It's Poetry Darlings

Re: Poetry

Here's my latest....Inspired by flicking through TV channels with my remote control, and writing down what show titles came up.......

Location location location
Don't tell the bride
Nazi titanic revealed
Nursing the Nation
Press "i" for more information.
 
Re: Poetry

In the news today...(it's being AUctioned.)

525
 
Re: Poetry

Everybody Tells Me Everything

I find it very difficult to enthuse
Over the current news.
Just when you think that at least the outlook is so black that it
can grow no blacker, it worsens,
And that is why I do not like the news,
because there has never been an era when so many things
were going so right for so many of the wrong persons.

Ogden Nash (1902 - 1971)
 
Re: Poetry

eating a sandwich by the ocean
skipping rocks
thinking about life
throw sandwich in ocean
bite rock
people saw.
 
Re: Poetry

Une charogne

Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux :
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit semé de cailloux,

Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique,
Brûlante et suant les poisons,
Ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et cynique
Son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.

Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture,
Comme afin de la cuire à point,
Et de rendre au centuple à la grande Nature
Tout ce qu'ensemble elle avait joint ;

Et le ciel regardait la carcasse superbe
Comme une fleur s'épanouir.
La puanteur était si forte, que sur l'herbe
Vous crûtes vous évanouir.

Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride,
D'où sortaient de noirs bataillons
De larves, qui coulaient comme un épais liquide
Le long de ces vivants haillons.

Tout cela descendait, montait comme une vague,
Ou s'élançait en pétillant ;
On eût dit que le corps, enflé d'un souffle vague,
Vivait en se multipliant.

Et ce monde rendait une étrange musique,
Comme l'eau courante et le vent,
Ou le grain qu'un vanneur d'un mouvement rythmique
Agite et tourne dans son van.

Les formes s'effaçaient et n'étaient plus qu'un rêve,
Une ébauche lente à venir,
Sur la toile oubliée, et que l'artiste achève
Seulement par le souvenir.

Derrière les rochers une chienne inquiète
Nous regardait d'un oeil fâché,
Epiant le moment de reprendre au squelette
Le morceau qu'elle avait lâché.

- Et pourtant vous serez semblable à cette ordure,
A cette horrible infection,
Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,
Vous, mon ange et ma passion !

Oui ! telle vous serez, ô la reine des grâces,
Après les derniers sacrements,
Quand vous irez, sous l'herbe et les floraisons grasses,
Moisir parmi les ossements.

Alors, ô ma beauté ! dites à la vermine
Qui vous mangera de baisers,
Que j'ai gardé la forme et l'essence divine
De mes amours décomposés !


Happy birthday Charley, the doodle's just reminded me!
 
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

Looking out across the bay
I wondered what men sailed away.
Good souls or bad guided by stars
 
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

551046_503404699724492_469577660_n.jpg
 
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

Nice to see this thread is still going strong!
 
Re: Poetry

The Importance of Elsewhere

Lonely in Ireland, since it was not home,
Strangeness made sense. The salt rebuff of speech,
Insisting so on difference, made me welcome:
Once that was recognised, we were in touch

Their draughty streets, end-on to hills, the faint
Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable,
The herring-hawker's cry, dwindling, went
To prove me separate, not unworkable.

Living in England has no such excuse:
These are my customs and establishments
It would be much more serious to refuse.
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.


Philip Larkin
 
Re: Poetry

970783_586742291345833_866382496_n.jpg
 
Re: Poetry

671_592440170776045_1890599132_n.jpg


Bukowski
 
Re: Poetry

994893_614700558550006_1578205836_n.jpg
 
Re: Poetry

We can hide you away
In a ridiculous play
Two on the floor
24 hardly knock on the door
(And when they do
it's usually you...)
Come beat rash with me

Safe in the ghetto
 
Last edited:
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

(Good ones, Charles.)

Thank you Dave xx for showing this to me:

Tippy Tappy Toenails

The days are slowly passing since I found her still and prone.
Since I took her to the surgery and came back on my own.
Now as my key turns in the lock the sound I miss the most of all
Are the tippy tappy toenails as they skidded down the hall.

Oh there was something in her welcome, there was something in her style,
In the jingle of her collar and ecstatic doggy smile.
The tail that wagged so furious, the eyes that shone so bright
It’s the silence, oh it’s the silence, it is blacker than the night.

And if I’d had a rotten day, if I was tired and spent
If I had found indifference in every place I went
Always at my journey's end when I was flat and lonely
That little dog convinced me I was someone’s one and only.

Her things are still around me I have left them all alone
A little greasy collar, a yellow rubber bone
A hairy tartan blanket in her basket on the floor
From which she sprang to terrorize all knockers on the door

How grievous is the emptiness on entering the home
How disproportionate so great a loss for one so small
For the music it is missing and my home is incomplete,
Without the music of her tippy tappy doggie dancing feet.


Pam Ayres.
 
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

He would not stay for me; and who can wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand and tore my heart in sunder
and went with half my life about my ways.

A.E. Housman
 
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

...I found this one printed in a local paper a few months ago....,

Memories

Gaslight shimmering on rain-wet cobbles
Somewhere a stray cats mournful cry
I can still recall though memory is failing
Such things from days gone by

Those hungry days of the Thirties
When all we had was hope
And the only toy between us
was a length of much-frayed rope.

Jimmy Green, little Alan Jones
Alfie Smith, and Billy Gregg
And the boy they all called "Limpy"
With the iron on his leg.

About then a man called Hitler
Appeared upon the scene
The war to end all wars didn't
And peace was once more a dream

The boys I had grown up with
All of them went off to fight
'I'll be prepared, I'll be equipped'
They felt they were in the right.

Some now lie in Orchards
Or on lonely Dunkirk beach
Others buried in desert sands
Still lost and out of reach.

I sit trying to picture the faces
Of so many friends now dead
I shed a tear, whisper a prayer
And curse this iron on my leg.


By George Flannery, Bootle, Liverpool.
 
Last edited:
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

I usually write dark, depressing, sad or sometimes erotic poetry, so this is my first humorous (I hope?) one.


Tired, I press for a black coffee.
Metal turns
Machinery churns
Why is my drink frothy?



Honestly, this is my worst poem to date. Please let me know what you think. :straightface:
 
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

Drunk Ode to ASID

Every day, ASID
Why do you think you own this alley?
I think I saw you today while I swept,
Looking down,
Smirking,
Like you're winning...

But every morning I
COVER YOUR SHIT UP WITH BROWN AND BEIGE

ASID
ASID
ASID

I have dreams of catching you with an arsenal of hidden go pros
I have dreams of catching you with my eyes
AND BEATING THE f*** OUT OF YOU

I didn;t dream that
'til you tagged a car
The car of a hard working person
Who thought it safe to park in my lot
that YOU THINK YOU OWN

ASID
ASID
ASID

With your marker
With your paint
With your nailpolish

I will catch you you little bitch.
 
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

Games.

By Me. 1991.

You looked at me, I looked at you
You turned your face away
I rolled a Six, you moved a pawn
These games that we must play.

Players both, we know the score
At targets we must shoot
You hit the Bull, I miss a turn
...A trivial pursuit.

You show your hand to someone else,
And I do just the same
These cards that have been dealt to us
But there's only us to blame.

This game of double solitaire
Becomes a Blind-mans buff
Our cards add up to just the same
But never seem enough.

And so I slyly place the White
On lifes green snooker baize
You're snooked, and you cannot find
Your way out of the maze.

As you bet Black, shall I bet Red?
This game is so unreal
I'd like to take a chance with you
But first must spin the wheel.

The animals play these games so well
But humans complicate
Too many off-side traps and rules
Just ending in stalemate.


( I had this read out on local radio in about 1992, and the (Name unknown) professional poetry reader made it sound almost shakespearean!!....Wish I still had that tape....:( )
 
Last edited:
Re: It's Poetry Darlings!!

Slough by John Betjeman

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.



Middlesex by John Betjeman

Gaily into Ruislip Gardens
Runs the red electric train,
With a thousand Ta's and Pardon's
Daintily alights Elaine;
Hurries down the concrete station
With a frown of concentration,
Out into the outskirt's edges
Where a few surviving hedges
Keep alive our lost Elysium - rural Middlesex again.

Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly,
Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green
Hiding hair which, Friday nightly,
Delicately drowns in Drene;
Fair Elaine the bobby-soxer,
Fresh-complexioned with Innoxa,
Gains the garden - father's hobby -
Hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby,
Settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen.

Gentle Brent, I used to know you
Wandering Wembley-wards at will,
Now what change your waters show you
In the meadowlands you fill!
Recollect the elm-trees misty
And the footpaths climbing twisty
Under cedar-shaded palings,
Low laburnum-leaned-on railings
Out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow hill.

Parish of enormous hayfields
Perivale stood all alone,
And from Greenford scent of mayfields
Most enticingly was blown
Over market gardens tidy,
Taverns for the bona fide,
Cockney singers, cockney shooters,
Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters,
Long in Kensal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone.
 
Back
Top Bottom