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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 3) |
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#1776 |
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Gifts
Blanket darkness of a moonless night sky
Like a jeweller’s giant felt cloth stretches A black expanse to the upward looking eye. Sprinkled thereon a twinkle of stellar gems, Sparkle of faceted diamonds shining down, Ancient rays of alien suns, pin drops of time And space, engendering awe in all who saw These flawless priceless gifts from the past. |
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#1777 |
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#1778 |
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#1779 |
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English Treasure
Queen Boudicca's calibre Arthur with Excalibur Poppies at the Cenotaph Gandalf and his magic staff, Finely-crafted Morris treats Triffids on deserted streets Sunsets of the Kinks suffice Waterloo is paradise, Country lanes that tend to wind Dreams that Millais left behind Looming Stonehenge megaliths Dover's white defiant cliffs, Betjeman and William Blake Bluebird speeding on the lake Alfred Hitchcock, Robin Hood Roast beef next to Yorkshire pud, Pots of tea for pick-me-ups Non-league teams in FA Cups Cornish bays with little boats Kenneth Williams anecdotes, Vintage cars that need a push Lily Langtry and Kate Bush Barges on remote canals Enid Blyton's Noddy tales, Fish and chips and shepherd's pies Eric Morecambe, Ernie Wise Tommy Cooper's scarlet fez Whistle Down The Wind and Kes, Village taverns, Desperate Dan Thomas Paine's The Rights of Man Sunshine on the Pennines Way Skies of unrelenting grey, Alan Bennett, Morrissey Weston-super-Mare by sea Peter Pan, a bear called Pooh And The Long Good Friday too, Henry Tudor's lengthy reign HG Wells and Michael Caine Winston Churchill, Rubber Soul English Treasure makes me whole. © |
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#1780 |
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Build their memorials high
Respect the ground where the bodies lie Remember the cause for which they came to die But never cease to question for what for whom and why? ![]() Quote:
Blanket darkness of a moonless night sky
Like a jeweller’s giant felt cloth stretches A black expanse to the upward looking eye. |
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#1781 |
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Thanks Biz and Musty for your comments. Musty, a marvelous idea the plaudits for things you appreciate that are quintessentially English, although personal. I'm sure many will relate to many of these. Me too.
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#1782 |
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Musty, a marvelous idea the plaudits for things you appreciate that are quintessentially English, although personal. I'm sure many will relate to many of these. Me too.
Ages ago when I first posted the poem you rightly noted how I'd omitted John Betjeman - in this version I've corrected that oversight
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#1783 |
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A windy Cornish cove
I left a Cornish tavern for A stroll down to a Cornish shore, From walls of cottages aglow The beach was just a pebble's throw. I turned the final corner and Observed a lonely strip of sand, It seemed to be a secret place, Of tourists there were not a trace. On such a grey and windswept day I sensed Daphne DuMaurier, The birds swooped low and made a din Yet here stood no Jamaica Inn. The cove possessed a ravaged form, Its surface must have suffered storm Erosion for so many years, Absorbing spray into the tiers. Wet seaweed glistened dark and green, Then I imagined in the scene How smugglers with illegal stock Approached the jagged moonlit rock. From leagues of rough Atlantic foam I watched their vessels sailing home, I noticed lanterns shining bright On ships that only trade at night. And after glimpsing coastal crime I came back to the present time; What dreams await me when I rove Down to a windy Cornish cove. © |
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#1784 |
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English Treasure
© Quote:
A windy Cornish cove
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#1785 |
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Synethsesia
Waves cascading
On desolate beach Of a dark deserted shore. Splashing sounds And drips of blood As rabid vultures soar Loathsome their screech Vile drippings from the maw. Red ocean's flood, Heart beat pounds Red, red resounds; Mind wondering: what does it mean? Red: the sound of War. |
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#1786 |
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It probably didn't endear him to the residents of Slough. I wonder where that name came from. It makes me think of "the slough of despond" in Pilgrim's Progress.
'Slough, Berks - The slough or miry place' So slough is old English for swamp, but you're right as it can also mean 'a state of hopeless depression'. Either way it has associations of getting bogged down. Pop singer Morrissey's a big fan of John Betjeman - his song Everyday Is Like Sunday contains the lyric: In the seaside town That they forgot to bomb, Come, come, come nuclear bomb! |
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#1787 |
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Mind wondering: what does it mean?
Red: the sound of War. I couldn't find Synethsesia in my dictionary though
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#1788 |
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From my Dictionary Of English Place-Names Biz:
'Slough, Berks - The slough or miry place' So slough is old English for swamp, but you're right as it can also mean 'a state of hopeless depression'. Either way it has associations of getting bogged down. Quote:
Pop singer Morrissey's a big fan of John Betjeman - his song Everyday Is Like Sunday contains the lyric: Ooooh! What was he thinking. It's possible to go just too far. In the seaside town That they forgot to bomb, Come, come, come nuclear bomb! ![]() Quote:
A very powerful poem Frank, much enjoyed
I couldn't find Synethsesia in my dictionary though ![]() Quote:
Synesthesia
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#1789 |
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Ooooh! What was he thinking. It's possible to go just too far.
![]() 'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!' - I'm sure Betjeman never really meant it
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#1790 |
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A bomb is a bomb is a bomb Biz
'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!' - I'm sure Betjeman never really meant it ![]()
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#1791 |
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A very powerful poem Frank, much enjoyed
I couldn't find Synethsesia in my dictionary though ![]() IMO old Betj was being extreme ungratuitously for the purpose of arguing his aesthetic opining on the state of Slough, like Clarkson saying people should be shot (but i.e. not seriously). |
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#1792 |
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But somehow it didn't seem to be offensive when Betjeman said it - anyway, think of the nuclear fall-out.
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Knew I'd cock up on the spelling of this (thanks Biz generously calling it a typo). Should be "Synesthesia," couldn't get my mind let alone tongue round it, its just a condition I heard of that means some people sense sound as certain colours. Sorry to confuse. Thanks for reading and commenting Musty and Biz.
IMO old Betj was being extreme ungratuitously for the purpose of arguing his aesthetic opining on the state of Slough, like Clarkson saying people should be shot (but i.e. not seriously). I agree about Slough. The poem used the town as a symbol of all the modern things he hated. It wasn't really a vicious attack on the place, more a statement of discontent on the changes in life that the poet couldn't stand.
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#1793 |
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Arwen Evenstar
As mithril jewels seen from afar Or playful rippling surf What beauty Arwen Evenstar Possessed in Middle-earth. Her eyes were like a cloudless night Revealing gentle grace, Her dresses shone with gleaming light And though age on her face Etched wisdom deep as oceans she Remained forever young; A flower fair for all to see Who spoke the Elvish tongue. Her loveliness was unsurpassed And poets still respond, But Arwen Evenstar has passed Into the mists beyond. © |
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#1794 |
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I know what you mean - John Betjeman was such a friendly figure. I love the fact that he never discarded his teddy bear
![]() ![]() Quote:
Arwen Evenstar
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#1795 |
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A beautiful poem, though I haven't read/seen Lord of the Rings.
Here's Arwen in a scene from the film.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qxxfrdYvl8 |
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#1796 |
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#1797 |
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Britain's saddest theft
I This tale rarely gets a mention And may not be known to all; How religious intervention Caused Avebury's stones to fall. The monument in Wiltshire we see Really is a special thing, Completed in 3000 BC, Two avenues and one great ring. It should have stayed unchanged forever, Without Christian fear it might But Puritans full of endeavour Came to desecrate the site. The locals in the medieval Era had a job to do With yokel tools for fighting evil, Shovels, spades and crowbars too. There was no fair consideration Given to this pagan place, They had no thought or toleration, All they saw was Satan's face. And so the megaliths were tumbled, Men worked hard and yet still bound By superstition, no stones crumbled; Most were buried underground. II Avebury, from our prehistory Stood the next four hundred years But 'progress' seemed to weaken mystery; What remained lured merchant peers. Thus did temple turn to quarry, Bridges, drains and cottage walls Planned by builders never sorry, Profit was the only cause. The western avenue through pillage Lost two hundred stones, in sun Here they shimmered near the village, Yet today there's only one. Stone-breakers' names were recorded, Griffin, Robinson and Green, Fowler, doing something sordid, Picture now the awful scene: Sledgehammers primed for destruction, Sarsen burned or smashed to lumps Till a mystical construction Lay in fragments, bits and stumps. Though six hundred stones here towered Less than eighty now are left, Avebury where magic flowered, Scene of Britain's saddest theft. © |
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#1798 |
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Wow! You could do with her services in the south; you're short of water.
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#1799 |
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Britain's saddest theft
© Quote:
I'm glad to see it raining today Biz
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#1800 |
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It would have been wonderful to see them in their original state
![]() No one explains it better than Julian Cope, one of my heroes ![]() http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hr5a0WqlYE0 |
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'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!' - I'm sure Betjeman never really meant it 