The Poetry Hut
 

Just a little thread to post poems you have read or written yourself if you wish. :)


This poem is what got me into poetry when I was 14. It just touched my heart and mind in a way nothing else could do at that time of my life. :)

WILFRED OWEN

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of 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 writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.



http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

A day the birds refused to sing
The stillness of your face
A fragment of my heart removed,
vacated, empty space
Heart wrenching cry, a kiss goodbye
I search but cannot find
Could the hands upon a clock
so easily rewind?
To be with you, to hold your hand
and guide you to your light
and know the battle had been won
Although you lost the fight
They say you're in a better place
but this I cannot see
What better place than on this earth
right here, right now with me
The birds are singing once again
Sweet messangers of song
I hear the whisper of your voice
'I'm here my love, be strong'

I lost someone very dear recently and still find it very difficult sometimes to come to terms because I didn't get the chance to say goodbye

Rhino did you write this poem? It's very emotionally provocative. :)

I'm no poet trust me but sometimes I like to write down my feelings when they start to consume me because it helps me to put things back into their box. I write things down because I find it hard still to open up to people and tell them how I feel and I am quite a guarded person which is ironic because the poem is all about not having told someone how much they affected my life and now never having the chance to do that - you'd think I'd learn lol

That looks like a poem to me :wink:

I'm the same, writing helps me release half the emotions that I struggle to get across to people otherwise. I'll add another poem later, maybe one I have written, gut to go to work in a bit.

But I do really like what you have written :)

Soft downy hair, a button nose
wriggle, giggle and twinky toes
Sparkling eyes that tell no lies
Soft caressing lullabies
Touching hands so full of hope
if you fall I'll be your rope
I wont betray your trust my sweet
All who seek harm will find defeat
and when you fly, I'll watch you soar
to heights I've never reached before
My heart and soul, my pride and joy
To gaze at you, my baby boy


lol I don't need to say who I wrote this for

Brilliant opening poem, Turtle. Genius is an often overused word, but not in Wilfred Owen's case. Robert Frost is one of my favourite poets, and this is one of my favourite poems of his:



The Road Less Travelled.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference

Robert Frost

Great poem that, I'll probably include it when I do my English coursework after Christmas.

I'm studying William Blake in school at the moment, some of his poems are really good actually, this is one of my favourites, reflecting his view on organised religion:

The Garden of Love

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

I held your hand as you quietly slept,
you never knew the tears I wept
and when you woke I stroked your cheek
and held you close, so frail and weak
Your eyes were full of love and pain
and sorrow filled my soul again
I whispered that I loved you so
till finally I let you go.

Lovely Angus

That's a lovely piece. Quite personal for yourself, but something others can relate to.

Thanks - I wrote that years ago when my mum died. Loved your poems too.:blush:

yes to lose someone you love is hard, when they are your inspiration its a double whammy

thank you yes most of us have lost someone we loved and grief is something you cannot share

Harps for the Hybrids



Collage the hybrids, serenade them with
bagpipes and harps, the French and Danish
have come to read the last prayer.

Chime the bells; the time has come to
remove the cloaks and polish the blade.
Death; ready made, moves through the
English men.

The women howl, despair echoed, across
the wet, cobbled streets.
The hybrids can only weep;
Such hollow response,
the Americans come at once.

Cease the bagpipes, let the harps hold
their harmony, let the hybrids hear the heavens
as the Scottish and Irish drink and dance
and the Welsh cook the last supper;
all eyes cast towards the woeful stage.

The time has arrived, engraved.
The Icelandic folk sing, the Estonians paint the scene.
The harps stop, silence and blades drop.
Heaven can no longer be saved.

The Early Purges - Seamus Heaney Contact - Login - Site map - Lists - Home
- Seamus Heaney

I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee ****s',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,

Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon soused. They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.

'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.

Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung

Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.

Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:

'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.

It's nearly rememberence Sunday and so I thought some poetry regarding that would be nice. :)

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.



http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/john...ers-fields.htm

Following your lead I wrote this for Remembrance Day. Its very rough still and is along the lines of '10 green bottles' but I will polish it a bit later I just had to rush it down before work.

Ten shiny soldiers in a row
marching through the streets they go
a soothing beat, majestic line
I look again, there are but nine
Listen for the bugle's call
Go slowly now or you may fall
The enemy is very near
and yet you show no signs of fear
They march straight through the battle gate
The strong, the bold, the fearless eight
Seven marched and seven fell
we waved them off and knew them well
Another ten we will send
marching to their bloody end
We'll dust them down and watch them go
and on their heads the grass will grow
when calm descends and we recall
ten soldier marching proud and tall

erm ok, will work more on it later

Ten shiny soldiers in a row
marching through the street they go
a soothing beat, majestic line
I look again, there are but nine
Listen for the bugles call
Go slowly now or you may fall
The enemy is very near
and yet you show no signs of fear
marching through the battlegate
the strong, the bold, the fearless eight
seven marched and seven fell
we waved them off and loved them well
six are sleeping, heads turned down
where autumn leaves are turning brown
five we nurtured in our womb
then sealed them in a darkened tomb
four we'll see perhaps once more
lying scattered on the floor
Three is two and then is one
The last tin soldier marching on
Another ten we will send
marching to their bloody end
We'll dust them down and watch them go
and on their heads the grass will grow
When calm descends and we recall
ten soldier marching proud and tall.

Sorry for writing the beginning and end without the middle, I was rushing out before and typed it in quickly while it was in my head. Anyway this is it, hope it makes sense

I really like that actually rhino :)

Do you just write for fun?

Thank you it was a bit rushed and jumbled as I started to think about it when I was getting ready for work. Yes I just like to write for fun although I've written a few poems in the past when something very traumatic has happened in my life as a way of sorting out my feelings. I am trying to focus again as I've lost my style a bit doing fun rhymes and it will take me a while to get back into that, also I didn't write anyting for years after having my children and I need to focus again. I only just found this section of the forum and am hoping it well help me become focused again just to be able to post now and again:hugesmile:

Mesopotamia (July 1917)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rudyard Kipling

Kipling lost his son in WW1 and his body was never identified. I think this poem more than any of his others shows his bitterness at those who sent the troops to war while living in comfort themselves. It was Kipling who wrote the epitaph for unidentified soldiers in military cemeteries: Known Unto God.

Oh, I never knew that, it's so sad when you see the sheer number of graves that hold those who have never been identified

On the subject of WWI poetry, here's one by Sassoon:

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy.....
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
And no one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go

Oh right, I see :) I've always enjoyed reading poetry (most of it anyway), but I've never felt confident writing it, although I will give it a go sometime.