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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#2326 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
Location: Pools of sorrow, waves of joy
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Mr Lonely
I can't believe it's only A week ago he passed, We called him 'Mr Lonely', A name that seemed to last. Since he left I've been thinking Of Mr Lonely's life; He never went out drinking Or caused a lot of strife. He came from County Galway Across the Irish Sea, You'd pass him in the hallway, But seldom would he be Inclined to chat or ever Go further than a few Remarks about the weather, If any change was due. Had happiness departed Or was he simply shy? His hair was neatly parted, He wore a suit and tie. He never courted lasses, He never went berserk, Each morning with the masses He bicycled to work. No entry would he permit, The walls were strong because That's just the kind of hermit Our Mr Lonely was. Was he some nephew's uncle? He kept it to himself But Simon and Garfunkel LPs lay on a shelf. Did their songs match the feeling In which his mind was steeped? At times down from the ceiling The Sound Of Silence seeped. No family attended The grave or read the stone And now his life has ended I wish he could have known, While to his own world banished By us he's not dismissed, Though Mr Lonely's vanished Forever he'll be missed. © |
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#2327 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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The other day I bought A Shropshire Lad and Other Poems, by AE Houseman. It's a marvellous collection
One thing that baffles me is how poets like Houseman are regarded as lesser writers. The introduction calls him a 'gifted amateur'. Bloody cheek! Similarly, John Betjeman is described as a 'major minor poet' in a biography. When will the intellectuals ever start to recognise real greatness? They probably think Pam Ayres and Spike Milligan are rubbish too
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#2328 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
Location: Berkshire
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Quote:
The other day I bought A Shropshire Lad and Other Poems, by AE Houseman. It's a marvellous collection
One thing that baffles me is how poets like Houseman are regarded as lesser writers. The introduction calls him a 'gifted amateur'. Bloody cheek! Similarly, John Betjeman is described as a 'major minor poet' in a biography. When will the intellectuals ever start to recognise real greatness? They probably think Pam Ayres and Spike Milligan are rubbish too ![]() |
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#2329 |
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Join Date: Dec 2004
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Thanks for nice comments on my recent post. Great to read some finally (? (certainly finely)) polished favourites Musty. A place reserved on my shelf for your new book.
I think I've already peaked, poetry wise, but I guess I'll keep posting when I find a line or two. I like ambiguity, so I didn't punctuate the first bit of the following so much. Great what poetic license allows imho. Whys. You are who knows the counter of blows the subject of time the meaning of rhyme. All stand aghast your repotoire vast and endlessly looping. Colours trooping all God save the Queen. Or is it a dream of historic making? A little piss taking on who we once were? It's all such a blur. A mote in the eye. A question like why makes you wise? |
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#2330 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
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To all the regulars, thank you all for your posts and poems. I am so thrilled I came across this thread and I hope to return to it many times in 2015. Here's a little pressie to you all:
On Christmas Morning From the children's room is gentle chatter, Then a thumping, manic clatter! As excited footsteps race down each stair To see if Santa has stopped by there! "He's been, he's been!" come the wondrous cries And stood amongst gifts of all matter of size Are the excited young with faces aglow As they stand and admire the falling snow. Each gift is unwrapped, but taken in turns As a gentle, inviting fire slowly burns. The twinkling lights, the smell of a roast Are things about Christmas that are loved the most. In the background festive carols sound, As children run excitedly over snow laden ground As they play with their toys that were left by the elves, And grown ups admiring cards on the shelves. The magical season is upon us once more, The special time that the children adore, The night before, when they went to bed, They knew they'd have an excited head. And during the early hours, when a new day was dawning, They knew it was magic for it was Christmas morning. How the world seems so much better this day, As we hide all the terror and sadness away. The gleeful merriment of laughter and joy, That runs through the heart of each girl and boy, Is a lesson to earth, and its men of power, That we should live our lives as we do in this hour. A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL. xxxn
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#2331 |
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Join Date: Jun 2011
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Quote:
Originally Posted by wizzywick;
The gleeful merriment of laughter and joy,
A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL. xxxn ![]() ![]() Merry Christmas Musty and to all, hope and cheer to you, at this time of year.
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#2332 |
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Quote:
Merry Christmas Musty and to all, hope and cheer to you, at this time of year.
![]() ![]() I wanted to send a pre-Crimbo post but I got the days mixed up I'm just catching up with the thread now
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#2333 |
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Quote:
A place reserved on my shelf for your new book.
Whys I enjoyed Whys, another interesting piece. It has a stream-of-consciousness flow to it. |
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#2334 |
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Quote:
I am so thrilled I came across this thread and I hope to return to it many times
On Christmas Morning ![]() On Christmas Morning is a lovely poem and it captures the childhood wonder at the season really well. It's easy to lose that over the years. I'm glad you found us and your contributions have truly strengthened the thread
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#2335 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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Hopefully I'll pop in again early next week, armed with some material
![]() A poem a day Keeps stagnation at bay.
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#2336 |
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Join Date: Jun 2011
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Musty, did you eat some brussels sprouts for Christmas?
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#2337 |
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Join Date: Dec 2004
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Hope.
The empty space between us. The lies we live and tell never bequeath us with a get out of hell. A lie is such a failure. Some truths are never known. Everyone's a sailor, all at sea, all alone. But still we show compassion. Presuming friend, not foe. Impending human fashion? Believe me - watch it go. |
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#2338 |
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Join Date: May 2006
Location: Scotland
Posts: 9,318
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I wanted to try and write something new, as its been a while. I meant it to be positive and uplifting and instead...well, you'll see lol. Its a little 'clunky' but not too bad, I think?.
Be Grateful This Winter by IzzyS. As the ground frosts over, the air freezes, the landscape stands still a painting in the making, whiteness descends - oh so pretty and delicate, what could be better, some may wonder?. Its at times like this that I say with passion, please be grateful for what you have, the basics of shelter, heating and food, as the suffering of others carries on regardless, thus we must always be aware, of those who have less than we. Life can be cruel, for those unable to take shelter, those battling to fight the cold, immune systems may become compromised, circulation slowing gradually, exposure to below freezing point can be deadly, the ice like grip of the cold squeezing on the life force of those most vulnerable, poverty stricken fellow human beings. I think of such people on these days of wintery splendour, those who can not heat themselves, the evil that is pneumonia cruelly waiting in the wings, indiscriminately targetting he who struggle to defend himself against the ugly cruel side of winter. Suffering may seem hidden and yet it still occurs, don't judge a book by its cover, so they say and its true, what one person admires may be the undoing of another. I hope everyone is ok and had a good Christmas by the way and a very Happy New Year to all when it comes, of course.
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#2339 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
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Quote:
I wanted to try and write something new, as its been a while. I meant it to be positive and uplifting and instead...well, you'll see lol. Its a little 'clunky' but not too bad, I think?.
Be Grateful This Winter by IzzyS. As the ground frosts over, the air freezes, the landscape stands still a painting in the making, whiteness descends - oh so pretty and delicate, what could be better, some may wonder?. Its at times like this that I say with passion, please be grateful for what you have, the basics of shelter, heating and food, as the suffering of others carries on regardless, thus we must always be aware, of those who have less than we. Life can be cruel, for those unable to take shelter, those battling to fight the cold, immune systems may become compromised, circulation slowing gradually, exposure to below freezing point can be deadly, the ice like grip of the cold squeezing on the life force of those most vulnerable, poverty stricken fellow human beings. I think of such people on these days of wintery splendour, those who can not heat themselves, the evil that is pneumonia cruelly waiting in the wings, indiscriminately targetting he who struggle to defend himself against the ugly cruel side of winter. Suffering may seem hidden and yet it still occurs, don't judge a book by its cover, so they say and its true, what one person admires may be the undoing of another. I hope everyone is ok and had a good Christmas by the way and a very Happy New Year to all when it comes, of course. ![]() Now, just a little something for New Year: REFLECTIVE RESOLUTIONS: A Poem for New Year The chimes of 'Big Ben' put to bed our past As New Year's Day has come at last. The previous year has gone for ever more Like torn confetti upon the floor. But what of that past that hastily died? The times when we laughed, The times when we cried? How quickly it ended, how old we've grown, We realised things we'd never have known But for that year that marched into the stars That left our hearts gladdened yet our souls with scars. But hooray! The New Year is triumphantly here. A moment of merriment, a time of good cheer. A new page is turned, a new day is born. Revellers welcome the brand new dawn. Learn from our past, but to the future we'll turn, On our resolved ideals our demons we'll burn. Raise a glass and declare a toast! Dedicate the day to those we love most. Auld Lang Syne has been sung once more And future has entered through time's open door. Happy New Year! To each woman, each man. Let us try to do all we can To stop the world's misery and our planet's decline Remember the suffering over a glass of wine. Help the poor, the indignant, the lame, Then unto you will happen the same. This is our chance to make a better today And let earths ills be wiped away. So on New Year's Day when resolutions are made Into ashes of hope our past is laid. Happy New Year everyone. And a special thanks to Musty for your kind words in a post upthread. Here's to a fabulous 2015. |
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#2340 |
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Join Date: May 2006
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Thanks Wizzy
your is more uplifting than mine but also a very good read - your better with the rhyming side of things, clearly, not that it necessarily matters.Happy New Year to you too
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#2341 |
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Quote:
Musty, did you eat some brussels sprouts for Christmas?
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#2342 |
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Quote:
Hope.
Everyone's a sailor, all at sea, all alone.
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#2343 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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Quote:
Be Grateful This Winter
![]() Happy New Year to you too
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#2344 |
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Quote:
Happy New Year everyone. And a special thanks to Musty for your kind words in a post upthread. Here's to a fabulous 2015.
![]() Reflective Resolutions is another very uplifting poem. It has a faultless flow and rhyme that match the postive sentiments expessed perfectly
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#2345 |
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Join Date: Jun 2012
Posts: 6,307
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Listen
If all the sounds that drift in the air are the echoes and sounds of the humanity we share should I hide my face in shame should I take my share of blame? Or should I say it’s not down to me? Can I condemn what I don’t want to see? Can I change what’s out of reach? Do I practice what others teach? |
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#2346 |
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Join Date: Jun 2011
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![]() Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Why Sandy? Is there a funny smell in here?
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#2347 |
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Join Date: Jun 2012
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Tomorrow
I look outside onto the yellow-bright road, then turn in to see how the streams of sunlight baulk at the hanging lace, drawn, shutter-like, at the windows. The room choked in dull, grey, lifeless air. The orange sunlight sticks to the window, then, frustrated, trickles down tear-like, smearing the view, clogging my sight, the sight that yearns so much to be clear of the blinding dullness within. I’d step out into that space of dark and light, sharp relief, meandering walks, looking ahead into empty space. Feel the sun on my back instead of the eyes, burning, and run on empty, clear, fresh wet grass, making and leaving my own marks to return. I’ll scrape the smeared sunshine from the panes, clearing the way, tearing down the lace, allowing the sunshine-flood into my room, burning the grey, clogging dust, smudging the air with the smell of herbs and flowers scooped from my garden, spread out over the floor to smear with sweetness my bare feet as I lightly tread through my newly garnered fresh, life, swept clear of the clogging of nowadays. I look outside onto the yellow-bright road, eyes closed away from the grey sunless room fading behind me. And I drift through the loosening lace mesh into the warm, clear surround of summer. |
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#2348 |
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'And now, the Shipping Forecast'
From DJs and their Sunday hit parade I turned my dial along the wavelenghth hiss To hear an accent clipped, polite and staid Give messages no captain could dismiss; Gale warnings send hypnotic English bliss. Strange names belonged to every wild outpost, The Bay of Biscay, Fisher, Malin Head, All faraway and scattered round the coast Where maelstroms wake the spirits of the dead, To Dogger and to Lundy I was led. O Cromarty, a fog will gather soon, I watch it rolling with a ghostly glare, A solid shawl of white beneath the moon And talking to the sailors in its snare, The Shipping Forecast, magic voiced on air. © |
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#2349 |
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Rub it out
I want an eraser - an eraser as big as the moon to drag over what I’ve left behind. Wipe away the hooks that held me down. Leaving only diamond memories. Then - I’ll take my crisp clean sheet Then I’ll start to write my own new story. Slow, uncertain, edgy at first - but with the hope of gathering momentum - and not fixed, no – not fixed, but open, open with room with room to spread. And yes . . . you can read it. Yes . . . you can say what you like - all comments gratefully received – and you can see your part, your small small part – standing on tiptoe stretching to be seen, a bit part at the edge of the scene, observing the action if you choose, but never, ever again bending the plot. Then turn away to seek your own way forward. Is all this too cruel? Does this seem too cruel? My pen too cold, My eye too hard, Set, straight ahead . . away . . . Then only ask yourself - why? - I can’t hurt someone I’ve loved. I can’t hurt someone I love. |
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#2350 |
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Snapped
Is there room here to park a poem so full of worth and meaning with depth to move to touch mind soul heart to catch a rising moment in words snapped at 1/1000th-of-a-second fully developed fixed mounted caught living present breathing evolving in meaning at each reading kept alive by the eyes that see the minds that understand? |
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One thing that baffles me is how poets like Houseman are regarded as lesser writers. The introduction calls him a 'gifted amateur'. Bloody cheek! Similarly, John Betjeman is described as a 'major minor poet' in a biography. When will the intellectuals ever start to recognise real greatness? They probably think Pam Ayres and Spike Milligan are rubbish too


I'm just catching up with the thread now