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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 3) |
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#2051 |
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Near Chartwell
I walked through dusk near Chartwell And glanced while on my way At each effect of autumn, Despite the freezing day. And while there in the forest Surrounded by old trees I caught the mystic scent of A bonfire on the breeze. The woodland radiated So much October haze, I thought some hand had painted The ideal vivid maze. Though overcast skies towered Late sunbeams fell upon A world of hidden beauty Where every small leaf shone. Bright oranges and yellows Swirled round as if in pools, While deeper tones of crimson Gleamed like exquisite jewels. High overhead I noticed That branches had combined To form a lovely ceiling With different leaves entwined. I felt the chill air warming, October turned from cold For autumn played its music, A symphony in gold. When I require a moment To soothe away the care I dream I’m back near Chartwell And all the colours there. © |
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#2052 |
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#2053 |
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#2054 |
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Celtic Spirit
In the Caledonian highlands Wind throughout each thistle calls, Shadow gaining on loch islands As the sun of Scotland falls. Echoes down a steep Welsh valley Telling of the dragon's fire Where the depths are hard to tally And the mountain peaks inspire. Irish temple of descendants, Here the pagan legends join, Banks of sacred independence All along the River Boyne. Lonely Hebridean places, Meadows on the Isle of Man Holding long-forgotten traces Of the ancient British plan. Celtic spirit lures the rover, Tor of Glastonbury glows, Lindisfarne, white cliffs of Dover, Holy Grail and English rose. © |
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#2055 |
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[quote=mr. mustard;58814429Sorry for the rant, but this wouldn't happen in Egypt. They respect their past.[/QUOTE]
Except for the tomb robbers that is Musty eh? presumably Egyptians. Anyway I would agree about greater upholding of the earlier past in the case of the stones and the same about access to Stonehenge, surely the marvel of this island's heritage, better than all those palaces I'd say. By the way well done the switch of boy to its homophone in the sweet poem by I think "b.e." on previous page. Oh and archiver's effort. Frank |
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#2056 |
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"Archiver's effort" lol. I do try.
Thanks Frank.
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#2057 |
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Quote:
Except for the tomb robbers that is Musty eh? presumably Egyptians. Anyway I would agree about greater upholding of the earlier past in the case of the stones and the same about access to Stonehenge, surely the marvel of this island's heritage, better than all those palaces I'd say.
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#2058 |
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The Prince of Darkness
Her corpse lies there in starkness, The taste is on his tongue, Behold the Prince of Darkness Who's ancient yet still young. Each vampiress has duties, Sweet lust is his lone vice, Those dead erotic beauties Make love as cold as ice. The silver moon's the one light That he can look upon; Before the time of sunlight Like melted frost he's gone. He's seen our social features From art to prison walls, Heard scientists and preachers Prevaricate like fools. So old he watched from galleons When cargo needed sails, When soldiers needed stallions And barges ruled canals. Today he finds amusing The violent urban gangs, Those guns and knives they're using Are no match for his fangs. He flees the church's steeple, He shuns the Jesus cross, He feeds on other people Yet deems it is no loss: Because it's really giving Eternity instead, Though victims are not living They are the living dead. Lord of damnation's valley, The darkest of those long Dark shadows in the alley, He waits there, cruel and strong. He'll pounce but it's appealing, You'll sense an eerie bliss, Forget the fear you're feeling, Surrender to his kiss. Don't scream my love, don't foment, His bite will make you whole, It only takes a moment To lose the human soul. The end of being mortal, Death's realm is rich with gains Where through a blood-soaked portal The Prince of Darkness reigns. © |
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#2059 |
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Quote:
"Archiver's effort" lol. I do try.
Thanks Frank. |
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#2060 |
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Ray Bradbury (tribute)
A sum of his parts and his artistry
Was American writer Ray Bradbury; Story telling his principal business The readers lucky that he so chose Life enhancement his way of living Giving words, pure poetry in prose. This young man grazing in library Found Ray's fantasy, food for mind Of a fantastic phantasmagoric kind All printed, non-electronic, in books That you could fondle, (not on kindle) Bundled folios of paper tightly bound. Bound to be a Bradbury fiction world Of and off this planet among the stars In crazy carnival or an imagined Mars. Amazing short stories, tall and scary Tales, bizarre and quirky, yet folksy As Thanksgiving turkey on a US table. Ray's totalitarian fable to understand I Was once unable, but today I appreciate The hate of free ideas in such a state. Thanks to him readers remember how Books got turned to embers, an awful Author's nightmare - even worse than Faded back numbers, or publications Painfully remaindered; his novel firemen Dismember literature at that combustive Crucial temperature of Farenheit 451. What writer will not recoil as Ray's "fireman" Hoses books with blazing oil? Oh yes I'm one. |
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#2061 |
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Quote:
Effort of course as in the commonly used simile for contribution archiver, certainly my use of this word. is not dismissive. Sorry if it sounded such when not intended. A bit of an afterthought is all on a new page relying on my recall. Frank
The Prince of Darkness is superbly crafted, as usual Musty. Enjoyed it very much thank you, and all. |
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#2062 |
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Quote:
What writer will not recoil as Ray's "fireman"
Hoses books with blazing oil? Oh yes I'm one. Quote:
The Prince of Darkness is superbly crafted, as usual Musty. Enjoyed it very much thank you, and all.
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#2063 |
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Thanks for the comment Frank.
Enjoyed everyone's recent poems immensely and the Bradbury tribute was exquisite.. If only one had more time etc. |
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#2064 |
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Aaahhhh! It warms my heart to see you poets interacting.
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#2065 |
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[quote=Burning Egg;58854611]Thanks for the comment Frank.
The bouy poem was really good Burning Egg, good play on the word, I hope I just spelled right or is it buoy, no time to check after the football, a drink is called for. |
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#2066 |
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One Planet One Star.
When every star is far too far away to be seen and the night sky's as black as it's always been; will strange super creatures wonder in the night as they kneel down and pray - Let there be light. Their science would be different without so many clues. No red shift Doppler to soften their blues. So they sing for the morning and up she comes as they drum and strum with their opposing thumbs. The glory of sunlight (no other type permitted) They would know no other sun has existed, or ever will - no room for three - the thought - the height of stupidity. So; how lucky we are with our skys full of stars and the moon, and our torches, and the planet Mars. And the fact of the matter so revealed? Openly available to all. Unconcealed. |
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#2067 |
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Glastonbury Tor
Come behold The serpentine Rising road Where dreams entwine. This green hill Whose love is clear Climb until The summit’s near. As fields spread Across the plain Views imbed A monarch's reign: Arthur’s land Where legends tell God’s own hand Tolled freedom’s bell. Stare in awe And all make merry On the Tor Of Glastonbury. © |
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#2068 |
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Quote:
So; how lucky we are with our skys full of stars
and the moon, and our torches, and the planet Mars. I felt like I was looking up at the night skies when I read it! Imagine if we had more than one moon
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#2069 |
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William Shakespeare
Wrote King Lear, And Hamlet and Macbeth: All end in death. Van Gogh Cut his ear Off. |
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#2070 |
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Quote:
Van Gogh
Cut his ear Off.
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#2071 |
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He certainly did. And made some great drawings too.
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#2072 |
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Tunnel of Hate
Safe there, at least that's how it seemed As lights along the station beamed, The Underground an empty space At night and I, who stood in place. Lush posters on the walls displayed Rich glamour girls who posed or played Yet in the platform's loneliness Reality was something less. Then roared a sudden tide of jeers Fuelled by successive careless beers, A gang of youths came to unwind, To crush the boredom of the mind. They ate hot takeaways of junk With tempers rising, loud and drunk, A fight would make their quest end right And brighten up the West End night. Collective ignorance so near I sensed but couldn't lose my fear, Nowhere to run despite the urge, Adrenaline began to surge. Those trains that always thunder round The map of London's Underground, I prayed one would arrive for me, A midnight means of breaking free. And then the old familiar whine Came whistling down the Northern Line, The welcome carriage I desired Arrived by chance as I required. How sweetly closed each sliding door, I managed to jump on before The running members of the pack Could land a single kick or whack. They never boarded once to ride Yet lingered glaring hate and pride, Nocturnal bullies, unpoliced As in that song The Jam released. Escaping thugs who threatened harm, It took a while to regain calm, I dodged the vicious ones who stare In tunnels of their own despair. © |
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#2073 |
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The Pie & Mash shop
When Pie & Mash shops beckoned Before fast food came here Us Cockneys never reckoned Another meal came near. Polite, relaxed and able Good service never stopped, As wall tiles shone, each table Was smooth and marble-topped. Two scoops of mash, the best treat, No dish was quite as nice, Those pies contained the best meat, The nosh from paradise. Such gorgeous parsley liquor Upon the crust they'd pour And if you liked it thicker They'd pour a little more. How simple yet it still is My dream with benches placed, The vinegar with chillis, The salt and pepper taste. From Lambeth to the north side Their old front windows shone, A part of London town’s pride But now they’ve nearly gone. The food that used to shape me, Not caviar for fops, One plate for fourpence 'ape'nee, Our Pie & Mash was tops. © |
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#2074 |
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LS Lowry
LS Lowry's Chimney smoke Drains each sky of blue, LS Lowry's Normal folk Doing what they do. See the grime of Factories, Northern, cold and grey Making it a Typical Bitter English day. LS Lowry's Gritty-hued Streets are always bleak, Where the busy Matchstick herd Work five days a week. Luckily His loneliness Helped the artist see Bird’s-eye views With great success; Show both you and me. How divine to Anchor sheer Truth and something more: Life in Lowry’s Lancashire, As it was before. © |
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#2075 |
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Van Gogh's Ear For Music
Bert "Wolfie" Mozart was on the joanna
In the beer keller, making an awful row. Alf van Gogh, the pavement artist, sat Plaintively alongside his empty flat cap. Mozart had little ear for music, sadly so Colour blind Alf's red sunflowers didn't go. You needed more than a name it seemed To earn the fame they may have dreamed. |
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