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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#1326 |
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Quote:
Bloody hilarious
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You've got to join the thread Mac
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#1327 |
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Rotten History
Rotten History
O Anne Boleyn came a cropper, fell prey to Henry 8th's chopper, dropped a daughter never a son, could not deliver a boy, not one. Woe alas it would not suffice for Henry to sire just this lass, only future kings cut any ice; for he an Elizabethan age did not foresee for he was the prototype of your MCP. Trumped-up charges phony facts provide excuse for his favourite axe. This "****ing" king axed religion, friends and wives, luck if anything in this rudest reign survives, a horrible ruling of a nation, the least of all his reputation. Henry V111 was 1 rotten king, a matter beyond disputation. (Frank) FOOTNOTE:- the "f"word above will be banjaxed by asterisks but it is ****ing essential for the meaning it is invested with here. |
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#1328 |
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Quote:
But... but I'm in the thread...
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Henry V111 was 1 rotten king,
a matter beyond disputation. Henry tends to get romanticised, inevitable really with his image and the six wives. It wasn't until I read Antonia Fraser's superb book that I realised what a totally ruthless killer he was. Brutal times deal in brutality, but he was exceptional.
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#1329 |
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I love the way Ogden Nash 'forced' words to rhyme...
e.g. 'Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.' 'Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.' Do you think this was one of his bedtime stories for (his?) children? I didn't really 'get' Shakespeare when he was rammed down our throats at school. Too young to appreciate him I suppose.
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#1330 |
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Yeah, otherwise evening cocktails on the yacht won't happen
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#1331 |
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#1332 |
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Quote:
Welcome anyway my friend
![]() original thread from 2007 and not 'DS Forum Support' So thanks for the welcome to your thread! ![]() Quote:
Henry V111 was 1 rotten king,
- then I realised what you did there -'V111' - clever! ![]() Quote:
(Frank) FOOTNOTE:- the "f"word above will be
banjaxed by asterisks but it is ****ing essential for the meaning it is invested with here. censorship, although it is needed sometimes. Quote:
Do you think this was one
of his bedtime stories for (his?) children? "In the 1950s, Nash focused on writing poems for children, including the collections The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus (1957) and Girls are Silly (1962)." Quote:
I didn't really 'get' Shakespeare when he was rammed down
our throats at school. Too young to appreciate him I suppose. ![]() adult) in his plays - the best way of discovering Shakespeare IMO. |
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#1333 |
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Quote:
Just checked and have seen that it's your
original thread from 2007 and not 'DS Forum Support'
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#1334 |
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Alfred Hitchcock and Psycho
Back when Alfred Hitchcock decided America suited him more, The stars through deep malice he guided And murder became the big draw. Those brilliant original thrillers, Packed full of unease and suspense With celluloid Hollywood killers Made Hitch and his movies immense. Yet as the last decade’s vine withered He wanted the Sixties on screen, Indeed it was time he delivered An evil no film fan had seen. A change in the air gave provision For breaking the mould, a new look, An unheard of black and white vision Inspired by a pulp fiction book. The story concerned no one other Than some quiet dutiful son, Who cared for his elderly mother And met a sweet girl on the run. She robbed the bank where she’d been working And chose a motel when it rained Where Norman the good son was lurking Then greeted her, shy and restrained. There didn’t seem anything sour, No gun or irrational knave Until the girl, needing a shower Went into the bathroom to bathe. With wonderful water cascading To wash her mind and body clear, She missed how a silhouette shading The transparent curtain came near. So vulnerable now, unprotected And just as the curtain ripped back She screamed as the form she detected Proceeded to brutally hack. The spine-tingling fear cold and curling, The cruel violin knives that slay, The dead stare and plughole, where swirling Her lifeblood drained down and away. Here Hitchcock proved he was the master, A genius in all his pomp; As tension and dread racked up faster She sank with her car in a swamp. The motel that Norman ran meekly Had suddenly transformed into A place where the victims fell weakly When Mother pounced out of the blue. A private eye found no solution, She rushed him as he climbed the stairs; In each cinema revolution The directing genius dares. When psychopaths hide what can save us? At least Hitch ensured we took in They’re harmless as flies, till he gave us Old Mrs Bates’ skeletal grin. © |
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#1335 |
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Quote:
Alfred Hitchcock and Psycho
© 'The Ballad of Hitchcock and Bates'
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#1336 |
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Quote:
"In the 1950s, Nash focused on writing poems for children, including the collections The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus (1957) and Girls are Silly (1962)." ![]() Quote:
Same here. I only 'got' him when I played a few parts (when I can appreciate that. adult) in his plays - the best way of discovering Shakespeare IMO.
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#1337 |
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Quote:
Alfred Hitchcock and Psycho
© The only thing I remember about the poem or the film is the shower scene, and I'd stopped thinking about it at last when I step in the shower.........but now hmmmm, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.......or perhaps not!!! ![]()
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#1338 |
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Quote:
Alfred Hitchcock and Psycho
Back when Alfred Hitchcock decided America suited him more, The stars through deep malice he guided And murder became the big draw. Those brilliant original thrillers, Packed full of unease and suspense With celluloid Hollywood killers Made Hitch and his movies immense. Yet as the last decade’s vine withered He wanted the Sixties on screen, Indeed it was time he delivered An evil no film fan had seen. A change in the air gave provision For breaking the mould, a new look, An unheard of black and white vision Inspired by a pulp fiction book. The story concerned no one other Than some quiet dutiful son, Who cared for his elderly mother And met a sweet girl on the run. She robbed the bank where she’d been working And chose a motel when it rained Where Norman the good son was lurking Then greeted her, shy and restrained. There didn’t seem anything sour, No gun or irrational knave Until the girl, needing a shower Went into the bathroom to bathe. With wonderful water cascading To wash her mind and body clear, She missed how a silhouette shading The transparent curtain came near. So vulnerable now, unprotected And just as the curtain ripped back She screamed as the form she detected Proceeded to brutally hack. The spine-tingling fear cold and curling, The cruel violin knives that slay, The dead stare and plughole, where swirling Her lifeblood drained down and away. Here Hitchcock proved he was the master, A genius in all his pomp; As tension and dread racked up faster She sank with her car in a swamp. The motel that Norman ran meekly Had suddenly transformed into A place where the victims fell weakly When Mother pounced out of the blue. A private eye found no solution, She rushed him as he climbed the stairs; In each cinema revolution The directing genius dares. When psychopaths hide what can save us? At least Hitch ensured we took in They’re harmless as flies, till he gave us Old Mrs Bates’ skeletal grin. © |
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#1339 |
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Quote:
Loved it. Great rhyme, rhythm and dark humour, Mr Mustard.
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The only thing I remember about the poem or the film is the shower scene
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Bravo Musty, you picked the bones out of the cinema classic alright. Frank
Forgive my absence, I was at the seaside - which included the agony of watching Man United getting thumped out of another competiton ![]() You're right Biz, I've tackled Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho before. While pasting the collection together, two subjects returned that I've never captured to my satisfaction. The other's also Hollywood-based and I nailed it this morning. To be posted later
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#1340 |
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A great poem, Mr Mustard
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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. © I had replied prior to this but it has disappeared ![]() As I was saying in my first reply, I would imagine that your poem would resonate with boys too. My three lads are all arty and never followed perceived fashion of the 'day' Their teaches did not encourage them to follow their Art but to this day, all are still creating art and my youngest lad has quite a few albums/CDs under his belt. Thanks for this poem , Mr Mustard. Lynne x |
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#1341 |
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Wow - So emotive
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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. © Lynne |
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#1342 |
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My three lads are all arty and never followed perceived fashion of the 'day'
I was a complete outsider at school and I only achieved in Art, English and History. That meant I was largely a failure. It's taken many years to reach a place where I can actually do what I'm best at. Thanks for the feedback on Ponch too Lynne
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#1343 |
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Marilyn
A girl who stayed confused, A childhood of unused Warmth from the circumstances making An absent mom and dad, Content but never had Parental love which left her aching. The lonely whirlpool dazed And could not be erased, Yet some fulfilment came when rising Through puberty's strange glen, Discovering that men See dreams in you so tantalising. Stripped naked on a bed The model surged ahead, Film-pushers who control reaction, While sure most liked it hot Rejected skills she’d got; She knew the casting couch’s action. Loved Joe DiMaggio, Let Arthur Miller know The searing crucible of glamour, Her dress rose in a gust But now she’s turned to dust, The misfit broken by fame’s hammer. It’s something with her eyes, A dumb blonde never dies But Marilyn’s much more than this is, A goddess here despite The briefest earthly flight, She poses still and blows us kisses. |
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#1344 |
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Quote:
Marilyn
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#1345 |
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Very interesting poem Musty.
![]() Marilyn, the girl that was, the woman that lived, as the sparkles of her life remain everlasting. |
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#1346 |
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Such a sad story Musty, though isn't it miraculous that we can still see people on screen who though dead for many years are still alive.
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Very interesting poem Musty.
![]() Marilyn, the girl that was, the woman that lived, as the sparkles of her life remain everlasting. She does seem eternal, one of those acts like The Beatles who stay at the top even while absent.My last Marilyn poem didn't work but I'm ok with this one - so I can relax now
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#1347 |
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Thanks Sandy Sometimes far away but then never forgotten. She does seem eternal, one of those acts like The Beatles who stay at the top even while absent.
Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
My last Marilyn poem didn't work but I'm ok with this one - so I can relax now
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#1348 |
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Relax, Musty.
![]() I'm having a little tipple after a busy day
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#1349 |
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Originally Posted by mr. mustard
It's nice to Sandy
I'm having a little tipple after a busy day ![]()
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#1350 |
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Be careful, don't trip over the rug.
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