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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4)
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mr. mustard
18-12-2013
My Old Town

When I looked round my old town
Of home there was no trace;
The houses had been rolled down
And new flats filled the space.

I visited the green park
Where innocence I'd known
But now it lacked the old spark,
My childhood dreams had flown.

Some youths came from the tavern
Who sneered at me and swore,
Now inn had turned to cavern,
A friendly pub no more.

How sad to be a stranger
No longer understood,
Worn out by crime and danger,
Most locals left for good.

A neighbour's door stayed bolted
Until she heard my voice,
I didn’t feel insulted,
For she had little choice.

Respect was cheaply squandered
And fear had won the day,
On my old town I pondered
Then swiftly walked away.


©
Biz
18-12-2013
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“My Old Town

©”

It's as if part of your life has disappeared isn't it, parts that are still alive in your head.

Who was it said "change and decay all around I see"?

Having said that, I wouldn't change my life.
mr. mustard
18-12-2013
Originally Posted by Biz:
“It's as if part of your life has disappeared isn't it, parts that are still alive in your head.”

Exactly Biz. The poem was partly based on an actual visit I made back to our part of London. My old neighbour wouldn't open the front door. She only trusted a coded sequence of knocks made up by people in the street. There were so many crimes like mugging that locals were forced to use desperate measures
Biz
18-12-2013
That is sad, but very understandable. We all need good security these days, not like the days when no one locked their front doors.
mr. mustard
18-12-2013
Originally Posted by Biz:
“That is sad, but very understandable. We all need good security these days, not like the days when no one locked their front doors. ”

I'm grateful to remember those days
mr. mustard
18-12-2013
Love Song of Culloden

We stood side by side at Culloden
Defending our homeland so fair;
As the King's waiting men took position
That's when I first noticed her there.

I gazed at a tangle-haired lassie,
I sensed love was calling and while
Our nation's cause wasn't forgotten
We both shared in one fleeting smile.

As the sun slowly brightened a dark sky
My only true need was to glance,
Her eyes were as blue as a sapphire,
Her long golden hair lit by chance.

She helped supply meagre provisions,
With slaughter and fear to endure,
In the torrid time just before bloodshed
Her own mind appeared to be pure.

Regretful, I thought of what could be,
Until came the great battle cry
When I joined in the charge for our freedom
Preparing to do or to die.

And after that English shot hit me,
Reclining in pain and marooned
The girl I'd seen earlier gently
Cared for my incurable wound.

O lassie, how much you soothed me on
The last of my Jacobite trips
And the final few words I heard ever
Came out of your whispering lips.

Although the thyme here is unending
And heavenly highlands show grace
I'll always recall the tears you cried,
Aye lassie, they fell on my face.


©
Biz
18-12-2013
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Love Song of Culloden

©”

Such a sad tale.

I remember my Dad saying that when he'd been in hospital for an operation as a young man, they thought the nurses were angels. In those days of course, the nurses would be young, as they would have to leave when they got married. Those who hadn't married would be Sister, the dragon or Matron.
mr. mustard
18-12-2013
Originally Posted by Biz:
“I remember my Dad saying that when he'd been in hospital for an operation as a young man, they thought the nurses were angels.”

A common reaction Biz and after my spell in hospital back in the spring, one I can identify with
DiligentDan
18-12-2013
I wrote a poem
It's all my own
I done it myself
For the good of my health

I done it to express the things that are so deep inside
Not good to let them fester away and hide
Need to get it out and to self-express
Otherwise I would end up a mess. (inside).

Now that I got it off of my chest
I feel better and can rest
So, no, poetry isn't dead
Its what is all inside your head
And it should be said.


...Nah, that's just me arseing about. Here's a proper one I wrote:

Tomorrow steals the substance from the glory of today
This precious moment soon will be a fading memory.
So let's leave no small deed undone, no giant rock unturned
And come the evening, let us say our slumber has been earned.
I want to cry for joy recalling all we've done and seen
And not waste silent tears regretting all that might have been.
flower 2
18-12-2013
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“My Old Town

When I looked round my old town
Of home there was no trace;
The houses had been rolled down
And new flats filled the space.

I visited the green park
Where innocence I'd known
But now it lacked the old spark,
My childhood dreams had flown.

Some youths came from the tavern
Who sneered at me and swore,
Now inn had turned to cavern,
A friendly pub no more.

How sad to be a stranger
No longer understood,
Worn out by crime and danger,
Most locals left for good.

A neighbour's door stayed bolted
Until she heard my voice,
I didn’t feel insulted,
For she had little choice.

Respect was cheaply squandered
And fear had won the day,
On my old town I pondered
Then swiftly walked away.


©”

Leaving those, the likes of you,
to live in an immoral stew.
Perhaps staying, and looking back,
would keep the town you loved on track. xxx
Biz
19-12-2013
Originally Posted by DiligentDan:
“Tomorrow steals the substance from the glory of today
This precious moment soon will be a fading memory.
So let's leave no small deed undone, no giant rock unturned
And come the evening, let us say our slumber has been earned.
I want to cry for joy recalling all we've done and seen
And not waste silent tears regretting all that might have been.”

Phew! What a relief to reach the final verse Dan. I love it. You should give it a title.
Biz
19-12-2013
Originally Posted by flower 2:
“Leaving those, the likes of you,
to live in an immoral stew.
Perhaps staying, and looking back,
would keep the town you loved on track. xxx”

I stayed Flower, but I don't think I've stemmed the march of time.
mr. mustard
20-12-2013
Originally Posted by DiligentDan:
“I want to cry for joy recalling all we've done and seen
And not waste silent tears regretting all that might have been.”

What a moving write Dan While I agree with the sentiments of your arseing around poem, this one really hit me - I shall read it again later on. Welcome to the thread by the way, I'm not sure if you've posted before

Originally Posted by flower 2:
“Perhaps staying, and looking back,
would keep the town you loved on track. xxx”

If only Flower - the town I loved got destroyed in riots; leaving was sad but essential
mr. mustard
20-12-2013
Colours

Blue, the sea that soaks a coral reef,
Brown, an autumn change to summer’s leaf,
Red, the pretty petals of a rose,
Black beyond the cavern walls that close,
Purple for the sunset’s greatest shows.

Orange fills the lava spurting out,
Silver glow the scales of river trout,
Green, a jagged nettle often stings,
Yellow fly a small canary’s wings,
White, the crystal painting winter brings.


©
Biz
22-12-2013
Originally Posted by mr. mustard:
“Colours

..........................................
White, the crystal painting winter brings.

©”

I'd hate to go back to a black and white world. Mind you I do like to see the sparkle of sunshine on frost occasionally, though there's not been much of that this year. Hurray for colour.
mr. mustard
22-12-2013
Originally Posted by Biz:
“Hurray for colour. ”

Agreed Biz - I always feel great when I see a rainbow
mr. mustard
23-12-2013
The thread's gone very quiet, it's probably the time of year I recently looked at the rough print-out of my next book. The five weeks it took to write made hard but enjoyable work - however a fresh eye is always a good thing. As a result I'll be making changes over Xmas, including the running order of the poems. My technical helper/photographer is out of the country till the new year, but on his return we should be able to get it released before late February.

After that I'll be throwing everything but the kitchen sink into volume three; I'm aiming to get that published properly, not just on the internet. It's a very long shot but if you don't try you get nowhere.
sandydune
24-12-2013
It's the busiest time of year
with all of the christmas cheer
may it be fun and restful to you
also a new year to look forward to.

Merry Christmas Musty and all the poets
spiney2
24-12-2013
at this time of year
santa reallly deserves a beer.
instead, he'll stay teetotal and finish the delivery list
maybe santa is becoming a Methodist ?
flower 2
24-12-2013
Christmas comes but once a year
I hope yours is peaceful and full of good cheer,
The Turkey will be roasted
and Great Aunt Mary toasted.
but put your feet up and enjoy a good beer.

Merry Christmas everybody xxxx
mr. mustard
24-12-2013
Despite the awful storms around
Past Yules have been much colder,
So carry on, enjoy good cheer,
Nice gifts and Noddy Holder!

Merry Xmas to everyone who posts on or reads this thread
mr. mustard
24-12-2013
Originally Posted by sandydune:
“Merry Christmas Musty and all the poets”

Thanks Sandy - and for the poem, Merry Xmas to you too

Originally Posted by spiney2:
“at this time of year
santa reallly deserves a beer.
instead, he'll stay teetotal and finish the delivery list
maybe santa is becoming a Methodist ?”

He should both - beer and Methodism! Nice one Spiney

Originally Posted by flower 2:
“The Turkey will be roasted
and Great Aunt Mary toasted.”

I hope Aunt Mary doesn't get too burnt Flower - Merry Xmas
Biz
24-12-2013
Wow! Almost a party in here. Merry Christmas Musty and all poets present and absent.

I hope you're all ready for the annual anti-climax tomorrow. I'll be glad when sanity and normal television returns, I don't know about everyone else.

Pleased to hear publication is getting nearer Musty.
mr. mustard
25-12-2013
Originally Posted by Biz:
“Wow! Almost a party in here. Merry Christmas Musty and all poets present and absent. ”

Thanks Biz and Merry Xmas Yeah, I agree with you - the big build-up for months and it's all over in a day
mr. mustard
25-12-2013
The Gentle Mind

There lived a man, the gentle kind
Who only spoke the truth,
He shared his time with friends and dined
Beneath a humble roof.

And when he came to heal or preach
The masses would increase,
With open hands they tried to reach
His own which brought them peace.

Arrest would come along the way,
Some feared change and they thought
This rebel merited a day
Of judgement in their court.

The whip lashed but he shed no tears,
A flimsy case was built
Until a jury of his peers
Confirmed the prophet’s guilt.

To mock they placed upon his head
A crown of spiking thorns,
The Via Dolorosa bled
Upon that dawn of dawns.

Led to a hill where crowds came out,
Uncaring for his loss
The guards of Rome had little doubt
And nailed him to a cross.

Yet even hardened soldiers froze
When darkness filled the sky;
As death occurred his spirit rose
To heaven with a sigh.

Was he the Lord, shown by a star
Who died to break our chains?
Nobody knows but from afar
His gentle mind remains.


©
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