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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#1276 |
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Quote:
Bit morbid tonight, so Spoiler tags to protect the happy from dark questions.
More or Less.
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#1277 |
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Star.
To get any farther we need your star. The Roswell poem was about my third attempt at the topic. I'm happy with this one I think
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#1278 |
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There Goes the Gothic Girl
There goes the Gothic girl, walking along Out of tune with all the rest, There goes the Gothic girl, knows right from wrong And of life's endurance test. On turning seventeen she became blue, Parents could not understand, Teachers who taught her failed miserably too, Everything seemed drab or bland. School stays a chore, an incredible bore With the exception of art, A face in the crowd with one friend and no more, An outsider standing apart. Weekends are better, for time tends to flow Enveloped in music’s caress, Her private face stunning and white as the snow, Like ravens the shapely black dress. Nights with her friend, both agreeing they feel Lost in a world that’s gone mad, Night is a refuge consoling and real When others label you sad. There goes the Gothic girl, walking along Wise beyond her tender years, There goes the Gothic girl, fleeing the throng Of her unquestioning peers. © |
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#1279 |
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Well having had a quick look (on television) at what some of the youth of today get up to, I know I don't want to be one of them...........so I'll settle for reality and the knowledge that I'm (probably) closer to death than they are. In the meantime, I'll stay happy.
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Nice one Archiver - I quite like the idea of aliens nicking the sun
The Roswell poem was about my third attempt at the topic. I'm happy with this one I think ![]() ![]() The draining process has already begun, which you can just about see in this photo taken from your planet surface recently: http://spaceweathergallery.com/full_...1388804940.jpg |
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#1280 |
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America, here we come.
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Ta Musty. The new Roswell one is great. As is The Gothic Girl, which also seems familiar.
![]() http://spaceweathergallery.com/full_...1388804940.jpg
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#1281 |
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Hoping you can stay settled and happy to the end Biz.
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#1282 |
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The crucial two words in the poem Biz, are 'We're told'. Rather than accept either viewpoint on Roswell, I wanted to describe what's claimed but also leave it open
![]() Now don't cheat by looking at DS.
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#1283 |
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Now Class, tell me, what do you think Robert Coleman meant to convey by "We're told"? Does it have any particular significance in the context?
The two words are easily overlooked ![]() That scary poem we discussed the other day is still having trouble coming through. I wonder if I've left the dark side for good? I woke up in the throes of an awful nightmare recently - I consciously saw what was going on in it, albeit briefly. Maybe it's still there
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#1284 |
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Hi Biz
The two words are easily overlooked I must say ![]() That scary poem we discussed is still having trouble coming through. I wonder if I've left the dark side for good? I woke up in the throes of an awful nightmare recently - I consciously saw what was going on in it, albeit briefly. Maybe it's still there ![]() ![]() Pity you can't write in your sleep. So long as you don't post it late at night when you do remember - anyway I wouldn't read it until morning.
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#1285 |
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Pity you can't write in your sleep. So long as you don't post it late at night when you do remember - anyway I wouldn't read it until morning.
![]() ![]() Right, I'm off now - there's a horror film on at nine, one I can handle ![]() Night Biz
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#1286 |
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Night Musty. I'm about to watch a horror film too - it's called Celebrity Big Brother.
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#1287 |
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I stay
Thank you Mr Chocolate Orange as we pass the day a topic of conversation and with you I stay I turn to walk away for a moment in affray but back before you know and without much delay
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#1288 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Magpies
From every beak Sweet voices speak, © Lovely
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#1289 |
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I'm about to watch a horror film too - it's called Celebrity Big Brother.
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Thank you Mr Chocolate Orange
as we pass the day ![]() I'm glad you liked Magpies, thank you
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#1290 |
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Ponch
I never knew my Grandfather On the maternal side, Never shared some time or a funfair ride, I can’t even recall when he died. Although his trail to London led, He came from Cobham, born and bred, While christened to grow as Leonard then, Our clan rejected an endearing ‘Len’. His nickname was ‘Ponch’ and Ponch he remained, A reference to Pilate, the official who Tried Jesus when crucifixions stained, And the name just stuck like bloody glue. He was part of a page in the Kaiser age, A male like others who unleashed rage, No pushing of prams for them; when wives Made homes but suffered the bitterest lives. I asked Mum once how Nan got her scar, ‘Oh that was when Ponch picked up a jar And smashed it at dinner’, a sudden grab, The scar was left by a meal-time stab. Cigarettes were extinguished on arms as well, So after buckets of domestic hell The rarity of a divorce was sought, Nan had to flee through the last resort. She moved out in secret and sick with dread, Yet a longing to smile made her leave on their bed An abstract symbol to curse his might, A large black feather on sheets of white. Were violent episodes innate or designed? What snapped when the demons entrapped his mind? Of course there’s a chance that it all came from His military service at the Somme. Rumours and legends followed him too, He burnt down the Crystal Palace (not true) But a plausible one that didn’t budge Concerned a young private who held a grudge. Incensed by Ponch, via post-war planning He tracked him down to the old George Canning, Where the soldier entered, looked quickly about Then knocked his intoxicated foe spark-out. All I have left is a South London scene, Waistcoat with sleeves rolled up, face mean, Ponch in the sepia sunlit glare; A drop of Grandfather’s terrible stare. © |
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#1291 |
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Quote:
Ponch
©
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#1292 |
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Prayer
Cast these heavy chains away And let their shackles fall, Tell me how I find a way That leads me to your hall. There at last behind the doors I'll lose these tears of mine, Glad to place my hands in yours Before you pour the wine. Help my eyes behold and then Return the skies to blue So I see the world again As beautiful and true. Looking at the rivers here Unable to decide, I will choose the boat to steer But only you can guide. Show a world secure and warm Where acts of kindness reign, Rid me of this petty storm Along with fear and pain. Through the night when hope is gone And I am less than whole Shine your healing light upon The darkness in my soul. © Not too proud to admit: for personal reasons, it made me cry..... |
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#1293 |
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Gentleman
A weary gentleman in a hat with a fancy walking stick asked most politely of a young man for a pleasing place to sit said his mother as she answered awoken from a moment's nap as they stood and walked together polite gentleman thanked and sat the bus hurried as more passengers gathered journeyed and that was that
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#1294 |
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A sad and thought provoking story encapsulated in a few well chosen words. A wonderful poem Musty.
![]() The damaging effect Ponch had at home cast a long shadow, as Mum was just one of seven children.Quote:
Not too proud to admit: for personal reasons, it made me cry.....
So many strange things happened to me some years back, it sort of confirmed my beliefs.Quote:
Gentleman
the bus hurried as more passengers gathered journeyed and that was that I use buses a lot, even though I drive. They're microcosms of human behaviour and a good place to find inspiration for poems
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#1295 |
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Originally Posted by mr. mustard
I love it Sandy
I use buses a lot, even though I drive. They're microcosms of human behaviour and a good place to find inspiration for poems ![]() Thanks Musty ![]() The inspiration for the poem was an incident that happened yesterday, luckily there were some seats upstairs as the bus was very busy. I noticed that the gentleman's walking stick was very fancy and unusual. The gentleman asked someone else if he could sit down before he asked us but the lady he asked may not have understood or was tired.
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#1296 |
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Thank you, Mr M
It's a great thread.
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#1297 |
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The gentleman asked someone else if he could sit down before he asked us but the lady he asked may not have understood or was tired.
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Thank you, Mr M
It's a great thread.
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#1298 |
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Thanks so much Biz
The damaging effect Ponch had at home cast a long shadow, as Mum was just one of seven children.
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#1299 |
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That is so sad Musty. The older I get the more I become aware of how very fortunate I've been.
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#1300 |
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Love Again
BY PHILIP LARKIN Love again: wanking at ten past three (Surely he’s taken her home by now?), The bedroom hot as a bakery, The drink gone dead, without showing how To meet tomorrow, and afterwards, And the usual pain, like dysentery. Someone else feeling her breasts and ****, Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare, And me supposed to be ignorant, Or find it funny, or not to care, Even ... but why put it into words? Isolate rather this element That spreads through other lives like a tree And sways them on in a sort of sense And say why it never worked for me. Something to do with violence A long way back, and wrong rewards, And arrogant eternity. That's how it's done. |
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