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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 3)
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mr. mustard
13-06-2012
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.


©
Burning Egg
13-06-2012
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Near Chartwell
©”



Wonderfully descriptive poem Musty.
mr. mustard
13-06-2012
Originally Posted by Burning Egg:
“Wonderfully descriptive poem Musty.”

Thanks BE
mr. mustard
14-06-2012
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.


©
Noe Soap
14-06-2012
[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
archiver
14-06-2012
"Archiver's effort" lol. I do try. Thanks Frank.
mr. mustard
14-06-2012
Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“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.”

Good point Frank, there'll always be thieves. I was referring to historical authorities though - urgent efforts are made in Egypt if hidden or newly discovered prehistoric treasures come to light. In Britain it's often 'So what?'
mr. mustard
14-06-2012
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.


©
Noe Soap
14-06-2012
Originally Posted by archiver:
“"Archiver's effort" lol. I do try. Thanks Frank.”

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
Noe Soap
14-06-2012
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.
archiver
14-06-2012
Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“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”

Oh, no need to apologise. I know full well you're a man of few, but exquisitely well chosen words, as your tribute to Ray Bradbury above shows so well. I used to read Amazing Stories when I was young and I believe it, or the other one, is still going.

The Prince of Darkness is superbly crafted, as usual Musty. Enjoyed it very much thank you, and all.
mr. mustard
15-06-2012
Originally Posted by Noe Soap:
“What writer will not recoil as Ray's "fireman"
Hoses books with blazing oil? Oh yes I'm one.”

A lovely ode for Ray Bradbury Frank. I guess it was hoping too much that any channel would screen Farenheit 451 in tribute to a sci-fi genius who recently passed away

Originally Posted by archiver:
“The Prince of Darkness is superbly crafted, as usual Musty. Enjoyed it very much thank you, and all.”

Ta Archiver
Burning Egg
15-06-2012
Thanks for the comment Frank.

Enjoyed everyone's recent poems immensely and the Bradbury tribute was exquisite..

If only one had more time etc.
Biz
15-06-2012
Aaahhhh! It warms my heart to see you poets interacting.
Noe Soap
15-06-2012
[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.
archiver
16-06-2012
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.
mr. mustard
17-06-2012
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.


©
mr. mustard
17-06-2012
Originally Posted by archiver:
“So; how lucky we are with our skys full of stars
and the moon, and our torches, and the planet Mars.”

I always enjoy your poems when they touch on the universe Archiver and this was no exception I felt like I was looking up at the night skies when I read it! Imagine if we had more than one moon
Chris65757
17-06-2012
William Shakespeare
Wrote King Lear,
And Hamlet and Macbeth:
All end in death.



Van Gogh
Cut his ear
Off.
mr. mustard
17-06-2012
Originally Posted by Chris65757:
“Van Gogh
Cut his ear
Off.”

And painted some brilliant pictures too Chris
Chris65757
17-06-2012
He certainly did. And made some great drawings too.
mr. mustard
17-06-2012
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.


©
mr. mustard
18-06-2012
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.


©
mr. mustard
18-06-2012
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.


©
Noe Soap
18-06-2012
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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