Chit Chat
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Hi - I was wondering if anybody else was neutral or deeply moved by poetry? Are there poems you like or feel really really apathetic about? Are there filthy limericks that you like much more than fairly innocuous ones, or odes that you treat like favourite cousins from Cowdenbeath? Are there ditties you recall from your childhood or songs that your mother used to sing to unsettle you?
Please feel to post them on here?
Shall I begin?
Please feel to post them on here?
Shall I begin?
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I'm not too lucky when I gamble
I lose more than I win I would probably do better If I tossed my money in a bin Gambling is not just luck It's timing and some skill Some gamble for the fun of it Some gamble for the thrill To define exactly what it means To risk money that you've earned Means throwing out sensible thought And not heeding what you've learned |
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OK, one poem is by James Black and it's called "Squashed?"
SQUASHED? As the plates were stacked Tony and Audrey were jacked On to the tarmac runway, coughing, Fluttering freeway of despond. The pair lost their place for several Days and the plates were stacked, The mince was squashed and life Returned to normal for the next year Or so they tell me, down at the Community centre where dominoes And draughts are preferred to chess : What? How can they prefer Those games to chess? |
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I liked that one, Pumphol, especially the bit about SKILL, yeah? I would like a beautiful Czech girl to read it aloud to me outdoors at a San Francisco cafe in the summer and then maybe we could buy a lottery ticket?
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Boy with pliers
electric wires blue flash boy ash |
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Ok, this is another for tonight, a Kipling -- if I don't chop all the leeks could we starve tomorrow? Or at least go hungry?
What is a woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker? |
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Mary had a little lamb
She put it in a basin And every time it came out She'd kick its f*ckin face in. |
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CMAT - do you enjoy the poetic buzz there where it goes "pliers, wires" etc.?
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Oh yes.
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The boy stood on the burning deck
whence all but he had fled. Facking idiot. |
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The boy stood on the burning deck
eating a thru'penny Walls a bit slipped down his trouser leg and paralysed his knee (I was stuck for a rhyme there) |
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Can you please explain this sensation further and hence increase our understanding of the ditty?
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It must've completely missed his b@lls, then?
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They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined -- just as found: His landmark is a kopje-crest That breaks the veldt around: And foreign constellations west Each night above his mound. Young Hodge the drummer never knew -- Fresh from his Wessex home -- The meaning of the broad Karoo, The Bush, the dusty loam, And why uprose to nightly view Strange stars amid the gloam. Yet portion of that unknown plain Will Hodge for ever be; His homely Northern breast and brain Grow to some Southern tree, And strange-eyed constellations reign His stars eternally. Thomas Hardy (first published in 1899) |
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I can't credit for writing this.
Mary Rose Sat on a pin Mary rose. |
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Hey Foinavon, this is POETRY, not painting, yeah? OK, I get that...so...? OK, I think Paul Delvaux and James Ensor were quality Belgians in SOME way...OK...?
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My favourite (and also the late Michael Foot's, from whom I first came across this poem by William Hazlitt):
Happy are they who live in the dream of their own existence, and see all things in the light of their own minds; who walk by faith and hope; to whom the guiding star of their youth still shines from afar, and into whom the spirit of the world has not entered! They have not been "hurt by the archers", nor has the iron entered their souls. The world has no hand on them. |
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Yeah, this deep, Tommy, deep - very deep?
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Very deep, Mac. It's pulled me through many a time though.
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haha! *Vel.
I was thinking of your PLARKOTEX years! |
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Agree Velasquez but would also include Rene Magritte (can't do them accent thingummies)
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Yeah - why bother, right? It's English, so why plarkotex the Belgians?
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* Sorry - I think that's "placate"?
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hehehe!
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Ther once was a vampire called Mabel
With periods highly unstable One night at full moon She pulled out a spoon And drank herself under the table. |
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But that's so Sad...that poor girl, yeah? Like, such self harming?
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Untitled...by Dan Chipowski.
Nah, don't take it from him, mate. He's a knobhead. No, honestly, he's a knobhead. Ronnie, Ronnie, listen. He's a knobhead. Ronnie, listen to me. The man is a knobhead... Knobhead. He's a knobhead, Ronnie. Listen to me, what I'm saying. |
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Did Dan post this on the wrong thread? I thought, "Should I post this in the POETRY thread?"
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hahahaha!
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in memory of scotish independence
To-night, a first movement, a pulse, As if the rain in bogland gathered head To slip and flood: a bog-burst, A gash breaking open the ferny bed. Your back is a firm line of eastern coast And arms and legs are thrown Beyond your gradual hills. I caress The heaving province where our past has grown. I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder That you would neither cajole nor ignore. Conquest is a lie. I grow older Conceding your half-independant shore Within whose borders now my legacy Culminates inexorably. And I am still imperially Male, leaving you with pain, The rending process in the colony, The battering ram, the boom burst from within. The act sprouted an obsinate fifth column Whose stance is growing unilateral. His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum Mustering force. His parasitical And ignorant little fists already Beat at your borders and I know they're cocked At me across the water. No treaty I foresee will salve completely your tracked And stretchmarked body, the big pain That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again |
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Hey I've been out and missed all the fun.
I like this one by Carl Malcolm, you can all sing along now. Hey, fatty bum bum Your sweet sugar dumplin' Hey, fatty bum bum Let me tell you something No not because you're so big and fat Don't believe I'm afraid of that A safe place is no recommendation I'm lookin' for creation Hey, fatty bum bum Your sweet sugar dumplin' Hey, fatty bum bum Let me tell you something Tell me, I look like I must Or wanna want thy bread I wouldn't stop trying till I drop down dead Never let your big size fool you The cooler day as I cool you |
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La Ritournelle or The Refrain of English Defenders.
(A Lament inspired by The Auld Alliance.) By Hamish McTeague...December, 1968. They must boast now their infernal howl, an English Racket like a sodden cage full of (English) transvestites, From Angersleigh to West Buckland, Trull and further And further, further away, those snot-nosed imposters Must gaze into cracked mirrors of distortion, not knowing Who they are while heaved in Imperial excrement. Pay O Pay Englishman, you who supported cackling witches And were ruled from Grantham, the sulking grey matted Blanket of mis-rule the world over as Englishmen carved False borders all over the world to print creased pink Maps for - he shreiked, she shreiked - like evil Cons Never flushing...it is the English stink painted over Blagdon While the skewed logic of the men of Pitminster farts Out the manifesto of despair and deserted zoos. Who are you? Who are you, little Englander? You traded haddock 'n' chips for a jar of pesto Sauce in English market towns while the BBC Laughed and milked your humiliation tenfold! "In England, from Elizabeth to Elizabeth Only the cheddar was any good," lamented The noble Celt, "Otherwise you do not know Who you are and can merely suspect how The world hates you...and by the way, that Ball was NEVER over the line in 1966...ya Rotten coonts! GIRFUY! Awright ya dobber?" Finis. |
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Eh? I think that might be December 1998...? Sorry about the dates prob. wrong?
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Tomorrow...will try to post McTeague's multi-layered sequel, "Stick the Heid In Ye, Jimmy, OK?"
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The one ditty I remember from my catholic childhood that we sang on the bus, around 50 years ago, was this:
'Protestant bulldogs never get a wash, when they do they think they're posh' It doesn't even make sense now, but didn't question it at the time. |
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OK Vel, keep the rebellion going. Strong stuff.
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remarkable work Velazquez...nice to see that opiates are still freely available.
thank you. |
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Yeah, they're SOAP DODGERS...? Is that right, son?
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I am on the fourm
own my ownsome waiting on ponte preta to score 1 goal or more it's still nil nil a goal now would be brill |