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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 3) |
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#2501 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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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
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#2502 |
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Good luck with the project Musty. You must be getting quite excited the closer you get.
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#2503 |
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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. © |
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#2504 |
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Quote:
Good luck with the project Musty. You must be getting quite excited the closer you get.
![]() 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.
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#2505 |
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Join Date: May 2006
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Humility
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. Reason: title |
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#2506 |
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Quote:
(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.
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
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#2507 |
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Quote:
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 ![]()
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#2508 |
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Best of luck with the project Musty.
It'll be great to actually have a book by you in my possession at last.
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#2509 |
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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. |
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#2510 |
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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. |
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#2511 |
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Wishful Fishing
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] |
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#2512 |
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Quote:
Good luck with the publishing Musty. I hope all goes well. Put me down for a first edition regardless of price.
![]() Quote:
Best of luck with the project Musty.
It'll be great to actually have a book by you in my possession at last. 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
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#2513 |
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Quote:
Deadzone.
At once much bigger again. Sweet universal love. I liked the positive note at the end in particular ![]() Quote:
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. ) so this poem rang a lot of bells for me. I could picture the cat so clearly ![]() Quote:
We never caught a ruddy stupid thing,
'Cept some times worth remembering. I've been dredging up quite a few childhood memories for possible poems lately too. I used to love Spangles
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#2514 |
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Quote:
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.
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#2515 |
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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. © |
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#2516 |
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Quote:
Silbury Hill's treasure
© Blinding stuff Musty. Superb imagery as always.
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#2517 |
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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. ![]() Quote:
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. Quote:
I'm a cat-lover ( unlike Biz
) so this poem rang a lot of bells for me. I could picture the cat so clearly ![]()
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#2518 |
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Quote:
Blinding stuff Musty.
Superb imagery as always. 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.' Quote:
Well Rhumbatugger obviously understands cats, but that verse did give me the shivers.
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#2519 |
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How the sandwich was named
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? |
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#2520 |
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Quote:
"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
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#2521 |
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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. © |
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#2522 |
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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. © |
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#2523 |
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Quote:
What became of Gron?
Fairytales lack truth, © ![]() Quote:
Teenage Depression
© When people emerge from depression they often achieve great things.
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#2524 |
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Quote:
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. ![]() The poem's written from my own experience.
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#2525 |
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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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