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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#1601 |
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Music
Rock anthems make me punch the sky, A ballad makes me swoon, Absorbed in Pink Floyd passing by The dark side of the moon. The anger of the Pistols when They left the Queen repulsed, The sound of Blondie luring men, The Martian war of Holst. I capsize in the yellow of The Beatles' submarine, I linger in the mellow of Pastoral Fairport green. From Elvis to Manchester pain, From Sparks to XTC, It's no good, I just can't explain What music does to me. © |
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#1602 |
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Quote:
Sometimes when I'm writing I may only come up with a few lines but I hang on to them because, perhaps, at some future date they may grow into something more.
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#1603 |
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Quote:
Trouble with guessing is it largely depends on one's mood. Personally, I disabled PMs from day one, so if anyone wants to discuss a point they must do it openly and moderately.
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#1604 |
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Quote:
Bullying of all kinds is reprehensible not least internet trolling as mentioned often in these pages; well described sad scenario Musty. With best wishes welcome back to your regular place in your thread, thanks for the feedback good sir. Frank
Limited edit time meant mistakes stayed in Janet & prudence, worst of all in the repetition of 'town'. I can't stand repeating words close together ![]() Thanks for your kind words my friend. I hope Biz is alright, this her longest absence from the thread
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#1605 |
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(prompted by Musty's latest)
music makers music makers silence breakers where would we be without them? I for one would be left with way too many thoughts on this and that and reasons I should doubt them By the way Musty I'm doing a USA National Poetry Month sub elsewhere daily, will try to keep in touch Frank. |
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#1606 |
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Wishing you abundant skills for the poetry month Frank, and I enjoyed your and Musty's music tributes. All seconded of course. Usual subject matter from me. Inspired by discussions:
Home Baking. Ain't no knowledge without learning. Ain't no truth without discerning. Can't have infinity. No perfection I can see. Draw a circle in your mind. At the centre you find a lovely piece of cake, but the baker's on the make and he wants your very soul for an infinite roll. There's other kinds of food and it isn't being rude to argue that the deal isn't even real. Faith in the hereafter may lead to disaster in my humble view. So tell me something new. |
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#1607 |
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Graduation
Faithful soldier to the end,
Marches with no hesitation. No mercy for my special friend, It will indeed wreck our foundations. True. Not an uncommon trend. We shall soon be unfixed And this we both did comprehend. Though in long nights of Winter, Never did I truly consider That fateful day we must spliter. But then he sprung an hour foward, And though our days are longer, They are numbered and we are surely conquered. |
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#1608 |
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Quote:
(prompted by Musty's latest)
music makers Where would we be without music makers indeed Frank? For me, certain songs bring back the past, what I was immersed in at the time. They are psychological signposts and nothing else conjures up old emotions better ![]() Good luck with the American Poetry thing by the way Frank ![]() Quote:
Home Baking.
Faith in the hereafter may lead to disaster I do have faith but I keep it to myself - a lot of problems come when believers trumpet their ideals. I go my own way without a flock or Book of rules. Enjoyed the poem ![]() Quote:
Faithful soldier to the end,
Marches with no hesitation. It seems to be about two soldiers who are split up by duty or possibly death. I may be wrong but either way I enjoyed the tale
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#1609 |
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Mavis's Third Leg
Hello Jean, heard the latest? Sit down, this is no ruse, It really is the greatest, You won't believe the news! I said to Mrs Davis Who couldn't quite take stock, When I bumped into Mavis, I nearly dropped with shock. While living as a hermit, Believe me Jean, I beg - I really must confirm it, She grew another leg! She made the point it's handy, Old Mavis told me how She's still extremely bandy But no one sees that now. Oh God it's such a riddle, It's on the right-hand side, Her right one's in the middle, The left one sticks out wide. And Ted is discontented, In bed it stops their play, Each time she has consented Three thighs gets in the way. The bike's for sale, though Teddie Said peddling's kept her slim, It's hard to cycle steady When you've an extra limb. She tends to contemplate now The song called Jake the Peg; Well Jean, you're up to date now On Mavis's third leg. © |
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#1610 |
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Smilodon
The Smilodon let's study, Red sabre-toothed, paws muddy, A cat who guzzled bloody. Ten inches, fangs were hanging And roars would start drums banging, Alarm bells on and clanging. Noise stopped, abrupt suspension Until fear's intervention And silent creeping tension. Men gripped the spears that never Could muzzle once or tether The fiercesome fangs that sever. The cat pounced only when you Felt safe in some green venue; A mammal on the menu. The wild ones made a bee-line, This sabre-toothed and free line, Hail Smilodon, the feline. © |
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#1611 |
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O Rossetti
O Rossetti No confetti Lights your touching art, O Rossetti Heal my petty Unrequited heart. Lizzie Siddal Was a riddle And a femme fatale, Anyone tries Laudanum sighs Softly and turns pale. She you painted Chose a tainted Suicidal way, Crosses varnished When love's tarnished Each man rues the day. O Rossetti Sorrow's jetty Moors us to the dead, But you'd shun that With the one that William Morris wed. Jane you'd follow, Drown and wallow In her eerie grace, Gorgeous, broody Deep and moody Jane's intensive face. O Rossetti Women glow in Portraits left by you, When I partake In a heartache Only they will do. © |
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#1612 |
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Waving
High on a mountain low on a tree sits a talkative birdy waving at me
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#1613 |
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Quote:
High on a mountain
low on a tree sits a talkative birdy waving at me I love your nature poems
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#1614 |
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Waterfall
A waterfall with waves like milk Foamed till my mind transcended, The water looked as soft as silk, How lovely it descended. Surrounded by a forest sheen, Its secret home was hooded, An overlooked and pleasant scene In regions thickly wooded. Tides fell like colonnades onto A stream where they perfected Delightful stars of splashing blue And sunlight was reflected. I still think of the waterfall, What harmony was seen there, I felt as if I'd heard the call Of god within his green lair. © |
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#1615 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Brilliant Sandy
I love your nature poems ![]() ![]() Nature speaks, in the only way it can. ![]() Your poems speak of variations and directions.
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#1616 |
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Inspired by the painting 'Windows in the West' by Avril Paton
http://www.glasgowwestend.co.uk/people/avrilpaton.php Windows in The West Red slabs of sandstone, slow weathered in time and lives, a neighbourhood stacked. Set, close upon close, dwellings carved in ancient stone, step to step apart. Windows in the west draw the spreading scarlet glow of waking street lamps. Lives spread, front to rear, humdrum domesticity played out day on day. Night falls, glow-worm lit window-casts mottle the street while voyeurs steal past. Windows set in stone, impressed patchwork of lime-light, each framing its show. Nightly lit-to-view stacked proscenium windows play supporting acts. Shapes shift in each space, each out of time, out of pace, white noise to the eye. A dull, nightly glow, a show slowly unfolding in generations. A hopscotch of light shuttered at each curtain-fall, lives now unobserved. Drawn curtains close in unspeakable acts, snatched from the voyeur’s hard gaze. The night’s performance drawn down to a shadowplay of banality. |
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#1617 |
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^^ Real poetry that is scottie. Wonderful to watch.
Eternal Doubt. I heard it from a blackbird. All words are absurd. All concepts best before their reasons to implore. Later on the same day life took my breath away and everything I ever knew turned the sky a shade of blue. Fun is in the finding out. I drink to eternal doubt. |
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#1618 |
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Masters View
I am addicted to sport Masters golf for four of its red letter days is a pre Easter feast an annual fest l fete with zeal and zest and await with much bated anticipation. It matches feats of great achievement with visual treats a pleasure to comport this couchpotato self before, that’s me and my widescreen TV for hour on hour gripped by the fatal power of vicarious pleasure a literal treasure: Augusta’s georgeous green Georgian vistas to gratefully gorge on. |
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#1619 |
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T. Rex on the TV
Top of the Pops, a dream came true When teenage prison walls fell through, A singer bopped and haunted too. As Telegram Sam's presence showed A metal guru's figure glowed, Three minutes making life explode. The dead of school he would anull, He took me from its wasted skull To Beltane, where suns never dull. Guitar and bongos filled the air, Marc posed and gave an elfin stare For people who were young and fair. If our front room was ever lit By golden runes of love that hit, T. Rex on the TV were it. © |
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#1620 |
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Quote:
Red slabs of sandstone,
slow weathered in time and lives, I'm unfamiliar with the artist, but you certainly brought her work to life ![]() Quote:
Later on the same day
life took my breath away ![]() Quote:
a pleasure to comfort
this couchpotato I caught a bit of Bubba's tearful reaction on the news - well done to him
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#1621 |
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It looks like Biz has left the DS building
What a shame, I do miss her and hope she's alright
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#1622 |
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Titanic's Sinking
15th April Nineteen Twelve a date in history's pages in which to delve, how many folk died that day, like any other, as harsh mortality went on its morbid way no stats can say. Most mundane fatality is not news. But this was the hot story for the papers of a disaster; multiple deaths in a frozen cold hell of icebound sea. frantic people fighting for life in dire plight. Mad panic in the North Atlantic on the steamship RMS "Titanic." (also am aware of a sad synchronisity today because of the Hillsborough tragedy). Frank , 15 April. |
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#1623 |
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Quote:
15th April Nineteen Twelve a date in history's pages
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#1624 |
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Elegy
I walk among faded flowers, toppled grey headstones, binding weeds. A deep faint odour stains my senses. Each stone marks the final deposit of melting tissue and bones. Each stone marks a life summed up in a few letters and numbers. A lost place of pilgrimage, a source of guilty neglect. Why put me in a strange place laying with strange people? |
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#1625 |
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The Cloud
The vale looked so light and verdant As I trekked across the way, Till a cloud appeared in the distance, A juggernaut vast and grey. No shower or bolts of lightning, No storm-driven gusts were planned, Just a battleship slowly sailing Over surrendered land. The countryside lost importance As the cloud enlarged on high, A dark uninvited vision Filling the canvas of sky. That all-enveloping giant Conquered from west to east; While horizons were drained of colour, Regions of shadow increased. Despite the looming oppression And lack of anything blue I never sensed total foreboding And smiled when the sun broke through. I noticed that beams were now shining, A reprieve had been allowed And angels arrived in the darkness Of a suddenly changing cloud. © |
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