Listened to the Leonardo Cohen clip
but I do prefer the classical myself
Cohen is classical .. You are talking about pseudo classical ...
being an intellectual I find the majority of poetry quoted on here to be trite . And
"Not Worthy"
it does not challenge views. But is romantic sixties nonsense that belongs on Birthday cards ..
and this from the age that Questioned ???
Abbs did you listen to "Closing Time " didn't it give you a stirring in the groin...
Pete
So if you don't like the stuff on here, why do you bother to visit the thread?
Why ??
He most probably likes the deep meaningful Poems of pixapd
Read the article Abbs very interesting , if wanting to believe that Conciouseness continues after death , perhaps as Penrose conjectures ,the author wants to interpret as a religiouse belief I wouldn't argue .
But to then take the next step and say this must lead to the a belief in a God I don't accept..
Seggie. I remember John Masefield. Learned his poem at school and loved it even then.
When I was young, a romantic and saw the world through rose-coloured glasses, my favourite poem was 'How Do I love Thee'. Yes, teenager and madly in love then. My glasses are now tinted. Oh dear. No, I'm still fond of many things in this world which proves I'm still a wee bit mad. Love to all.
Glad you enjoy John Masefield Seggie, this is for you"
Come Let Us Find
Come, let us find a cottage, love,
That's green for half a mile around;
To laugh at every grumbling bee,
Whose sweetest blossom's not yet found.
Where many a bird shall sing for you,
And in your garden build its nest:
They'll sing for you as though their eggs
Were lying in your breast,
My love--
Were lying warm in your soft breast.
'Tis strange how men find time to hate,
When life is all too short for love;
But we, away from our own kind,
A different life can live and prove.
And early on a summer's morn,
As I go walking out with you,
We'll help the sun with our warm breath
To clear away the dew,
My love,
To clear away the morning dew.
William Henry Davies
Do You Ever ?
pixapd
To live content with small means
To seek elegance rather than luxury
And refinement rather than fashion
To be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich
To study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly
To listen to stars and birds, babes and sages with open heart
To bear all cheerfully
Do all bravely
Await occasions
Hurry never
In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious
Grow up through the common
This to be my symphony.
W.E.C
Thanks for that in depth meaningful verse from William Ellery Channing
It is so refreshing to read after all the Nursery Rhymes
Abby,
Those thoughts from WEC sits in a place on my desk, easily seen.
SD
Nice one shaggers ..
Although this poem is in the distant past now ...I studied it for my Matric.
A boy stood on the burning deck,
His pocket full of crackers,
A spark went up his trousers,
And blew off his leg.
Casabianca
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames roll'd on...he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud..."Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair;
And shouted but one more aloud,
"My father, must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way,
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound...
The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea.
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Davey,
I have quite a large collection of poetry and included in this is a quite large collection of Limericks, many of an unsavoury nature but all in, very clever.
IE.
An archeologist named Throssell
Discovered a remarkable fossil
He could tell by the bend and the knob on the end.
It was the peter of Paul the apostle.
There once was a king who offered a prize to the artist who would paint the best picture of peace. Many artists tried. The king looked at all the pictures.
But there were only two he really liked, and he had to choose between them. One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for peaceful towering mountains all around it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought that it was a perfect picture of peace.
The other picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky, from which rain fell and in which lightning played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all.
But when the king looked closely, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest. There, in the midst of the rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest - in perfect peace.
The King chose the second picture.
Words of Solomon
There was a young girl of Cape Cod
Who thought babies were fashioned by God,
But 'twas not the Almighty
Who hiked up her nightie -
'Twas Roger, the lodger, by God!
Davey,
A mathemetician named Hall
Had a rather remarkable ball
The cube of its weight, times his pecker plus eight
Is his phone number. Give him a call !
SD
A limerick should be five lines but I have condensed the previous to four.
They read better as five.
IE
There was a young pastor name Bings
Who talked of God and such things
But his secret desire
Was a boy in the choir
With a bottom like jelly, on springs.
SD
Back to work.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
WilliamShakespeare
Sorry Fleur not a tranquil Poem but one that I remember so well, a poem of treachery and love that will never die.
The HighwaymanBY ALFRED NOYES
PART ONEThe wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding—The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle,His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter,Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creakedWhere Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brandAs the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
PART TWO
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon, When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching—King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead. But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like yearsTill, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest. Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast. She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,The highwayman came riding— Riding—riding—The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
. . .
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding—A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred. He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter,Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Source: Collected Poems (1947)
Viv: I'm sitting here with a delicious coffee someone made for me and reading your contribution...love it....thank you
My apologies to all for lowering the tone of the topic back a bit.
Take it easy.
SD
It would seem that a few Schoolyard ditties would actually lighten up some of the Nursery Rhymes and bring back memories - some of them are very clever and and witty, fiting quite well into the realms of poery.
IF THIS JUVENILE THREAD DOES NOT MEET WITH YOUR REQUIREMENTS...WHY NOT START YOUR OWN??
Abby I am at a loss as to what type of school would have regarded renowned Poetry as Nursery rhymes and what I would call after post Rugby game "dirty ditties", which SD has apologies for posting, as "schoolyard ditties". Thankfully most of us did not go or send our children to those types of schools, amazes me any existed.
Sorry Viv
They must have been removed like other rude conversations not particularly poetry
ditties or other - just plain nasty.
I certainly did not read any Rugby game "dirty ditties" from SD or anybody else.
We should write our own
There was a man from Life Choices
Who tried to Still all the Voices
But poor old Drew
Got into the poo
When he received too many advises
Fleur
I be a mentally disturbed weed now.
Gee thats really putting the boots in.
It looks as though I am destined for a long self imposed session on the naughty step.
I just like language and the use thereof, be it a bit risque or not.
It was all Daveys fault Miss, he started it.
Take it easy.
SD
SD
You are like
"Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
And said 'What a good boy am I!"
And you are a good boy too :)
SD I know some beauties but I think Drew would have a heart attack if I posted them.
I have actually been to Limerick in Ireland.
As an atheist and a believer in concionneess existing in the ( what's it called Twilsy) I find all dopey religiouse stuff as silly as woman's weekly romantic stuff ...