Grob

Poetry

18 posts in this topic

We did at one time have an almost serious poetry thread to which in the past I have contributed, and to which I hoped to contribute today. It has apparently disappeared, thus on Burn's night I hope to resurrect it, with the following poem in Burns' honour written by William McGonagall, (1825-1902,) of Dundee.  For those who have not stumbled across probably the worst poet ever, it is perhaps worthy of note that he was a favourite of a certain Terence, (Spike,) Milligan.

I am indebted to the website mcgonagall-online.org.uk for the text. 

 

Robert Burns

Immortal Robert Burns of Ayr,
There’s but few poets can with you compare;
Some of your poems and songs are very fine:
To “Mary in Heaven” is most sublime;
And then again in your “Cottar’s Saturday Night,”
Your genius there does shine most bright,
As pure as the dewdrops of the night.

Your “Tam O’Shanter” is very fine,
Both funny, racy, and divine,
From John O’Groats to Dumfries
All critics consider it to be a masterpiece,
And, also, you have said the same,
Therefore they are not to blame.

And in my own opinion both you and they are right,
For your genius there does sparkle bright,
Which I most solemnly declare
To thee, Immortal Bard of Ayr!

Your “Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon”
Is sweet and melodious in its tune,
And the poetry is moral and sublime,
And in my opinion nothing can be more fine.

Your “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled”
Is most beautiful to hear sung or read;
For your genius there does shine as bright,
Like unto the stars of night

Immortal Bard of Ayr! I must conclude my muse
To speak in praise of thee does not refuse,
For you were a mighty poet, few could with you compare,
And also an honour to Scotland, for your genius it is rare

Edited by Grob
a missing e

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A good friend sent me this poem when my beloved cat, who ruled  house and property for 14 years, passed earlier this month due to kidney failure.

EPITAPH FOR A CAT

If in some far off future day,

A stranger's feet should pass this way.

And if his gaze should seek the ground,

Wondering what lies beneath the mound:

Know that a cat of humble birth

Claims this small portion of the earth.

But I thought not of pedigree,

When, like a child he came to me.-

A lonely waif whose piteous cries,

Were mirrored in his frightened eyes.

So I beg that you will not 

Defame or desecrate this spot.

By ruthless act or idle jeer,

Though but a cat lies buried here.

Margaret E. Bruner

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1 hour ago, Grob said:

We did at one time have an almost serious poetry thread to which in the past I have contributed, and to which I hoped to contribute today. It has apparently disappeared, thus on Burn's night I hope to resurrect it, with the following poem in Burns' honour written by William McGonagall, (1825-1902,) of Dundee.  For those who have not stumbled across probably the worst poet ever, it is perhaps worthy of not that he was a favourite of a certain Terence, (Spike,) Milligan.

I am indebted to the website mcgonagall-online.org.uk for the text. 

 

Robert Burns

Immortal Robert Burns of Ayr,
There’s but few poets can with you compare;
Some of your poems and songs are very fine:
To “Mary in Heaven” is most sublime;
And then again in your “Cottar’s Saturday Night,”
Your genius there does shine most bright,
As pure as the dewdrops of the night.

Your “Tam O’Shanter” is very fine,
Both funny, racy, and divine,
From John O’Groats to Dumfries
All critics consider it to be a masterpiece,
And, also, you have said the same,
Therefore they are not to blame.

And in my own opinion both you and they are right,
For your genius there does sparkle bright,
Which I most solemnly declare
To thee, Immortal Bard of Ayr!

Your “Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon”
Is sweet and melodious in its tune,
And the poetry is moral and sublime,
And in my opinion nothing can be more fine.

Your “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled”
Is most beautiful to hear sung or read;
For your genius there does shine as bright,
Like unto the stars of night

Immortal Bard of Ayr! I must conclude my muse
To speak in praise of thee does not refuse,
For you were a mighty poet, few could with you compare,
And also an honour to Scotland, for your genius it is rare

No doubt yourself and your lady wife (her with the fabulous legs) will be attending tonight's celebrations and I hope, suitably clad.

Edited by luckyme

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Alias by Sue Chevalier 2012

Many selves with personalities I do have
I have different alias for you to understand.
Christina Sunrise writes about planet Earth
Suzae Chevalier writes about life since birth.
Sue Chevalier writes of characters on Krendoll land
Suzae is the visual artist, performing artist 
paints and uses oral presentations to understand.
Now don't forget Puppit Lady for Razel has a voice
Melodie also who speaks with 'Freedom of Choice.' 
So visit www.suzae.com right now
where you will see all of them make a home
 

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Dreamers

By SIEGFRIED SASSOON

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, 

Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.   

In the great hour of destiny they stand, 

Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.   

Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win   

Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. 

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin 

They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives. 

 

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, 

And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,   

Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, 

And mocked by hopeless longing to regain   

Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, 

And going to the office in the train. 

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Sassoon really brings a focus to the poetry of the great War.

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3 hours ago, Grob said:

Sassoon really brings a focus to the poetry of the great War.

Sassoon and Wilfred Owen are both amazing poets who paint a picture of WW1 that stays in the mind long after you have put the book down.

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There are holes in the sky
Where the rain gets in
But they're ever so small
That's why the rain is thin.

 

Spike Milligan

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Cole Porter was know to say

Many years ago;

"A glimpse of stocking is quite shocking"

But I don't really know ...

It's isn't really such a shock,

at least it's not to me ...

It's more romantic, slightly steamy,

And definitely sultry ...

It's not erotic, it's more sensual,

It stimulates the mind ...

It whispers promises of what's to come,

At least that's what I find ...

To tease and hint, to flirt and wait,

A moment to which you build ...

Holds more promise than erotica,

And makes you more fulfilled.

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An Elegy
Ben Jonson
 
Though beauty be the mark of praise, 
   And yours of whom I sing be such 
   As not the world can praise too much, 
Yet ’tis your virtue now I raise. 
 
A virtue, like allay, so gone 
   Throughout your form, as, though that move
   And draw and conquer all men’s love, 
This sùbjects you to love of one. 
 
Wherein you triumph yet; because 
   ’Tis of yourself, and that you use 
   The noblest freedom, not to choose 
Against or faith or honor’s laws. 
 
But who should less expect from you, 
   In whom alone Love lives again? 
   By whom he is restored to men, 
And kept, and bred, and brought up true. 
 
His falling temples you have reared, 
   The withered garlands ta’en away; 
   His altars kept from the decay 
That envy wished, and nature feared; 
 
And on them burn so chaste a flame, 
   With so much loyalties’ expense, 
   As Love, t’ acquit such excellence, 
Is gone himself into your name. 
 
And you are he; the deity 
   To whom all lovers are designed 
   That would their better objects find; 
Among which faithful troop am I. 
 
Who, as an offspring at your shrine, 
   Have sung this hymn, and here entreat 
   One spark of your diviner heat 
To light upon a love of mine. 
 
Which, if it kindle not, but scant 
   Appear, and that to shortest view, 
   Yet give me leave t’ adore in you 
What I in her am grieved to want.

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This poem is taken from a book, (A Second Book of Modern Poetry, McMillan and Co 1924, reprint 1938,) which belonged to my father.  Prior to his death he wrote the following on the flyleaf, addressing it to my eldest son:- 

To ****                                                                                                                                                                                                                         "This book was part of the stock of a bookseller in Rangoon, (Burma,) to avoid destruction by the Japanese during the Occupation he buried most of his best books. When the British drove the Japanese out of Burma he salvaged some of his stock. This book was one of them.  While stationed in Rangoon I bought this book while waiting for a troopship home.  I enjoyed some hours with this book on the voyage home, I hope it will give you as much pleasure as it has given your Grandad." 

A Cinque Port      

Below the down the stranded town

What may betide forlornly waits,

With memories of smoky skies,

When Gallic navies crossed the straits;

When waves with fire and blood grew bright,

And cannon thundered through the night.

 

With swinging stride the rhythmic tide

Bore to the harbour barque and sloop;

Across the bar the ship of war,

In castled stern and lanterned poop

Came up with conquests on her lee,

The stately mistress of the sea.

 

Where argosies have wooed the breeze,

The simple sheep are feeding now;

And near and far across the bar

The ploughman whistles at the plough;

Where once the long waves washed the shore,

Larks from their lowly lodgings soar.

 

Below the town the stranded town

Hears far away the rollers beat;

About the wall the seabirds call;

The salt wind murmurs through the street;

Forlorn the sea’s forsaken bride

Awaits the end that shall betide.


John Davidson (1858-1909)

Edited by Grob

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Grob, as I read your post, I put myself in your father's place and tried to visualize all that he saw. Amazing!

It also made me think of this song for some reason. A classic. If it's out of place, I'll delete it.

 

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Rowlf,

You should know me well enough by now to realise that I would not mind.

Grob

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In the middle to late 1950's the end of my school week on Friday afternoon was always singing. In the hall we sat in rows on the floor.  Though the hall was large there was barely enough space for us in the 4th and 3rd year classes,  approaching 300 of us.  This was the era of nearly 50 in a class, and if any teacher is reading this, it was one teacher without teaching assistants per class.   

This poem is taken from the book to which I referred earlier in this thread, but to us it was a song as Mr Spence belted out the tune on the piano.  In particular I loved the last verse.

Cargoes

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine

With a cargo of ivory

And apes and peacocks,

Sandalwood, cedarwood and sweet white wine

 

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,

Dipping through the tropics by the palm-green shores,

With a cargo of diamonds,

Emeralds, amethysts

Topazes, and cinnamon and gold moidores.

 

Dirty British Coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rails, pig-lead,

Firewood, iron ware and cheap tin trays.

John Masefield

 

 

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FIFTY SHADES OF GREY - (a husbands point of view) 
The missus bought a Paperback, 
down Shepton Mallet way, 
I had a look inside her bag; 
T'was "fifty shades of grey". 

Well I just left her to it, 
And at ten I went to bed. 
An hour later she appeared; 
The sight filled me with dread... 

In her left she held a rope; 
And in her right a whip! 
She threw them down upon the floor, 
And then began to strip. 

Well fifty years or so ago; 
I might have had a peek; 
But Mabel hasn't weathered well; 
She's eighty four next week!! 

Watching Mabel bump and grind; 
Could not have been much grimmer. 
And things then went from bad to worse; 
She toppled off her Zimmer! 

She struggled back upon her feet; 
A couple minutes later; 
She put her teeth back in and said 
I am a dominater !! 

Now if you knew our Mabel, 
You'd see just why I spluttered, 
I'd spent two months in traction 
For the last complaint I'd uttered. 

She stood there nude and naked 
Bent forward just a bit 
I went to hold her, sensual like 
and stood on her left t*t! 

Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out; 
My god what had I done!? 
She moaned and groaned then shouted out: "Step on the other one"!! 

Well readers, I can't tell no more; 
About what occurred that day. 
Suffice to say my jet black hair, 
Turned fifty shades of grey... 

:58674c057baa4_EmojiSmiley-69: :58674c060e184_EmojiSmiley-70: :58674c057baa4_EmojiSmiley-69:

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John Gillespie Magee Jr was an 18 year old American Citizen who, before the United States joined World War 2, crossed the border and enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force.  In September of 1941 he flew his  Mark V Spitfire to an altitude of 30,000 feet, it was during this flight he was inspired to write his poem.

.

High Flight

 

Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter silvered wings:

Sunwards 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,

Hovering there I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung my craft through footless halls of air.

 

 

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue I’ve topped the wind swept heights with easy grace, where never Lark, nor Eagle Flew

And, while with silent lifting mind, I’ve trod the high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

 

 

In December of 1941 at the age of 19, he was killed after a mid-air collision over the village of Roxholme in Lincolnshire, and buried in Scopwick Cemetery near to  RAF Digby.

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