Poetry corner

[Dr B]

I do not really get or enjoy poetry. I don't know why, it's just one of those things. I am very open to new things, and do enjoy the arts in many ways. But I simply fail to get excited by poetry in the way a truly stunning photograph, painting, theatrical play, or performance gets me.

If you were to convince me to give reading poetry a go, please give an example here of a poem or poet. Give me some verses!!!!!! What is it about that poem / poet you like? What does it mean to you?

[Lord Muck oGentry]

Mostly for the sound and the ceilidh-band swing of the thing. And for the cast of bizarre characters it conjures up.
http://www.artofeurope.com/macneice/mac6.htm

[DrS]

OK, how about the new Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy?

She wrote "The Twelve Days of Christmas" last Christmas. I think it conveys what poetry can do quite well, taking a theme (a well known song), and keeping the familiar form, but changing the content to something topical, meaningful and thought-provoking. It has even more impact because it's supposed to be a jolly song that we associate with a happy festive time. If she had just written a prose rant, that impact would have had none of these associations.

Here it is, sorry it's a bit long (well, 12 verses long ... ;D ). What do you think?

1.
ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS,
a buzzard on a branch.

In Afghanistan,
no partridge, pear tree;
but my true love sent to me
a card from home.
I sat alone,
crouched in yellow dust,
and traced the grins of my kids
with my thumb.
Somewhere down the line,
for another father, husband,
brother, son, a bullet
with his name on.

2.
TWO TURTLE DOVES,
that Shakespeare loved –
turr turr, turr turr –
endangered now
by herbicide,
the chopping down
of where they hide –
turr turr, turr turr –
hawthorn thickets,
hedgerows, woodland.
Summer's music
fainter, farther…
the spreading drought
of the Sahara.

3
THREE FRENCH HENS –
un, deux, trois –
do not know
that French they are.

Three Welsh lambs –
un, dau, tri –
do not know
that Welsh they baa.

Newborn babies –
one, two, three –
only know
you human be.

Only know
you human be.

4
THE GRENADA DOVE IS CALLING.
The Condor calls from the USA.
The Wood Stork calls from its wetlands.
The Albatross calls from the sea,
on the fourth day of Christmas.

The Yellow-eared Parrot is calling.
The Kakapo calls from NZ.
The Blue-throated Macaw is calling.
The Little Tern calls from Japan, calls
my true love sent to me.

The Corncrake is calling; the Osprey.
The Baikal Teal calls from Korea.
The Cuckoo is calling from England,
four calling birds.

5
THE FIRST GOLD RING WAS GOLD INDEED –
bankers' profits fired in greed.

The second ring outshone the sun,
fuelled by carbon, doused by none.

Ring three was black gold, O for oil –
a serpent swallowing its tail.

The fourth ring was Celebrity;
Fool's Gold, winking on TV.

Ring five, religion's halo, slipped –
a blind for eyes or gag for lips.

With these five gold rings they you wed,
then slip them off when you are dead.

With these five go-o-o-old rings.

6
I BOUGHT A MAGIC GOOSE FROM A JOLLY FARMER.
This goose laid Barack Obama.

I bought a magic goose from a friendly fellow.
This goose laid Fabio Capello.

I bought a magic goose from a maiden (comely).
This goose laid Joanna Lumley.

I bought a magic goose from a busker (poor).
This goose laid Anish Kapoor.

I bought a magic goose from a bargain bin, it
was the goose laid Alan Bennett.

I bought a poisoned goose from a crook (sick, whiffing).
This foul goose laid Nick Griffin.

7
THE SWAN AT COCKERMOUTH –
of a broken heart, one half.

The Mersey Swans, flying
for Hillsborough, wings of justice.

Two, married and mute on the Thames,
watching The Wave.

A Swan for Adrian Mitchell
and a Swan for UA Fanthorpe,
swansongs for poetry.

The Queen's birds, paired
for life, beauty and truth.

8
ONE MILKED MONEY TO MEND HER MOAT.
Two milked voters to float her boat.
Three milked Parliament to flip her flat.
Four milked Government to snip her cat.
Five milked the dead for close-up tears.
Six milked the tax-payer for years and
years and years…
Seven milked the system to Botox
her brow.
Eight milked herself – the selfish cow.

9
BUT THE DEAD SOLDIER'S LADY DOES NOT DANCE.
But the lady in the Detention Centre
does not dance.
But the honour killing lady does not dance.
But the drowned policeman's lady
does not dance.
But the lady in the filthy hospital ward
does not dance.
But the lady in Wootton Bassett does not dance.
But the gangmaster's lady does not dance.
But the lady with the pit bull terrier
does not dance.
But another dead soldier's lady
does not dance.

10
LORDS DON'T LEAP.
They sleep.

11
WE PAID THE BLUDDY PIPER
fir 'Royal Bank;
twa pipers each
fir Fred and Phil,
fir Finlay, Fraser, Frank.
Too big tae fail!
The wee dog laughed!
The dish ran awa' wi' the spoon…
We paid the bluddy pipers,
but we dinnae call the tune.

12
DID THEY HEAR THE DRUMS IN COPENHAGEN,
banging their warning?
On the twelfth day in Copenhagen
was global warming stopped in its tracks
by Brown and Barack and Hu Jintao,
by Meles Zenawi and Al Sabban,
by Yvo de Boer and Hedegaard?
Did they strike a match
or strike a bargain,
the politicos in Copenhagen?
Did they twiddle their thumbs?
Or hear the drums
and hear the drums
and hear the drums?

[bindeweede]

DrS, thanks for that. Powerful stuff, even though I didn't understand all of the references.

I've never really developed a strong affection for poetry, but this old romantic and possibly corny piece conjures up appealing images for me.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by W. B. Yeats


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.



On the other hand, there is the Robert Graves classic......

Bloody Orkney

This bloody town's a bloody cuss
No bloody trains, no bloody bus
And no one thinks of bloody us
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody folk are bloody mad
The bloody roads are bloody bad
Good night the bright is bloody sad
In bloody Orkney.

Oh bloody crows, Oh bloody rain
No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains
The council's got no bloody brains
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody things are bloody dear
A bloody bob for a bloody beer
And is it good? No bloody fear
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody dances make you smile
The bloody bands are bloody vile
It only cramps your bloody style
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody flicks are bloody old
The bloody seats are bloody cold,
You can't get in for bloody gold
In bloody Orkney.

No bloody fun, no bloody games
No bloody times. The bloody dames
Won't even give their bloody names
In bloody Orkney.

There's nothing greets your bloody eye
But bloody sea and bloody sky
Roll on the mob! we bloody cry
In bloody Orkney.

[smudge]

On the other hand, there is the Robert Graves classic......

Bloody Orkney


Not keen on poetry, with one or two exceptions.

The John Cooper Clarke poem 'Evidently Chickentown' (http://www.cyberspike.com/clarke/chicktow.html) may have been inspired by the Graves one. Posted it as a link with the warning not to look if you dislike bad words! I'm rather fond of it, though it is best enjoyed read live by the man himself.

[Dubious Dick]

Tend to prefer humorous poetry so..

I would second John Cooper Clarke but best to let him perform for you as opposed to reading on the page.

also John Hegley has what I consider to be a very funny take on life, and amusing and deliberate use of anti-poetry (not sure if that is a legitimate description) by which I mean the use of non-rhyming words, forced to rhyme, or approximate rhyme. Again much depends on the delivery so recommend some You Tubing of him if you are not already familiar.

Also Spike Milligan did some stuff of genius. Quirky and sometimes very sharp. And I think that since you are a music fan I think, is there not vast amounts of great poetry in song lyrics. Some of my favourite artistes are what I consider poets who set their stuff to a musical backing, so maybe you are a fan of poetry already in that way.

[Croydon Bob]

Some of my favourite artistes are what I consider poets who set their stuff to a musical backing, so maybe you are a fan of poetry already in that way.

Some great song writers are crap poets:


Good Dog Nigel by John Lennon

Arf, Arf, he goes, a merry sight
Our little hairy friend
Arf, Arf, upon the lampost bright
Arfing round the bend.
Nice dog! Goo boy,
Waggie tail and beg,
Clever Nigel, jump for joy
Because we are putting you to sleep at three of the clock, Nigel.

[bindeweede]

So much of the poetry of WW1 is so strong. The poems of Wilfred Owen come to mind from my school days. Later on, I came across this, from Siegfried Sassoon. Short, simple, two contrasting stanzas. Very effective and very moving.


'They'


The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'

[DrS]

I agree about war poetry. In terms of convincing someone to give reading poetry a go, how about John McCrae's Flanders Field?


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.

The poppy, of course, is the symbol of remembrance since it bloomed in Flanders Fields so thickly with the churning up of the soil in the trench warfare that cost so many millions of lives. It seems it was the flowering of these thousands of blood-red poppies among the dead that inspired McCrae to write the poem which, in turn, I think, inspired the Royal British Legion to adopt the poppy as the symbol of memorial for the dead and of the remembrance of the living.

Note how the narrator is the massed voice of the dead themselves, speaking as the dead of larks that are still singing in real life as the poem is read. They haven't been dead long, in other words, and that is why they will still be remembered, from Macrae's perspective, even though years may pass.

Their association with the living readers is itself brought alive by the association of feelings that the living still feel: "We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved". This in turn serves to justify their plea for the living to take up the fight, to catch the torch (of freedom? of truth?) before their bodies have even fallen on the ground.

Can this not move in a way that prose often cannot?

[panama]

My all time favourite: Dylan Thomas

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Watchman]

All good choices but as a group a little on the melancholic side…….
So I’ll throw in this…..


I like the girls who do,
I like the girls who don’t,
I hate the girl who says she will and then she says she won’t.
But the one that I like best ,
And I’m sure you’ll say I’m right,
Is the one who says she never has ,
But looks as though she ……… anyway I must be off…


Max Miller.

OK ….. having lowered the tone ……
I’ll get my coat.

[Matt]

Slough

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


- John Betjeman

So I had a job based in Slough, mostly I worked from home but going into Slough for meeting was the most tedious part of the Job. So this for me has a certain personal resonance.

What I like about it:

From the first line it grabs my attention with the phrase "friendly bombs." There's a dissonances between friendly and bombs. How can a tools of destruction be friendly? The mind struggles to find some overlap between these two concepts.

This is clearly an attack on the nasty urban sprawl but it's softened from the start by the word friendly. What could be hate it turned instead to pity.

The next phrase that really grabs me is "tinned minds." It's context is in a list of other tinned items which emphasised the concepts of mass production and blandness.

The first line of tins is "Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans" all stuff which we're familiar with being in tins. Yes they're the lesser cousin of their fresh counterparts but we see an occasional need for them. The repetition takes this from occasional to everything tinned. The minds and breath. Two things that ideally associated with grow unconstrained. The idea of preserving them, containing them is abhorrent. The quality of air is echoed again later when "Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air"

[Lord Muck oGentry]

More of the cheery stuff from the Celtic twilight:

I THAT in heill was and gladnèss
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our plesance here is all vain glory, 5
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, 10
Now dansand mirry, now like to die:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No state in Erd here standis sicker;
As with the wynd wavis the wicker
So wannis this world's vanitie:— 15
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Unto the Death gois all Estatis,
Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,
Baith rich and poor of all degree:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me. 20
He takis the knichtis in to the field
Enarmit under helm and scheild;
Victor he is at all mellie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That strong unmerciful tyrand 25
Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignitie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the campion in the stour,
The captain closit in the tour, 30
The lady in bour full of bewtie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He spairis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awful straik may no man flee:— 35
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Art-magicianis and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Them helpis no conclusionis slee:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me. 40
In medecine the most practicianis,
Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,
Themself from Death may not supplee:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makaris amang the lave 45
Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;
Sparit is nocht their facultie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour, 50
The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,
He has tane out of this cuntrie:— 55
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That scorpion fell has done infeck
Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,
Fra ballat-making and tragedie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me. 60
Holland and Barbour he has berevit;
Alas! that he not with us levit
Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane, 65
That made the anteris of Gawaine;
Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
Slain with his schour of mortal hail, 70
Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luve so lively write,
So short, so quick, of sentence hie:— 75
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,
And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;
Two better fallowis did no man see:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me. 80
In Dunfermline he has tane Broun
With Maister Robert Henrysoun;
Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
And he has now tane, last of a, 85
Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,
Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Good Maister Walter Kennedy
In point of Death lies verily; 90
Great ruth it were that so suld be:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Sen he has all my brether tane,
He will naught let me live alane;
Of force I man his next prey be:— 95
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Since for the Death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone,
After our death that live may we:—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.



Ach! ye're born in pain, ye live in fear, ye die alane. It's a grand life!

[Croydon Bob]

A dramatic rendition of Edgar Alan Poe's finest pome:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-X2s3bdXzdE

[dalriada]

Some more cheeriness from the Celtic Fringe...

Prayer Before Birth

Louis MacNeice (http://www.poemhunter.com/louis-macneice/biography/)

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me, my treason engendered by traitors beyond me, my life when they murder by means of my hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white waves call me to folly and the desert calls me to doom and the beggar refuses my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton, would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with one face, a thing, and against all those who would dissipate my entirety, would blow me like thistledown hither and thither or hither and thither like water held in the hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

[Lord Muck oGentry]

Some more cheeriness from the Celtic Fringe...


We've got our tails up and our heads down now!
http://www.robertburns.org/works/59.shtml


Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has ta'en some other way,
I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

[Mr.Smoketoomuch]

No thread on poetry can be complete without mention of Scotland's greatest bard.
No, not that egit Rab Burns, but the unsurpassably great William Topaz McGonagall !
----------------------------------------------------------------
The Tay Bridge Disaster
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers' hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
"I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay."

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers' hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov'd most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov'd slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!

The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o'er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill'd all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav'd to tell the tale
How the disaster happen'd on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,

Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

[panama]

Thanks Lord Muck for Holy Willie's epitaph but, in light of our usual discussions, perhaps Holy Willie's Prayer might be of greater interest. http://www.robertburns.org/works/58.shtml

Holy Willie's Prayer

"And send the godly in a pet to pray." - Pope.
1785
Type: Poem

Argument.

Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of
Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering, which ends
in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry which refines to
liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman in Mauchline-a
Mr.Gavin Hamilton-Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing
in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the
oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton's counsel; but chiefly to
Mr. Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable
characters in the county. On losing the process, the muse overheard him
[Holy Willie] at his devotions, as follows:-

O Thou, who in the heavens does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best Thysel',
Sends ane (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/43.html) to heaven an' ten to hell,
A' for Thy glory,
And no (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1203.html) for ony gude (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/823.html) or ill
They've done afore Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might,
When thousands Thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/17.html) Thy sight,
For gifts an' grace
A burning and a shining light
To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/767.html) sic exaltation,
I wha deserve most just damnation
For broken laws,
Five thousand years ere (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/609.html) my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause?

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/839.html) plunged me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin lakes,
Where damned devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to their stakes.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example,
To a' Thy flock.

O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear,
An' singin there, an' dancin here,
Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit by Thy fear
Free frae them a'.

But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/631.html) wi' fleshly lust:
An' sometimes, too, in wardly trust,
Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd wi' sin.

O Lord! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg-
Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
O! may't ne'er be a livin plague
To my dishonour,
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow,
Wi' Leezie's lass, three times I trow-
But Lord, that Friday I was fou,
When I cam (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/306.html) near her;
Or (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1212.html) else, Thou kens, Thy servant true
Wad (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1771.html) never steer her.

Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1218.html) proud and high shou'd turn,
That he's sae gifted:
If sae, Thy han' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/859.html) maun (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1132.html) e'en (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/590.html) be borne,
Until Thou lift (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1074.html) it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,
An' blast their name,
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An' public shame.

Lord, mind (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1159.html) Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts;
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes,
Yet has sae (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1371.html) mony takin arts,
Wi' great and sma',
Frae (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/720.html) God's ain (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/26.html) priest the people's hearts
He steals awa.

An' when we chasten'd him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1445.html) a splore,
An' set (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1417.html) the warld (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1793.html) in a roar
O' laughing at us;-
Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/992.html) an' potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against that Presbyt'ry o' Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare
Upo' their heads;
Lord visit them, an' dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My vera (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1763.html) heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin,
An' p-'d wi' dread,
While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,
Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1208.html) vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1833.html) did employ him,
And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their pray'r,
But (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/288.html) for Thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
An' dinna (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/526.html) spare.

But, Lord, remember me an' mine
Wi' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/1859.html) mercies temp'ral an' divine,
That I for grace an' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/40.html) gear (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/761.html) may shine,
Excell'd by (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/291.html) nane,
And a' (http://www.robertburns.org/works/glossary/4.html) the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!

[Mr.Smoketoomuch]

How about a limerick ?
One line each...I'll start

There was a young lady named Brenda

[DrS]

I do not really get or enjoy poetry. I don't know why, it's just one of those things. I am very open to new things, and do enjoy the arts in many ways. But I simply fail to get excited by poetry in the way a truly stunning photograph, painting, theatrical play, or performance gets me.

If you were to convince me to give reading poetry a go, please give an example here of a poem or poet. Give me some verses!!!!!! What is it about that poem / poet you like? What does it mean to you?


How about a limerick ?
One line each...I'll start

There was a young lady named Brenda
Yeah right.

[polomint38]

How about a limerick ?
One line each...I'll start

There was a young lady named Brenda
After a crash the docs couldn't mend 'er

[panama]

After a crash the docs couldn't mend 'er

So a homeopath...

[brianp]

So a homeopath...

So a homeopath came with a 30C potion

[smudge]

So a homeopath came with a 30C potion

'as a witch doctor chanted with mystical motion'....?

or..

'as her doggie stood by with a look of devotion'....?

or....

'and Jesus appeared and caused quite a commotion'...?

or...

'then a big whale fell out of the sky and killed everyone'....guess that one doesn't quite fit...hmm. Shame. I liked that one best....
;)

[Viking]

SPELLBOUND.


SHAGGY SHETLANDS CLEAVE TOGETHER,
THICK, CARPET RUMPS HELD TO THE WIND,
STURDY BEASTS WITH PATIENT EYES
OF CHOCOLATE BROWN.
A HAZY, PASTEL RAINBOW ARCS
ACROSS THE VISION, MERGING INTO
SLATEY CLOUDS OF SILENT MENACE
WHICH RULE THE SKY.
NOW SLEET IS SLICING DOWN TO EARTH;
IT STRIKES THE GLASS WITH FORCE AND STARTLES
BUT MELTS ONCE MORE IN SUNSHINE,
TEPID, PALE.
FOUR WHEELS BUMP AND GRIND ACROSS
ALARMING CAUSEWAY OF HEWN STONE,
ROCKY, ISOLATED PATHWAY
TO MEDITATION.
CHOPPY, FROTH-TOPPED, DANCING WAVES
JIG AND SWIRL TO MUSIC MUTE;
THEY FUSE AND PART, ARE EVER FAITHFUL
TO NATURE’S TUNE.
IN MIDDLE DISTANCE, THERE APPEARS
A LEAFY COPSE OF EVERGREENS,
A HAVEN FOR THE FEATHERED HARBINGERS
OF PROMISED SPRING.
REMOTE HORIZON OF YOUTHFUL DAYS-
CAREFREE DAYS OF HOPE AND LOVE-
IS BROKEN BY A SHEER CLIFF FACE,
MAJESTIC, HIGH.
A SOLITARY GULL DRIFTS BY,
GREY AND WHITE LIKE SEA BENEATH;
IT FLOATS, IT RISES, FALLS AT WILL,
SURVIVES ALONE.
IT HOLDS A SPECIAL FASCINATION,
SYMBOL OF POWER TO OVERCOME
THE VAGRANT WIND, THE STORMY SEA,
FOCUSED, ALOOF.
THE WATCHER SOON FEELS HESITATION
TO ENCROACH ON NATURE MORE,
BUT NO SUCH RETICENCE OBSTRUCTS
THE NEXT INTRUDER.
THE DRONING OF A HELICOPTER
BURSTS UPON THE ANCIENT SCENE,
PERSISTENT IN ITS WHIRLING FLIGHTS
ACROSS THE SKY.
THEN STRANGERS IN A RED-BOX CAR
CREEP ALONG THE RUGGED ROAD,
AND, AS THEY PASS, THEY SMILE AND WAVE
BUT DO NOT STAY.
CROFTS LIE DOTTED ROUND ABOUT,
COSY FAMILIES LODGED WITHIN;
SHEEP AND CATTLE CROP THE GRASS,
LUSCIOUS AND GREEN.
THEY EAT THEIR FILL, ARE UNAWARE;
HAPPILY, THEY CANNOT KNOW
THAT THEY ARE NURTURED FOR THEIR GIFTS
OF FLESH OR FLEECE.
AND SO THE SPELL IS BROKEN NOW;
THE MAGIC OF THE HOUR HAS PASSED,
THE SCENE DISSOLVES, THE WATCHER LEAVES
FOR MAN-MADE HOME.
NECESSITY, CONDITIONING
DRIVE THE WHEELS INLAND AGAIN,
BUT MEMORY HOLDS, FAST AND SURE, THE TIME
SPENT BY THE BAY.

A poem written in "Bloody Orkney" by yours truly---8-)