is unknown)

As on through life's journey we go day by day,
There are two whom we meet at each turn of the way,
To help or to hinder, to bless or to ban;
And the name of these two are, "I Can't" and "I Can".

"I Can't" is a dwarf, a poor, pale, puny imp;
His eyes are half blind, and his walk is a limp:
He stumbles and falls, or lies writhing with fear,
Though dangers are distant and succour is near.

"I Can" is a giant: unbending he stands;
There is strength in his arms and skill in his hands;
He asks for no favour, he wants but a share
Where labour is honest and wages are fair.

"I Can't" is a sluggard: too lazy to work,
From duty he shrinks, every task he will shirk;
No bread on his board, no meal in his bag,
His house is a ruin, his coat is a rag.

"I Can" is a worker: he tills the broad fields,
And digs from the earth all the wealth which it yields;
The hum of his spindle begins with the light,
And the fires of his forges are blazing all night.

"I Can't" is a coward half fainting with fright.
At the first thought of peril he slinks out of sight;
Skulks and hikes till the noise of the battle is past,
Or sells his best friends, and turns traitor at last.

"I Can" is a hero: the first in the field,
Though others may falter, he never will yield;
He makes the long marches, he deals the last blow,
His charge is the whirlwind that scatters the foe.

How grandly and nobly he stands to his trust!
When, roused at the call of a cause that is just,
He makes the long marches, he deals the last blow,
And writes on his banner the watchword of Truth!

Then up and be doing! the day is not long;
Throw fear to the winds, be patient and strong!
Stand fast in your place, act your part like a man;
And when duty calls, answer promptly, "I can!"

[Boris]

How appropriate your poem is for me this week Mairi. I went on an excellent traning course this week and the 'mantra' extolled urged all to believe 'I CAN'.

SO I am trying !

Here is another small offering for this thread.I have been sorting out songs and rhymes for my 'baby' choir's summer concert ( 25 poppetts aged between 4 and 7) The theme is the seaside...my favourite place and I came across this by an

A.E.Dudley

Four Little Girls

Four little girls on a summer day
Went along the beach to play.
Sandcastles
Seashells
Sea
And sun,
This is the place for holiday fun.

But it rained!

Rain, rain,go away:
Four little girls just want to play.
Away went the clouds. The sun came out.
Four little girls began to shout:
Hooray!

All too soon the day was done:
Four tired and happy little girls went home.
--------------------------------------------


Happy days remembered I think:wavey:

[Mairi]

Aaaw, I really enjoyed that little poem, Boris. :wavey:

[Janette]

Cinderella by Roald Dahl




I guess you think you know this story.
You don't. The real one's much more gory.
The phoney one, the one you know,
Was cooked up years and years ago,
And made to sound all soft and sappy
Just to keep the children happy.
Mind you, they got the first bit right,
The bit where, in the dead of night,
The Ugly Sisters, jewels and all,
Departed for the Palace Ball,
While darling little Cinderella
Was locked up in a slimy cellar,
Where rats who wanted things to eat,
Began to nibble at her feet.
She bellowed 'Help!' and 'Let me out!'
The Magic Fairy heard her shout.
Appearing in a blaze of light,
She said, 'My dear, are you all right?'
'All right?' cried Cindy. 'Can't you see
'I feel as rotten as can be!'
She beat her fist against the wall,
And shouted, 'Get me to the Ball!
'There is a Disco at the Palace!
'The rest have gone and I am jealous!
'I want a dress! I want a coach!
'And earrings and a diamond brooch!
'And silver slippers, two of those!
'And lovely nylon panty-hose!
'Done up like that I'll guarantee
'The handsome Prince will fall for me!'
The Fairy said, 'Hang on a tick.'
She gave her wand a mighty flick
And quickly, in no time at all,
Cindy was at the Palace Ball!
It made the Ugly Sisters wince
To see her dancing with the Prince.
She held him very tight and pressed
Herself against his manly chest.
The Prince himself was turned to pulp,
All he could do was gasp and gulp.
Then midnight struck. She shouted, 'Heck!
'I've got to run to save my neck!'
The Prince cried, 'No! Alas! Alack!'
He grabbed her dress to hold her back.
As Cindy shouted, 'Let me go!'
The dress was ripped from head to toe.
She ran out in her underwear,
And lost one slipper on the stair.
The Prince was on it like a dart,
He pressed it to his pounding heart,
'The girl this slipper fits,' he cried,
'Tomorrow morn shall be my bride!
'I'll visit every house in town
'Until I've tracked the maiden down!'
Then rather carelessly, I fear,
He placed it on a crate of beer.
At once, one of the Ugly Sisters,
(The one whose face was blotched with blisters)
Sneaked up and grabbed the dainty shoe,
And quickly flushed it down the loo.
Then in its place she calmly put
The slipper from her own left foot.

Ah-ha, you see, the plot grows thicker,
And Cindy's luck starts looking sicker.

Next day, the Prince went charging down
To knock on all the doors in town.
In every house, the tension grew.
Who was the owner of the shoe?
The shoe was long and very wide.
(A normal foot got lost inside.)
Also it smelled a wee bit icky.
(The owner's feet were hot and sticky.)
Thousands of eager people came
To try it on, but all in vain.
Now came the Ugly Sisters' go.
One tried it on. The Prince screamed, 'No!'
But she screamed, 'Yes! It fits! Whoopee!
'So now you've got to marry me!'
The Prince went white from ear to ear.
He muttered, 'Let me out of here.'
'Oh no you don't! You made a vow!
'There's no way you can back out now!'
'Off with her head!' The Prince roared back
They chopped it off with one big whack.
This pleased the Prince. He smiled and said,
'She's prettier without her head.'
Then up came Sister Number Two,
Who yelled, 'Now I will try the shoe!'
'Try this instead!' the Prince yelled back.
He swung his trusty sword and smack --
Her head went crashing to the ground.
It bounced a bit and rolled around.
In the kitchen, peeling spuds,
Cinderella heard the thuds
Of bouncing heads upon the floor,
And poked her own head round the door.
'What's all the racket?' Cindy cried.
'Mind your own bizz,' the Prince replied.
Poor Cindy's heart was torn to shreds.
My Prince! she thought. He chops off heads!
How could I marry anyone
Who does that sort of thing for fun?
The Prince cried, 'Who's this dirty slut?
'Off with her nut! Off with her nut!'
Just then, all in a blaze of light,
The Magic Fairy hove in sight,
Her Magic Wand went swoosh and swish!
'Cindy!' she cried, 'come make a wish!
'Wish anything and have no doubt
'That I will make it come about!'
Cindy answered, 'Oh kind Fairy,
'This time I shall be more wary.
'No more Princes, no more money.
'I have had my taste of honey.
'I'm wishing for a decent man.
'They're hard to find. D'you think you can?'
Within a minute, Cinderella
Was married to a lovely feller,
A simple jam-maker by trade,
Who sold good home-made marmalade.
Their house was filled with smiles and laughter
And they were happy ever after.

[Romantic Old Bird]

Oh, Woe Ith Me!
by Bruce Lansky
Ath I wath biking
down the thweet,
I hit a bump
and lotht my theat.

I cwathed my bike
into a twee,
I thcwathed my fathe,
oh, woe ith me.

My bike is wecked,
I've no excuthe.
And wortht of all,
my tooth ith looth.

[Boris]

Yes Rob, another little treasure for us all to share ! LOL...veryL


Took a while to read tho' and I'm an expert on such things ....LOL again !:laugh:

[splodge0]

If that is a RoB find

BRILLIANT!

If that is a RoB original

BRILLIANT!
BRILLIANT!

[Mairi]

Here's one especially for Janette and Susieq :wavey:

Little Boys Again
Sharon Goodman

Little boys are such a pain,
From when they learn to walk,
They're black with dirt and wet with rain
And full of doubletalk.
It seems if you've a problem child,
It follows that he's male,
His sloppiness will drive you wild,
His grades will turn you pale.
He's slicing thumbs and gumming hair,
He's falling out of trees,
From ages five to ten he'll wear
Those bandaids on his knees.
And in his teens it's worse, you know,
He's in the driver's seat -
You hold your breath and watch him go
Careening down the street.
But then he's grown, and suddenly
He's fixing up your car -
He tills your garden when he's free,
He loves you as you are.
His hair is short, his clothes are clean,
His store of knowledge grew -
The best young man you've ever seen -
His girlfriend thinks so, too.
And when the bad you can't condemn,
But treasure all the good,
They give you grandsons just like them,
The way you wished they would.

[Janette]

Hmmmmm

[Mairi]

Does anyone else remember this one from their childhood?

The Spider and the Fly
Mary Howitt

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly, "
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things to show you when you are there."
"Oh no, no," said the Fly, "to ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do
To prove that warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf;
If you step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say;
And bidding good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again;
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are as dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, Then near and nearer drew, -
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head - poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den
Within his little parlour - but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er heed;
Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

http://www.gifs.net/animate/web.gif

[Boris]

I remeber that very well Mairi.
In my book it is next to my offering. I have put in the 'whole thing' but it is the last verse that I like the best.

( yes, I know it is a bit soppy and unseasonal to boot, but hey, when you work with little children you can't help getting a bit like that !)

http://www.uselessgraphics.com/sleigh01.gif

Santa Clause
He comes in the night! He comes in the night!
He quickly ,quietly comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.
He cuts through the snow like a whip through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl,
Who tell’s him, I know not but he finds the home
Of each little good boy and girl.

His sleigh is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the sky,
With sticks sticking under the strings,
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,
And drops to the earth like a stone.

The little red stockings he silently fills,
Till the little red stockings will hold nor more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills
Are quickly set down in the floor.
Then Santa Clause mounts to the roof like a bird,
And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard
As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, he rides to the West,
Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast
When the dear little folk are done.
Old Santa Clause doeth all that he can;
This beautiful mission is his;
So children be good to the little old man,
When you find who the little man is.

[Mairi]

Please don't let this little thread die.

Here's another poem I remember from childhood. My brother and I thought it was very silly but we loved it. I've no idea who wrote it, though.

One fine day in the middle of the night
Two dead men got up to fight
Back to back they faced each other
Drew their swords and shot each other

:laugh::laugh::laugh:

[peachy]

Ok, Mairi, you asked for it. Rather old-fashioned these days but it is very clever and very English!

A Subaltern's Love Song
by John Betjeman

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,

Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me !

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh ! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won.
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in,
To the six-o'clock news and a lime juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair,
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads 'not adopted', by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells,
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car-park the dance has begun.
Oh ! Full Surrey twilight ! Importunate band !
Oh ! Strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand !

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us, the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car-park till twenty to one,
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

[Mairi]

Aaaww, that's really sweet, Peachy.

I LOVED John Betjeman.

:colour::colour::colour::colour:

[Sticks]

This one came from across the pond, apologies for any over-sentimentality
:blush:

HEAVEN'S GROCERY STORE

As I was walking down life's
highway many years ago
I came upon a sign that read Heavens Grocery Store.

When I got a little closer
the doors swung open wide
And when I came to myself
I was standing inside.

I saw a host of angels.
They were standing everywhere
One handed me a basket and said
"My child shop with care."

Everything a human needed
was in that grocery store
And what you could not carry
you could come back for more.

First I got some Patience.
Love was in that same row.
Further down was Understanding,
you need that everywhere you go.

I got a box or two of Wisdom
and Faith a bag or two.
And Charity of course
I would need some of that too.

I couldn't miss the Holy Ghost
It was all over the place.
And then some Strength and Courage to help me run this race.

My basket was getting full but
I remembered I needed Grace,
And then I chose Salvation for
Salvation was for free
I tried to get enough of that
to do for you and me.

Then I started to the counter
to pay my grocery bill,
For I thought I had everything
to do the Masters will.

As I went up the aisle I saw
Prayer and put that in, For I knew when I stepped outside I would run into
sin.

Peace and Joy were plentiful,
the last things on the shelf.
Song and Praise were hanging near so I just helped myself.

Then I said to the angel
"Now how much do I owe?"
He smiled and said
"Just take them everywhere you go."

Again I asked "Really now,
How much do I owe?"
"My child" he said,
"God paid your bill
a long, long time ago."

[Romantic Old Bird]

The Lion and Albert

Marriot Edgar

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That's noted for fresh air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
With a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much to the Ocean
The waves, they were fiddlin' and small
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded
Fact, nothing to laugh at, at all.

So, seeking for further amusement
They paid and went into the zoo
Where they'd lions and tigers and camels
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big lion called Wallace
His nose were all covered with scars
He lay in a somnolent posture
With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about lions
How they was ferocious and wild
To see Wallace lying so peaceful
Well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straight 'way the brave little feller
Not showing a morsel of fear
Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle
And shoved it in Wallace's ear.

You could see the lion didn't like it
For giving a kind of a roll
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im
And swallowed the little lad 'ole

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence
And didn't know what to do next
Said "Mother! Yon lions 'et Albert"
And Mother said "Well, I am vexed!"

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Quite rightly, when all's said and done
Complained to the Animal Keeper
That the lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it
He said "What a nasty mishap
Are you sure it's your boy he's eaten?"
Pa said "Am I sure? There's his cap!"

The manager had to be sent for
He came and he said "What's to do?"
Pa said "Yon lion's 'et Albert
And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too."

Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller
I think it's a shame and a sin
For a lion to go and eat Albert
And after we've paid to come in."

The manager wanted no trouble
He took out his purse right away
Saying "How much to settle the matter?"
And Pa said "What do you usually pay?"

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone
She said "No! someone's got to be summonsed"
So that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the Police Station
In front of the Magistrate chap
They told 'im what happened to Albert
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion
That no one was really to blame
And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing
"And thank you, sir, kindly," said she
"What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy lions? Not me!"


http://http://www.ex-lancs.com/images/albert1.gif

[Boris]

Love that one Rob.:wavey:

[Mairi]

For any of you who have lost a dearly loved pet.

A Pet's Prayer
Author Unknown

If it should be, that I grow frail and weak,
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then, you must do what must be done
For this, the last battle, can't be won.

Don't let your grief stay your hand,
For this day more than the rest,
Your love and friendship stand the test.
We've had so many years,
What is to come can hold no fear.
You'd not want me to suffer, so
When the time comes, please let me go.

Take me where my needs they'll tend,
Only, stay with me to the end
And hold me firm and speak to me
Until my eyes no longer see.
I know in time you'll see it is a kindness you do for me
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering I've been saved.

Don't grieve, it should be you who this thing decides to do.
We've been so close, we two, these years,
Don't let your heart hold tears.
SMILE, FOR WE WALKED TOGETHER FOR AWHILE.

[Sticks]

So sad :bawling:


A change of mood required here

The Calf Path
Samuel Foss 1895

One day through the primeval wood a calf walked
home as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,A crooked trail
as all calves do.
Since then thee hundred years have fled,
And, I infer the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail
and thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bell-wether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him too,
as good bell-wethers always do.

And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made.
And many men wound in and out
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed - do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding roadway stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane
That bent and turned and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled beneath the burning sun,
And travelled some three miles in one;
And thus a century and a half
they trod in the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare.
And soon the central street was this
of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed this zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went
The Traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were lead
By one calf near three centuries dead.

They followed still his crooked way,
and lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such a reverence is lent
To well established precedent.
A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach.

For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf paths of the mind,
and work away from sun to sun,
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the paths that others do.

They keep the path and sacred groove
Along which all their lives they move,
But how the wise old wood gods laugh
Who saw that first primeval calf.
Ah! many things this tale might teach
But I am not ordained to preach

[Mairi]

I absolutely loved it, Sticks. Where DID you find it?

:colour:

[Sticks]

My father got it from a course he went on many years ago.

[susieq]

For any of you who have lost a dearly loved pet.


Mairi - that was so beautiful. Thanks for sharing it. It made me shed a little tear but made me think of happy memories too. Thank you.

[Romantic Old Bird]

Kubla Khan

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

[Mairi]

Betty Botter bought some butter,
"But," she said, "this butter's bitter.
If I bake this bitter butter,
It will make my batter bitter.
But a bit of better butter -
That would make my batter better."
So she bought a bit of butter,
Better than her bitter butter,
And she baked it in her batter,
And the batter was not bitter.
So 'twas better Betty Botter
Bought a bit of better butter.

:joker::joker::joker::joker::joker::joker::joker:

[rachb]

http://www.platuglen.dk/Sjove-seatninger-1/02022002b.jpg

[Janette]

AW SWEET!

[Romantic Old Bird]

When Once The Twilight Locks No Longer

by Dylan Thomas

When once the twilight locks no longer
Locked in the long worm of my finger
Nor damned the sea that sped about my fist,
The mouth of time sucked, like a sponge,
The milky acid on each hinge,
And swallowed dry the waters of the breast.

When the galactic sea was sucked
And all the dry seabed unlocked,
I sent my creature scouting on the globe,
That globe itself of hair and bone
That, sewn to me by nerve and brain,
Had stringed my flask of matter to his rib.

My fuses are timed to charge his heart,
He blew like powder to the light
And held a little sabbath with the sun,
But when the stars, assuming shape,
Drew in his eyes the straws of sleep
He drowned his father's magics in a dream.

All issue armoured, of the grave,
The redhaired cancer still alive,
The cataracted eyes that filmed their cloth;
Some dead undid their bushy jaws,
And bags of blood let out their flies;
He had by heart the Christ-cross-row of death.

Sleep navigates the tides of time;
The dry Sargasso of the tomb
Gives up its dead to such a working sea;
And sleep rolls mute above the beds
Where fishes' food is fed the shades
Who periscope through flowers to the sky.

When once the twilight screws were turned,
And mother milk was stiff as sand,
I sent my own ambassador to light;
By trick or chance he fell asleep
And conjured up a carcass shape
To rob me of my fluids in his heart.

Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees

[Mairi]

W. Shakespeare

XXVII. Winter

WHEN icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl—
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tu-whoo!
Tu-whit! tu-whoo! A merry note!
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

[Romantic Old Bird]

Rudyard Kipling


If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

[Sticks]

A number of people I know have recently suffered bereavments, and so I was looking through this old thread for poems one of them might be able to use for a card. They later said they now had other plans

However I did see some of the contributions by some no longer with us.

As way of remebrance, this is a new one.

The poem, High Flight, has over the years become a mantra to pilots.
It is reproduced here as a tribute to, and in memory of pilots of all generations.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
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
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

8qqVRBZO5gc

[InOne]

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born Infant’s tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.


London by William Blake