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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 3)
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mr. mustard
14-08-2012
Hi everyone

On Thursday I'm off to London to meet my brother. While there I'm hoping, with his help, to set up publication of the book - so there'll be a lot of details to go through. As a result I'll probably be absent from the thread until Sunday. I have a poem to post before I leave though, an epic I've been working on
Biz
14-08-2012
Good luck with the project Musty. You must be getting quite excited the closer you get.
mr. mustard
14-08-2012
Just one Howard Hughes

Just one Howard Hughes,
Feathers he would ruffle,
Learned techniques to use,
Rivals he could muffle
With style, Howard Hughes
Did the Wall Street shuffle.

What enticements led
Him on such a mission?
Texas born and bred,
Howard's expedition
Meant charging ahead
Of the competition,

Little urge to be
Thrifty or to ferret
Cash away, for he
Was due to inherit
Lots of it for free,
Death paid up, not merit.

Set his own films loose,
Making claims about more
Movies to produce,
Hell's Angels, The Outlaw,
In that bra of course
Jane Russell stood out more.

Girls queued up to woo
Howard, from that faction
None of them broke through
In spite of attraction,
Hepburn, Harlow too
Found no satisfaction.

And vast planes with wings,
He was their creator,
Taking on the kings
Of flight, not much later
Piloting the things
Thrilled the aviator.

But an oil leak dashed
Hopes, his plane sped falling
To LA then crashed,
Fuel tanks blew and sprawling
Three houses lay smashed,
Howard burned while crawling.

Pain seized every joint,
Ruined by implosion
Shattered bones annoint;
Out of the explosion
Came a turning-point
That induced erosion.

His moustache was grown
To conceal scars vainly,
Crippled, still as stone,
Feeling downcast mainly,
Time to think alone
And consider plainly.

Slowly he became
More and more reclusive,
Dodging hacks whose aim
Was some big exclusive,
Howard's favourite game
Was staying elusive.

Not a speck of dirt
Could be tolerated,
No desire to flirt,
Bearded, long-haired, fated,
Soon this introvert
Withdrew isolated.

Lost in mental halls
Wearing mental armour,
Howard's hermit cause
Mixed the perfect karma
To cement the walls
Of his psychodrama.

Vegas quarantine,
Served by those recruited,
Hotels for the clean
Tennis-shoed and suited
Ghost in the machine
Where no germs polluted.

Why not, if you can
Smile, relax and spend less?
Why live as a man
Paranoid and friendless?
In fame's twisted plan
This enigma's endless.

High as kites he'd muse,
Deep as the Pacific,
Beyond dreams and news,
Beyond what's horrific,
Just one Howard Hughes:
Rich, unique and mythic.


©
mr. mustard
14-08-2012
Originally Posted by Biz:
“Good luck with the project Musty. You must be getting quite excited the closer you get. ”

Thanks Biz You're right, I am excited. The first part of this thread started in November 2006, which means the dream of getting a book out has lasted nearly six years.
Noe Soap
15-08-2012
Muhammad Ali, Cassius Clay as was
hailed from humble home but shed
the cloak of former humility when
on his head he wore both the laurel
of Olympic champion and the whole
world he then bestrode so grandly.

His people had been cruelly humbled
enslaved, abused and laid so low,
yet every blow he made upon a foe
raised him that higher, less humbled;
humbling bums, beating ex-criminals
ex-champs, boxing cleverly, quipping,
lip unzipping making chumps of solid
lumps. For in the world of one-worded
he the many-syballic was king, prized
for wit even aiming funny poetry jabs,
ho ho blows, to go with his vocal stabs.

Self-named, I am he said: "The Greatest"
a great like Alexander, Ali was the latest
conqueror of lessers by his heavy hand
man of his faith though who never bumbled
as Lennon did in fatal misunderstood claim
to fame beyond Jesus. It's plain as rain he's
famed as any human could be, hard then
to expect in him an undue grain of humility.

His country tried to humiliate him in jail
as he wouldn't make war on Vietnam
but would fail to down the heavyweight;
they took his crown but did not diminish
his due renown, majestically rethroned
on the title that he owned, rightly proud
winning a prized fight, yet more lionised.

If in happy happenstance I was by chance
into this great man's presence to stumble
I would so gladly extend my humble hand
and shake his no doubt shaky one and I'd
like so many before me, certainly crumble.

Viewed again by many millions by TV so recently
ill as he is a crowd cheered pre-Olympic rumbles,
unsteady but mighty and still unbowed is Ali's head,
disease hit but with a great fighter's will, unhumbled.

(I partly was inspired to write this as the Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt came in for some criticism from an LBC presenter called Nick Ferrari for saying he's a legend, well I think he is now with no need for humility like Ali who seemed arrogant when he hyped himself up for publicity - it's tragic to see him now so very ill and of reduced capacity, the magnificent specimen he was physically and mentally, so bright a star). Frank.
Last edited by Noe Soap : 15-08-2012 at 16:02
mr. mustard
15-08-2012
Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“(I partly was inspired to write this as the Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt came in for some criticism from an LBC presenter called Nick Ferrari for saying he's a legend, well I think he is now with no need for humility like Ali who seemed arrogant when he hyped himself up for publicity - it's tragic to see him now so very ill and of reduced capacity, the magnificent specimen he was physically and mentally, so bright a star). Frank.”

Hi Frank Great poem and I like the way you mentioned John Lennon too. I can't stand Nick Ferrari, I always find him an egotistical twerp.

This is my last post here for a while, as I'm off to London tomorrow. Speak soon everyone
archiver
15-08-2012
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Hi Frank Great poem and I like the way you mentioned John Lennon too. I can't stand Nick Ferrari, I always find him an egotistical twerp.

This is my last post here for a while, as I'm off to London tomorrow. Speak soon everyone ”

Good luck with the publishing Musty. I hope all goes well. Put me down for a first edition regardless of price.
Troy Edwards
16-08-2012
Best of luck with the project Musty.

It'll be great to actually have a book by you in my possession at last.

archiver
17-08-2012
Deadzone.

One pound fish swim in oceans of bitter tears.
Advertising hordes now sunken forests of arrears.
Once loved teddies forgotten floating bloat.
Acid stain dissolving everything you wrote.

Pressure boats keep you all together
as heavy as the lightest feather.
Sink or swim? It makes no odds
here, beyond the dreams of gods.

At once much bigger again.
Sweet universal love.
Rhumbatugger
17-08-2012
My cat sits
And often shouts
At me
Because she needs
Not love

But she pats me in the dark
And lays her warmth into me
And I see that, how I want to.
And do not care, why.
Noe Soap
17-08-2012
Early memories of me a young Frank

An escape into a mystic world,
As we town children had made
Our entrance to a glade where
Dark attractive waters swirled.
Park notices forbidding, warned.

We needed no stronger bidding
Over wired fences we swarmed.
Home-made rods we had hooked
With slimy worms, if one touched
A face how us kids then squirmed.

Full of hope our baits were dangled
Till with an irate keeper we tangled
We nearly spat out our fruit spangles!
Gang on a run before we're strangled,
Fish swam free for none were angled.

We never caught a ruddy stupid thing,
'Cept some times worth remembering.

[FIN]
mr. mustard
20-08-2012
Originally Posted by archiver:
“Good luck with the publishing Musty. I hope all goes well. Put me down for a first edition regardless of price. ”

Originally Posted by Troy Edwards:
“Best of luck with the project Musty.

It'll be great to actually have a book by you in my possession at last.”

Thanks Archiver & Troy We made a lot of progress at the weekend and the first books are arriving in early September. They may require some minor changes, as this is only the trial run. But even if tweaks are needed, it'll still be full steam ahead after that
mr. mustard
20-08-2012
Originally Posted by archiver:
“Deadzone.

At once much bigger again.
Sweet universal love.”

I really enjoyed this one Archiver I liked the positive note at the end in particular

Originally Posted by Rhumbatugger:
“But she pats me in the dark
And lays her warmth into me
And I see that, how I want to.
And do not care, why.”

I'm a cat-lover ( unlike Biz ) so this poem rang a lot of bells for me. I could picture the cat so clearly

Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“We never caught a ruddy stupid thing,
'Cept some times worth remembering. ”

A lovely stroll down memory lane Frank I've been dredging up quite a few childhood memories for possible poems lately too. I used to love Spangles
Troy Edwards
20-08-2012
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Thanks Archiver & Troy We made a lot of progress at the weekend and the first books are arriving in early September. They may require some minor changes, as this is only the trial run. But even if tweaks are needed, it'll still be full steam ahead after that ”


Delighted to hear it Musty.

mr. mustard
21-08-2012
Silbury Hill's treasure

Have you witnessed Silbury Hill, immense against the skies?
Yes, I’ve gazed up at at the mound
And seen its mighty size.

Did it help you the glimpse the past and cause your heart to sing?
Yes and then I wondered how
Man ever built the thing.

Did you know fools drilled inside for treasure ‘neath the lid?
Yes, and nothing could they find
Save what the ancients hid.

The true function of Silbury was not storage of gold;
It represented Mother Earth,
Whose riches can’t be sold.

And still today in Wiltshire changing times it does resist,
A hill of chalk enclosed in green
That floats within a mist.


©
Troy Edwards
21-08-2012
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Silbury Hill's treasure
©”



Blinding stuff Musty.

Superb imagery as always.


Biz
21-08-2012
What a relief to find the thread alive again. I was just thinking that I must make an effort - but now I don't need to.

Originally Posted by Rhumbatugger:
“
But she pats me in the dark
And lays her warmth into me
And I see that, how I want to.
And do not care, why.”

Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“I'm a cat-lover ( unlike Biz ) so this poem rang a lot of bells for me. I could picture the cat so clearly
”

Well Rhumbatugger obviously understands cats, but that verse did give me the shivers.
mr. mustard
21-08-2012
Originally Posted by Troy Edwards:
“Blinding stuff Musty.

Superb imagery as always.”

Thanks Troy I refer to those who happily drill into Silbury as 'fools' because of evidence like this:

'Urgent remedial work must be carried out to save Silbury Hill from collapse, English Heritage said yesterday. The threat to the 130ft mound, which is one of the West's most mysterious prehistoric monuments, was blamed on excavations made for a BBC TV documentary in the 1960s.

An English Heritage survey has revealed that the late Professor Richard Atkinson's tunnel, which was dug in 1968/69 was not, as previously thought, properly filled in.'

Originally Posted by Biz:
“Well Rhumbatugger obviously understands cats, but that verse did give me the shivers. ”

Noe Soap
22-08-2012
A non wikipedia version

"What food is that you're eating my good man?"
enquired his curious lordship Earl of Sandwich,
"You are giving that such a full-hearted munch
in the generous break I provided for luncheon.
Rare provocation of joy for one in my employ
according to your apparent grin mid-ingestation."
"It's just the job, my lord, the others call it a 'bob'
after me, I'm Robert, it's just my little invention."
"So we take two pieces of bread do we Robert,
Do you say? Insert the choice filling in concert?
And I need not retreat for my meat while at cards
as 'tis our noble society's habit and convention?
mr. mustard
22-08-2012
Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“"What food is that you're eating my good man?"
enquired his curious lordship Earl of Sandwich, ”

Nice one Frank Imagine if he'd been the Earl of Bournemouth - we'd have had cheese and pickle bournemouths
mr. mustard
22-08-2012
What became of Gron?

What became of Gron?
Though ancient legends warm us
They quite often misinform us,
Any creature that enormous
Can't live on.

Some trace would have shown,
Yet there's not one recording
Of a fossil and according
To our books no dragon hoarding
Gold is known.

Fairytales lack truth,
They claim his home is Norway,
Just beyond a mountain doorway
In a cave, but there's no sure way
To get proof.

If Gron's still alive
He's probably Cretacious
Or Jurassic, goodness gracious,
Dragons must be so tenacious
To survive.

Flames across the sky,
Imagine if his bellow
Shook a sunset drowned and mellow,
Scales of green and eyes of yellow
Soaring high.

Though agreed upon
The facts, we men of science
Cannot stop the strange reliance
On those fire-breathing giants
Such as Gron.


©
mr. mustard
23-08-2012
Teenage Depression

Head bowed and stomach in a knot,
The walk to school was fearful,
This teenager could never slot
In with the pack so cheerful.

Mute spells ensured I couldn't win,
Though some took it for slyness,
At sixteen I was chained within
The dungeon of my shyness.

The mind can traipse through sorrow’s maze
Controlled by mental pulleys,
I knew it wasn’t 'just a phase'
Or caused by sneering bullies.

I longed to give each day a miss
And stay inside my prison,
I only knew a dark abyss,
Although the sun had risen.

And then I fell into the core,
No ledges, just a binding
Unstoppable revolving door,
A spiral staircase winding.

Life came along and tripped a soul
Unfortunately fated,
A doctor gave me Tryptizol,
Those yellow pills I hated.

I couldn't tell him how I felt
As there were no descriptions;
The hand my DNA had dealt
Trumped medical prescriptions.

While others learned to live I stayed
Behind like some enigma,
I kept my illness in the shade
Because of its deep stigma.

From childhood smile to tortured cry,
When joy turned to repression,
My teenage years were savaged by
The black dog of depression.


©
Biz
23-08-2012
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“What became of Gron?

Fairytales lack truth,

©”

Awww! I thought they were real.

Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Teenage Depression

©”

That's a shocker Musty. If it's a personal story, I hope you soon emerged from the gloom. Apparently depression is becoming more prevalent, and I understand even children can suffer from it.

When people emerge from depression they often achieve great things.
mr. mustard
23-08-2012
Originally Posted by Biz:
“That's a shocker Musty. If it's a personal story, I hope you soon emerged from the gloom. Apparently depression is becoming more prevalent, and I understand even children can suffer from it.

When people emerge from depression they often achieve great things. ”

Thanks Biz The poem's written from my own experience.
allthingsuk
23-08-2012
High Noon

High noon,
The student standoff, results day
Where the paper bait lays in wait
An envelope of uncertainty
One by one,
He opens his envelope
Cautiously, like a timebomb
Ticking his future away
Reveals the paper
That could blast his life into shards
Could it be a dummy?
Armed with the phone,
He presses the trigger,
And relays the message home...
Could it be a scream for despair,
Or a scream of euphoria?
Danger averted.
The weapon can be put down.
The bomb has been diffused.
No one harmed
Future unscathed,
Kicking and breathing.
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