Poem for Big Ben

Every now and then
Big Ben strikes again,
Gong-like, almost Zen

Though the pigeons flock
They receive a shock
From the mighty clock

Where sad MPs climb
Big Ben sounds the prime
Mournful clang of time

Face without a frown
Looks across not down
Towards London town

O'er the busy ants
And odd miscreants
Who love its romance

Grey Thames sorrows churn,
Here the vast cogs turn
In the metal urn

No traitors who met
Or cruel bomber's threat
Has deterred it yet

Throughout peace and war
Big Ben you stood sure
And shall evermore


©

A wonderful historical ode Musty.








A highly descriptive tribute to what appears to be an eternal presence in our culture.

Great stuff Musty.

Aaah! The essence of England.


Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner?


That came from the heart, schmoo. It's grief in anticipation. I'm sure you'll cope much better than you think.

PS Musty doesn't know that "weesch/wheesh" means "be quiet". He's a Sassenach.

As I revised an earlier one (now in Musty's thread part 1) in2009 I should have indicated that, sorry Biz.

I don't understand the problem, Frank. I thought it was very clever to show what was going on in the imagination of the driver of the "soapbox".....sledge on wheels? That was how I interpreted it.

If it was recycled from part one - good thinking.

Thanks again for the feedback Troy & Biz The Robin Hood poem was originally going to include the usual characters like Little John, but then I decided it was better to give the piece an air of mystery.

True Biz, but I have actually got Scottish ancestors

I don't for one minute think poetry is a dead art: embalming definitely is!

My friend also writes poetry. Among all her poems, I find this one the funniest so far.

Duffy’s Treasure Hunt — A Poem for Fun

* Tish Boom *

I'm afraid the link didn't work for me Tech.

Ok grammar hounds, was 'has' wrong in my Big Ben poem? On looking at it again think 'have' seems better but I'm not sure

No traitors who met
Or cruel bomber's threat
Has deterred it yet

It's a difficult one isn't it? Possibly it should be 'have', but it could be read as 'nothing' has deterred it yet. It certainly didn't leap out as wrong when I first read it.


I'm a mongrel too.

George Webley better known as Big George
Has gone beyond our mortal verge at no age
His name won't make tomorrow's front page
My radio in London will be quieter at night
Less a voice that kept true fair debate alight.
Contacts broken in the links he firmly forged.

(He was only 53, a great BBC presenter 2 till 6)
There is a thread running in the DS radio forum.

Victory bells and cheering crowds
A madness to my mind
An eye is caught by sweeping clouds
Then tears the mood defined

For there she is in silent squall
Held bright against the sky
She knows in her we trusted all
And those that made her fly

Europe’s blood was drained and gone
And skies were turned to black
A Westward gaze it looked for dawn
Brought by the Union Jack

Oh no I used to listen to Big George some years ago. What sad news Frank

Great write Johnny The poem's very stirring and this verse reminded me of the Spitfire. I'm probably wrong though.

I don't think Johnny was impressed by the wedding crowds though.

Oops, I've misinterpreted again

Not necessarily, maybe I'm wrong. I thought there must have been a Spitfire in the fly-past. I only saw Lancasters.........or perhaps it wasn't the royal wedding crowd at all? It was the madness of the cheering crowds which caught my eye and the bells.

Perhaps Johnny will pop in to help us out.

You're both wrong I'm afraid - though I can see why Mr Mustard thought it might be a Spitfire.

The scene I pictured is the crowds celebrating in London on VE day (May 8th 1945). Watching from the sidelines is a Norwegian army officer - who's eye is caught by the union jack flying over the Houses of Parliament. He reflects on how all of Europe had put their hopes of liberation in Britain - the last bastion of the free.

And here it was at last.

Ahh! Thank-you Johnny. As Musty says we all interpret poetry in our own way.

What a great idea for a poem Johnny It's funny how Biz & I both perceived it in different ways

Have I found the one?

Like a moonlit sea
This girl's haunting me,
She's a perfect song,
She lets me belong,
Making shyness halt,
Breaking down the fort.
I'll ask then be done
Have I found the one?
Here's my own reply:
Love is worth a try.


©

I agree! It's always a leap in the dark, but better than a lifetime of "what ifs".

Thanks Biz

Love is worth a try
if it's deeper than the eye
and, unless I am mistook,
you're right in it by the look.

Don't let your pen get too dusty Musty.



Contemplato.

Sat quietly this time of night,
contemplating impolite
gestures of a troubled soul.
Deepest thoughts take their toll.

A memory of big and small.
So tiny. And yet, so tall.
So strange. And yet, so very right.
So heavy. And yet, so light.

Then all compassion seen so clear.
So trivial. And yet, as dear
as all compadre lost to war.
As all at home safely snore.

So tragic how we waste good men.
I guess I'll say that again
until my pen hath runeth dry.
Then, I guess, I'll simply cry.

What a marvellous poem Archiver. The last four lines in particular really moved me, but the whole thing is a superb construction. I read it twice because I found the second verse quite complex, but that made the following two even more effective. Contemplato once again shows the value of this thread

I haven't been able to finish the latest poems I've been working on because of time constraints, but they should be posted some time soon I hope everyone's enjoying the sunshine

Do You

Do you remember, his first excited little shriek,
As you spotted a stray foot, during hide and seek,
Do you remember, that sombre face of dismay,
As the kitchen cupboard, only opened a wee way,
Do you remember, the sheer shock on his face,
As he tripped in the hallway, racing his shoelace,
Do you remember, his counting from one to ten,
Holding a tight hand up stairs, then down again,
Do you remember, his cheeks sodden with tears,
As once again, he'd try to conquer his fears,
Do your remember, his beautiful mischievous grin,
As yoghurt kissed the carpet, the rest hid his chin,
His facial expressions, the raspberries he’d blow,
I now realise, how my Dad felt all those years ago