Go Back  PPRuNe Forums > PPRuNe Social > Jet Blast
Reload this Page >

Favourite Poems

Jet Blast Topics that don't fit the other forums. Rules of Engagement apply.

Favourite Poems

Old 9th May 2014, 16:24
  #101 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Dec 2001
Location: Richmond Texas
Posts: 306
From Certain Maxims of Hafiz, Rudyard Kipling.

If he play, being young and unskillful,

For shekels of silver and gold

Take his money, my son, praising Allah

The kid was ordained to be sold!
Flash2001 is offline  
Old 9th May 2014, 19:32
  #102 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Jun 2005
Location: THE BLUEBIRD CAFE
Posts: 60
you have your bitter sweet love song lyrics
and you have the sonorous appeal of the harp

but as someone said just now -
the peerless sonnets of Shakespeare
are unparalleled
in our gloriously rich and evocative language



Peter Sarstedt – Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)





You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there's diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are.

You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard of St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do.

You go to the embassy parties
Where you talk in Russian and Greek
And the young men who move in your circles
They hang on every word you speak, yes they do.

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do.

I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does.

When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pines
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan, on your back and on your legs.

And when the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet-set
And you sip your Napoleon Brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't.

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
would you Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do.

You're in between 20 and 30
A very desirable age
Your body is firm and inviting
But you live on a glittering stage, yes you do, yes you do.

Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh ha-ha-ha

They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes i do.

I remember the back streets of Naples
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly brown tags, they try

So look into my face Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear
the scar, deep inside, yes you do

I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
`Cause I can look inside your head.
---------------------------------------------

Cecilia - Paul Simon



Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home



Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to come home
Come on home


Making love in the afternoon
With Cecilia
Up in my bedroom
I got up to wash my face
When I come back to bed
Someone’s taken my place


Celia, you’re breaking my heart
You’re shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I’m down on my knees
I’m begging you please to
Come on home


Jubilation,
She loves me again
I fall on the floor and I'm laughing
Jubilation
She loves me again
I fall on the floor and I'm laughing

Last edited by Fantome; 9th May 2014 at 19:43.
Fantome is offline  
Old 9th May 2014, 21:10
  #103 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: Yellowknife
Posts: 41
Rudyard Kipling

The Answer

A Rose, in tatters on the garden path,
Cried out to God and murmured 'gainst His Wrath,
Because a sudden wind at twilight's hush
Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.
And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,
Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,
"Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well --
What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?"
And the Rose answered, "In that evil hour
A voice said, `Father, wherefore falls the flower?
For lo, the very gossamers are still.'
And a voice answered, `Son, by Allah's will!'"

Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward,
Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord:
"Sister, before We smote the Dark in twain,
Ere yet the stars saw one another plain,
Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task
That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask."
Whereat the withered flower, all content,
Died as they die whose days are innocent;
While he who questioned why the flower fell
Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.
spInY nORmAn is offline  
Old 16th May 2014, 19:38
  #104 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Nov 2013
Location: apogee
Age: 65
Posts: 59
The Bells - Edgar Allen Poe - is one of......


I

Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.


II

Hear the mellow wedding bells -
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! -
From the molten - golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! - how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!


III

Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now - now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale - faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!


IV

Hear the tolling of the bells -
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people - ah, the people -
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone -
They are neither man nor woman -
They are neither brute nor human -
They are Ghouls: -
And their king it is who tolls: -
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells: -
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells: -
To the sobbing of the bells: -
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells -
To the tolling of the bells -
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, -
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.




meadowrun is offline  
Old 16th May 2014, 19:52
  #105 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Dec 2006
Location: australia
Age: 43
Posts: 115
Roses are red

Violets are blue

Rhyming is hard

Like I am for you





Aww.....so sweet.
ruddman is offline  
Old 16th May 2014, 20:38
  #106 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: The Ethereal Land of Vintage Aviation
Posts: 125
I am in a DH Beaver flying over the frozen north, everytime I run this enchanting little poem by L. Kearns through the mind.....

Full moon
Snow crust
Trees black against the sky.
Suddenly
the wind
rattles by.
V2-OMG! is offline  
Old 16th May 2014, 22:05
  #107 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Sep 2008
Location: South Africa
Age: 82
Posts: 1,326
Having been a member of PPRuNe for 6 years or so, and having seen comments from the inane to well thought out thesis on some matter of aviation, I must say that this thread has given me a new view of the membership.
ian16th is offline  
Old 16th May 2014, 23:01
  #108 (permalink)  
Thread Starter
 
Join Date: May 2001
Location: Newcastle/UK
Posts: 1,473
Looking for someone with a good voice on youtube reciting this,sadly none as good as Mr Masterman a teacher of fond memory,so found it put to music.
tony draper is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 00:11
  #109 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: Sao Paulo
Age: 74
Posts: 787
TS Eliot, The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
broadreach is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 00:26
  #110 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2012
Location: Melbourne
Posts: 84
I wish I was a glow worm,
A glow worm is never glum
'cause how can you be grumpy
When the sun shines out your bum ?
bosnich71 is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 02:27
  #111 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2000
Location: CYZV
Age: 73
Posts: 1,259
Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon–
Over the crinkling sea,
The moon man flings him a silvered net
Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say when the net lies long
And the midnight hour is ripe;
The moon man fishes for some old song
That fell from a sailor's pipe.

And some folk say that he fishes the bars
Down where the dead ships lie,
Looking for lost little baby stars
That slid from the slippery sky.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in
And the nodding night wind blows,
But why the moon man fishes the sea
Only the moon man knows.

Zoon, zoon, net of the moon
Rides on the wrinkling sea;
Bright is the fret and shining wet,
Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say when the great net gleams
And the waves are dusky blue,
The moon man fishes for two little dreams
He lost when the world was new.

And some folk say in the late night hours,
While the long fin-shadows slide,
The moon man fishes for cold sea flowers
Under the tumbling tide.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in
And the gray gulls dip and doze,
But why the moon man fishes the sea
Only the moon man knows.

Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon--
Over the crinkling sea,
The moon man flings him a silvered net
Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folk say that he follows the flecks
Down where the last light flows,
Fishing for two round gold-rimmed "specs"
That blew from his button-like nose.

And some folk say while the salt sea foams
And the silver net lines snare,
The moon man fishes for carven combs
That float from the mermaids' hair.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in
And the nodding night wind blows,
But why the moon man fishes the sea
Only the moon man knows.
pigboat is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 06:48
  #112 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: The Ethereal Land of Vintage Aviation
Posts: 125
pigboat, I like that.

When my dad (RCN) died, we read Tennyson's Crossing the Bar before spreading his ashes at sea. A few years later, the same was done when a friend (USN) passed.

Crossing the Bar


Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
V2-OMG! is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 07:03
  #113 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: The Ethereal Land of Vintage Aviation
Posts: 125
I find bad poetry to be funnier than funny-good poetry.

Here's a dilly. (Poet's name withheld to protect the guilty!)

encroaching blackness lies bleeding on the uncaring sands of time

pain is good
pain is nice
pain is worth the sacrifice

i fling myself facefirst from this vale of tears into the black strangling nothingness that birthed me

i am but a hemorrhoid on the rectum of the universe
prostate with pain

the sky is falling
the sky is falling
the sky is falling

fear is the maggot
in my soul
it gnaws at me
i dine in hell
the menu is nothingness

i drink the bitter wine of mankind to the dregs

my cup
overfloweth
V2-OMG! is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 10:06
  #114 (permalink)  
Thread Starter
 
Join Date: May 2001
Location: Newcastle/UK
Posts: 1,473
Probably get him the Poet Laureate gig that would nowadays.
tony draper is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 10:11
  #115 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2001
Location: In transit
Age: 66
Posts: 3,058
I know a Muslim whose name is Jim,
I really love throwing tomatoes at him,
Tomatoes are soft and don't hurt the skin,
But these f*ckers do, because they're still in the tin


The warmth and heart wrenching simplicity of Australian bush poetry



Capetonian is offline  
Old 17th May 2014, 10:24
  #116 (permalink)  
Thread Starter
 
Join Date: May 2001
Location: Newcastle/UK
Posts: 1,473
Trouble with resurrected threads is what has one may have already posted summat.
Roads
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
G,K. Chesterton.
tony draper is offline  
Old 18th May 2014, 05:43
  #117 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: May 2006
Location: Under Capricorn
Posts: 72
Robert Burns' Tam O'Shanter is the classic tale of a chap stopping off to have a few beers after work before going home. Who cannot relate to:


While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting
fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The
mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.


The poem goes on to describe Tam's journey home, doubtless well over the PCA limit. On the way, he allegedly witnesses an orgy in a churchyard, is chased by the Devil, manages to escape and arrives home somewhat the worse for wear. Unfortunately, the reception he received from his wife isn't recorded!

On a more contemporary and nostalgic note, I can't go beyond these words written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney:

There are places I remember all my life
Though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain

All these places have their moments
Of lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I loved them all

And with all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new

And I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I loved you more

And I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I loved you more
In my life I loved you more
Willi B is offline  
Old 18th May 2014, 07:38
  #118 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: The Ethereal Land of Vintage Aviation
Posts: 125
A favourite quote from Leonard Cohen....

My reputation as a ladies' man was a joke that caused me to laugh bitterly through the ten thousand nights I spent alone.
V2-OMG! is offline  
Old 18th May 2014, 07:52
  #119 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Nov 2012
Location: Planet Claire
Posts: 581
If all who hate would love us, and all our loves were true,
The stars that swing above us, would brighten in the blue.

If cru-el words were kisses, and every scowl a smile,
A better world than this one,
Would hardly be worthwhile.

No idea who wrote it.
AtomKraft is offline  
Old 18th May 2014, 10:36
  #120 (permalink)  
 
Join Date: Feb 2012
Location: Melbourne
Posts: 84
I'm Jonathon Pig and I'm fearsomely stout
From the tip of my tail to the end of my snout
I'm too fat to move and I'm too young to die
So think about me next time you eat a Pork Pie.

Ian Durie
bosnich71 is offline  

Thread Tools
Search this Thread

Contact Us Archive Advertising Cookie Policy Privacy Statement Terms of Service

Copyright © 2018 MH Sub I, LLC dba Internet Brands. All rights reserved. Use of this site indicates your consent to the Terms of Use.