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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#2201 |
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Meditation on Stonehenge
Return in your mind to an earlier age When solar alignments were clear, Try to imagine the very first sage Who looked at the open plain here. Building the ultimate ring to transfix, Every available rank Digging a circle with deer antler picks, Forming a ditch and a bank. Set in a landscape ancestral and true, This was the temple to slave on, Processions demanded an avenue too, All the way down to the Avon. Far off in Wales lay a magical haul, With tons of bluestones they strained, Dragging them back on a hazardous trawl Hundreds of workers maintained. If any faltered or patience grew thin, Faith made the weary teams rally, Something was needed to fence the ring in; Megaliths left in a valley. Avebury's splendour included the vast Slabs to be tethered and rolled, Moulded by time as the centuries passed, Seventy million years old. Shaped into uprights and skilfully wrought, Nobody ever can tell How they were lifted or how they were brought, Crowned with grey lintels as well. Five giant trilithons finally stood Guarding the mystical centre, Looming like Albion sentinels should, Waiting for pilgrims to enter. Here on the longest day we feel as one Watching the golden dawn shine, Place of the spirits who walk with the sun: Stonehenge, enigma divine. © |
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#2202 |
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Quote:
Thanks musty. A thought - provoking piece and ever so poignantly executed.
Although the poem is a comment on the dulling effect of technology, I approached it by listing some of the great figments of literary imagination. There are so many I had to leave out! I must read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe again soon
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#2203 |
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Quote:
Sometimes funny to watch as leaves go by and see where they land
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#2204 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Yeah, and the colours on show in autumn are fabulous Sandy
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#2205 |
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Quote:
Some rustling leaves are rusty while some are still evergreen through the autumn.
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#2206 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Yep - think I'll go for a drive in the country this week
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#2207 |
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Quote:
Great poem Droogie
It had a touch of the Pam Ayers about it ![]()
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#2208 |
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Joseph Merrick, the 'Elephant Man'
Joseph Merrick was so ugly From people he couldn't hide, They paid for a glimpse of a monster that limps, Not the delicate soul inside. The curtain went up, revealing An awful twisted shape, A Victorian slave whose deformity gave The Elephant Man his name. Wherever he starred in the line-up Attendances would swell, In horror they'd gape at his hideous shape And a few of them screamed as well. But when Frederick Treves the doctor Saw Joseph it left him aghast, So he thought up a plan for the Elephant Man That let him escape the past. A hospital room was given To a tenant quite unique, Away from the stares at the travelling fairs And the life of a circus freak. The great and good came to visit, Instead of being exiled He felt like a gent and the company meant A lot to one reviled. His spent his last hours contented, Alone in the usual way, In the dim lamplight of an East End night The burden fell softly away. © |
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#2209 |
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Quote:
Musty, is that an excuse to visit a nice country pub?
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Thanks. There are some lovely poems on here - I must read more of them
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#2210 |
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CLOWN IN A PIN STRIPED SUIT
A solemn smile on an empty face The painted performer doesn't envy this place As he listens to the crowd as they vibrantly cheer, His heart and soul is preparing to jeer The audience that embraces his act. He doesn't want them to and that's a fact! The crowd are his irritants, the curse on his back, He sees happy faces as a curtain of black That has been drawn to cast sunlight away So the painted performer can pretend to 'play.' His smile is red, broad and fake How much more can this entertainer take? The cheers from the crowd are paining his ears As he concludes his monotonous act of years. Large silly shoes and a big shiny red nose, Bushy red hair and on his coat is a rose. His heart doesn't want to be here anymore His mind is wondering what all this is for This is torture, acting a fool every night Each time his mirror reveals a pitiful sight. For he must leave the office, the daily routine His eyes are tired, his face is green. So he takes off his pin stripes and throws them away He won't return to the office after today. He's not a clown but is demanded to please His arrogant bosses as they belittle and tease. Each day he performs the same jokes, the same tricks To give to his bosses their superior fix. It's like a circus where he has to perform Never breaking away from the norm. His clients, the audience who expect and insist That the pin striped clowns' act should always persist. But he's had enough, he's not taking anymore His work days are over, they're left on the floor. THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE ABUSED WORKERS IN THE WORLD. |
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#2211 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
You know me so well Sandy
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#2212 |
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Dreary
This groggy air isn't fair makes people wander and question where a blue sky can be just covered over with dreary listen blue sky you need to be up and about so get moving and sort those old cobwebs out. |
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#2213 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Joseph Merrick, the 'Elephant Man'
The burden fell softly away. © ![]() Titles for people can be so important for some, whether it be Mr, Mrs, Miss, Lady or Lord, he had a name, he wasn't it or something else, he was a person that had feelings just like anyone else but so good to know that some realised and treated him fairly as he should have been. |
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#2214 |
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Quote:
Joseph Merrick, the 'Elephant Man'
© |
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#2215 |
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Pumpkins and Tinsel
A little something for Hallowe'en:
PUMPKINS AND TINSEL No sooner is it Hallowe'en Than all through the shops is seen Mince Pies and tinsel on every shelf, A mish-mash image of ghoul and elf! It is pitiful how we've progressed. We always think we know the best. As the summer ends and autumn starts, It gets all muddled in our hearts. We have Easter Eggs at Christmas, Back to School in June. Christmas ads on telly When there's a giant harvest moon! When Autumn air gets colder And witches start their show, All across the strastophere Are images of snow! Children singing carols On October thirty first, Whilst dressing up in spooky gear To see which one is worst! Creme eggs being given As a trick or treat surprise, Everything is muddled To confuse our ageing eyes! Pumpkins and tinsel in October, Christmas cards in May! Last years are going cheap Way before Father's Day! Once Easter is over, The year is on its way out! Christmas and Hallowe'en together Is what this world's about! Confusion on childrens' faces They think Santa is nearly here! How on earth do we tell them That it's the middle of the year? (c) 2014. |
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#2216 |
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Love the title of your poem, wizzywick, Pumpkins and Tinsel
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#2217 |
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All Times of Year
There are all times of year that bring such good cheer There are all times of year that brew some good beer There are all times of year that brings loved ones near |
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#2218 |
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Quote:
[But he's had enough, he's not taking anymore
His work days are over, they're left on the floor. I loved the shift from clown to office worker in the third verse - you had me fooled there I'm sure a lot of readers will associate with this!
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#2219 |
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Quote:
PUMPKINS AND TINSEL
You make a valid point, the shops start filling up with Xmas goodies in October now
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#2220 |
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Quote:
listen blue sky you need
to be up and about
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#2221 |
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Quote:
There are all times of year
that brew some good beer
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#2222 |
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The Mystery of the Cottingley Fairies
Young Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths Whose ages were ten and sixteen, Brought Cottingley fame by playing a game Way back in nineteen-seventeen. The girls drew small pictures of fairies, It's after a mischievous trek That the story begins when they propped them with pins And photographed each at the Beck. The lens captured innocent sketches But for living sprites they could pass; A real fairy bower and tall as a flower A gnome pranced around on the grass. To Cottingley specialists travelled, Ghost-hunters who probed mystery, As word of mouth spread speculation was fed, Some even saw lights in a tree. Then Sherlock Holmes' eminent author Turned up, claiming 'This is the proof!', Because Conan Doyle had the air of a royal The girls dare not utter the truth. For sixty odd years the world wondered Till Elsie and Frances confessed; Relieved to confide how the camera had lied, Confirming what cynics had guessed. But here is the twist in the story - They maintained one fairy was real And whenever I look at the last snap they took It gives me the eeriest feel. © |
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#2223 |
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Quote:
Great poem Musty
![]() Like you, I'm interested in Victorian values. i recently finished reading Oliver Twist. It's a great insight into the era, including the horrors of the workhouse.
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#2224 |
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Quote:
Thanks Wizzy
Like you, I'm interested in Victorian values. i recently finished reading Oliver Twist. It's a great insight into the era, including the horrors of the workhouse.Thanks for your kind comments about my poems. I'm pleased you enjoyed the twist in Clown in a Pin Striped Suit. |
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#2225 |
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Quote:
The Mystery of the Cottingley Fairies
But here is the twist in the story - They maintained one fairy was real And whenever I look at the last snap they took It gives me the eeriest feel. © |
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Although the poem is a comment on the dulling effect of technology, I approached it by listing some of the great figments of literary imagination. There are so many I had to leave out! I must read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe again soon