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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4)


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Old 21-01-2014, 18:25
McMahauld
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Thank you, Mr Mustard! *doesn't blush*

You've got to join the thread Mac
But... but I'm in the thread...
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Old 21-01-2014, 18:52
Noe Soap
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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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Old 21-01-2014, 20:30
mr. mustard
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But... but I'm in the thread...
Welcome anyway my friend

Henry V111 was 1 rotten king,
a matter beyond disputation.
An accurate portrayal and well-described throughout Frank 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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Old 21-01-2014, 21:49
Biz
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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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Old 21-01-2014, 21:56
Biz
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Yeah, otherwise evening cocktails on the yacht won't happen
'Fraid not unless you win the lottery - or marry a rich widow.
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Old 21-01-2014, 21:57
Biz
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Can't say I fancied him Frank.
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Old 21-01-2014, 23:49
McMahauld
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Welcome anyway my friend
Just checked and have seen that it's your
original thread from 2007 and not 'DS Forum
Support' So thanks for the welcome to your thread!

Henry V111 was 1 rotten king,
Was going to criticise you for using '1' instead of 'one'
- then I realised what you did there -'V111' - clever!

(Frank) FOOTNOTE:- the "f"word above will be
banjaxed by asterisks but it is ****ing essential
for the meaning it is invested with here.
That's one of the downsides of general
censorship, although it is needed sometimes.

Do you think this was one
of his bedtime stories for (his?) children?
It could well have been...

"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)."

I didn't really 'get' Shakespeare when he was rammed down
our throats at school. Too young to appreciate him I suppose.
Same here. I only 'got' him when I played a few parts (when
adult) in his plays - the best way of discovering Shakespeare IMO.
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Old 22-01-2014, 01:47
mr. mustard
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Just checked and have seen that it's your
original thread from 2007 and not 'DS Forum Support'
No probemo Mac - I always think of it as 'our' thread here
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Old 22-01-2014, 01:51
mr. mustard
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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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Old 22-01-2014, 06:42
McMahauld
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Alfred Hitchcock and Psycho
©
Loved it. Great rhyme, rhythm and dark humour, Mr Mustard.

'The Ballad of Hitchcock and Bates'
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Old 22-01-2014, 14:04
Biz
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"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)."
I must look those up.

Same here. I only 'got' him when I played a few parts (when
adult) in his plays - the best way of discovering Shakespeare IMO.
I can appreciate that.
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Old 22-01-2014, 14:10
Biz
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Alfred Hitchcock and Psycho

©
I'm don't know whether this is the same poem but I know you've written one about this before.

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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Old 23-01-2014, 01:07
Noe Soap
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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.


©
Bravo Musty, you picked the bones out of the cinema classic alright. Frank
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Old 23-01-2014, 12:35
mr. mustard
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Loved it. Great rhyme, rhythm and dark humour, Mr Mustard.
The only thing I remember about the poem or the film is the shower scene
Bravo Musty, you picked the bones out of the cinema classic alright. Frank
Thanks all, I enjoyed writing this one 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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Old 23-01-2014, 19:20
lah1
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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.


©
Right here goes again.

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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Old 23-01-2014, 19:31
lah1
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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.


©
'Who do you think you are'is encapsulated in your poem Mr Mustard

Lynne
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Old 23-01-2014, 20:25
mr. mustard
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My three lads are all arty and never followed perceived fashion of the 'day'
Thank you Lynne, I'm glad the poem chimed and made you think of your sons 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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Old 23-01-2014, 21:04
mr. mustard
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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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Old 24-01-2014, 13:43
Biz
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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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Old 24-01-2014, 15:08
sandydune
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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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Old 24-01-2014, 20:44
mr. mustard
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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.
Indeed Biz - Marilyn remains in a time bubble. I think she'd be pleased to know her popularity lasted

Very interesting poem Musty.

Marilyn, the girl that was, the woman that lived, as the sparkles of her life remain everlasting.
Thanks Sandy 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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Old 24-01-2014, 21:24
sandydune
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Thanks Sandy She does seem eternal, one of those acts like The Beatles who stay at the top even while absent.
Sometimes far away but then never forgotten.


Originally Posted by mr. mustard
My last Marilyn poem didn't work but I'm ok with this one - so I can relax now
Relax, Musty.
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Old 24-01-2014, 21:34
mr. mustard
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It's nice to Sandy I'm having a little tipple after a busy day
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Old 24-01-2014, 21:57
sandydune
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Originally Posted by mr. mustard
It's nice to Sandy I'm having a little tipple after a busy day
Be careful, don't trip over the rug.
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Old 24-01-2014, 22:08
mr. mustard
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Be careful, don't trip over the rug.
I don't have a rug any more but that's still good advice
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