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Creative Writing and Books This area is for members' stories and poetry. Also a forum for book reviews and discussion. |
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31-10-2010, 08:17 PM | #1 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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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
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01-11-2010, 08:24 AM | #2 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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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 |
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01-11-2010, 10:36 AM | #3 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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Rhino did you write this poem? It's very emotionally provocative.
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01-11-2010, 10:46 AM | #4 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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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
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01-11-2010, 10:48 AM | #5 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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That looks like a poem to me 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
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01-11-2010, 10:49 AM | #6 | |||
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Senior Member
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Hickory dickory dock
This bitch was suckin my cock The clock struck two I dumped my goo And dumped her to the end of the block
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"She was left for dead on the sands of Tatooine, as was I. But fate sometimes steps in to rescue the wretched." |
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03-11-2010, 12:32 PM | #7 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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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 |
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03-11-2010, 02:42 PM | #8 | |||
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שטח זה להשכרה
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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 |
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03-11-2010, 03:40 PM | #9 | |||
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All hail the Moyesiah
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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. Last edited by MTVN; 03-11-2010 at 03:41 PM. |
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03-11-2010, 03:45 PM | #10 | |||
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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.
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03-11-2010, 03:50 PM | #11 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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03-11-2010, 04:03 PM | #12 | |||
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03-11-2010, 04:48 PM | #13 | |||
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Thanks - I wrote that years ago when my mum died. Loved your poems too.
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03-11-2010, 05:09 PM | #14 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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03-11-2010, 05:38 PM | #15 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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03-11-2010, 06:07 PM | #16 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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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.
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It's never too late to be who you once could have been... Spoiler: Last edited by Benjamin; 03-11-2010 at 06:44 PM. |
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03-11-2010, 06:11 PM | #17 | ||
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Senior Member
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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.
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03-11-2010, 08:53 PM | #18 | |||
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Like a fine whiskey
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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
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04-11-2010, 11:13 AM | #19 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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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 |
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04-11-2010, 02:36 PM | #20 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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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 |
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04-11-2010, 03:06 PM | #21 | |||
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All hail the Moyesiah
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Do you just write for fun? |
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04-11-2010, 03:21 PM | #22 | |||
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Quand il pleut, il pleut
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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
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04-11-2010, 10:27 PM | #23 | |||
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שטח זה להשכרה
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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. |
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04-11-2010, 10:40 PM | #24 | |||
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All hail the Moyesiah
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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 |
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04-11-2010, 10:42 PM | #25 | |||
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All hail the Moyesiah
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