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Favourite Poems

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Favourite Poems

Old 22nd Apr 2013, 20:23
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Favourite Poems

We int had any for a while.
Here's a gudun by a Podlonian,EJ James.

've Got Bad News.
THEY stitched him up in his canvas shirt
As stiff as a frozen board;
They sewed pig lead at his feet an' head
And they sloshed him overboard.
The Old Man hadn't a conscience,
Exceptin' his wheel and chart,
He pulled on sight, and his aim was right.
For he shot him through the heart!
His girl she waits in Grosvenor Street
,
That's hard by Sydney Quay
,
His girl she waits in Grosvenor Street
This two long year waits she
,
And 'er heart may weep, but he's sleepin' deep
In the North Atlantic Sea
.
He shipped with a Nova-Scotia man
Last time that
ever he signed;
His cash was spent and 'er sails was bent,
And he was drunk and blind,—
A man must take what he can get,
There's plenty of men to spare,
With Danes and Swedes and the Dago breeds,
And ships go everywhere.
He laid his hand to a marlin'spike—
Oh, he was a man to know!
And the deck ran red where he fell and bled,
But he shouldn't 'ave acted so.
His blood was up and the threat came free;
But the high seas have their ways,
And that was the end of
a lover and friend,
And these are “the better days.”
'T is round and round, as the world goes round,
With a civil tongue in your 'ead;
'T is “do as you're told,”
though you're starved and cold
An' bitterly driven an' led,
'T is to and fro as you sign and go
Till Death he crosses your hawse;
You're stinted and worn, you're tattered and torn.
But the Owners make the laws.
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 20:36
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and the tone was lowered straight away.........

The sexual life of the Camel
Is stranger than anyone thinks
At the height of the mating season
He tries to bugger the Sphinx

But the Sphinxes posterior sphincter
Is all clogged by the sans of the Nile
Which accounts for the hump on the Camel
And the Sphinxes inscrutable smile
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 20:42
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Why do that, Vulcanised?

Drapes' musings and poems have far more class than anything you might post!
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 21:08
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The People of the Gates.
THE Great God sate in His council
On the arch of a rainbow span,
With the white Archangel Michael
And Peter the Fisherman.
In the court of Anointed Martyrs,
In the place of the Shining Host,
He spake, with the Voice of Voices,
A speech of the Holy Ghost:—
“I will portion the lands to my peoples,
The Earth will I share them anew,
To hold with the bowstring and powder,
To keep with the marrow and thew;
And they that are str
ong shall be stronger,
And they that are weak—let them go!
For this is the Word of My Father,
And I have uttered it so.”
The Great God called to His peoples;
The breath of the Spirit's mouth,
It shifted them outward and onward,
It scattered them north and south.
The hail and the frost behind them,
With Hunger and Death to fare,
They marched in the track of the Eagle,
They came in the trail of the Bear.
Then the harp of the Angel sounded
The song of the Nation's feet,
And the battle hymns of the peoples
Came up to the Council seat.
But out from his place stood Peter:
“O Lord, if my speaking please,
Thou hast given the lands to the peoples,
But what wilt Thou do with the Seas?”
But simply the Lord made answer:
“It was even the same with thee
When thou stood'st in the Hall of Pilate,
Three times denying me!
Behold how the lands are portioned,
To each as he liketh best;
But here be a little people
Have taken the Isles of the West.
“The others have c
hosen and tarried,
And he that is weak let him fall;
The others shall take from each other,
But these they shall take from them all!
For strong in the thew and the marrow,
And richer in daring be these;
Their neighbours have gotten the places,
But they have gotten the Seas!
“The others have
builded and waited,
But these will abide by their keels,
To set on the heels of the oceans
The empire and sign of their seals.
Let theirs be the ri
ght of the waters,
Let theirs be the keys of the straits,
For they are a hardy people
Who sit at the Western gates!”
Thus spake the Lord in his Council,
In the Hall of the shining Host,
Who spake with a Voice of Voices
The speech of the Holy Ghost,
That they who were strong shall be stronger,
That they who we
re little should grow,
Still holding the Seas in their keeping:
Our Lord He hath written it so

Last edited by tony draper; 22nd Apr 2013 at 21:10.
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 21:43
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Alfred Edward Housman

A Shropshire Lad XIX:
To an Athlete Dying Young


The time you won your town the race,
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 21:49
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One which draws a tear everytime:

Plt Off John Gillespie Magee Jr, RCAF
"High Flight"

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.


I drive the A15 between his crash-site and his grave every day.
Ronald Reagan paraphrased it in his address to the nation after the Challenger Disaster in 1986 (speech written by Peggy Noonan, WSJ - ranked as one of the ten best American political speeches of the 20th century):

"We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey, and waved goodbye, and slipped the surly bonds of Earth, to touch the face of God"

Last edited by unclenelli; 22nd Apr 2013 at 22:14.
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 22:22
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Why do that, Vulcanised?
Yeh Vulc where d'ya think y'ar? Jet Blast or somethin'?

(I must remember that camel poem )
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 22:30
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Originally Posted by tony draper
Here's a gudun by a Podlonian,EJ James.
Is that she of 50 shades?

Last edited by unclenelli; 22nd Apr 2013 at 22:31.
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Old 22nd Apr 2013, 22:40
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For Slasher:

Gentlemen will please refrain
From urinating while the train
Is standing in the station in full view
Tramps and hoboes underneath
Will catch it in their nose and teeth
And they won't like it, how the f**k would you?

Newlyweds whilst in this carriage
Do not consummate your marriage
While the train is standing here at Crewe
Kindly hold this natural function
Till you get to Clapham Junction
Where you'll find there's f**k all else to do.
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 07:08
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One enjoys the musings of Mr Kipling.

"When you're wounded and lying on Afghanistan's plains
And the women come out to cut up what remains
Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
And go to your god like a soldier..."
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 08:09
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Location: Hampshire physically; Perthshire and Pembrokeshire mentally.
Posts: 1,611
Agree about Kipling. I found this inspiring the first time I read it at school. Still do.

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 08:44
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Location: Newcastle/UK
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"I wish I was a glow worm,
A glow worm's never glum
'Cos how can you be grumpy,
When the sun shines oot yer bum?"
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 08:46
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The Calf-Path

I've enjoyed this for a long time now.

The Calf-Path



One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.

Since then two hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bell-wether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bell-wethers always do.

And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made;
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged, and turned, and bent about
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because ‘twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed -- do not laugh --
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street,
And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah! many things this tale might teach --
But I am not ordained to preach.


Sam Walter Foss
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 09:28
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Vitaď Lampada

This one is my favourite -


There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year
While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"


Sir Henry Newbolt
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 09:36
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Location: London
Age: 53
Posts: 428
Robert Frost

One of my fav's :

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 09:38
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Thomas Moore

And another:



OFT, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber's chain has bound me.
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 09:45
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Family legend claims this was an ancestor.

THE king sits in Dumferling toune,
Drinking the blude-reid wine:
"0 whar will I get a skeely sailor,
To sail this schip of mine?"

Up and spak an eldern knicht,
Sat at the kings richt kne:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That sails upon the se."

The king has written a braid [open] letter
And signed it wi' his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,
A loud lauch lauched he:
The next line that Sir Patrick red,
The teir blinded his ee.

"0 wha is this has don this deid,
This ill deid don to me;
To send me out this time o' the yeir
To sail upon the se?

"Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all,
Our guid schip sails the morne."
"0 say na sae, my master deir,
For I feir a deadlie storme.

"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone
Wi' the auld moone in hir arme;
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,
That we will com to harme."

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith [loth]
To weet [wet] their cork-heild schoone;
Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,
Their hats they swam aboone.

O lang, may their ladies sit
Wi' thair fans into their hand,
Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spens
Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand
Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords,
For they'll se thame na mair.

Have owre, have owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip:
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feit.
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 09:51
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Age: 67
Posts: 195
Here's a favourite from an American poet, Walt Whitman.

When I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and
measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much
applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 09:51
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This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,--
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

William Shakespeare, "King Richard II", Act 2 scene 1

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Old 23rd Apr 2013, 09:56
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Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
Have I fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I've called His name in blessing
When after times I died.

In the dimness of the shadows
Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.

While in later clearer vision
I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

Hear the rattle of the harness
Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
See their chariots wheel in panic
From the Hoplite's leveled spear.

See the goal grow monthly longer,
Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

Still more clearly as a Roman,
Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.

Once again I feel the anguish
Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline was in vain.

I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.

Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my Flemish plate gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on Crecy's field I lay.

In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.

Midst the spume of half a tempest
I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
Sent destruction to our foe.

I have fought with gun and cutlass
On the red and slippery deck
With all Hell aflame within me
And a rope around my neck.

And still later as a General
Have I galloped with Murat
When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor's Star.

Till at last our star faded,
And we shouted to our doom
Where the sunken road of Ohein
Closed us in it's quivering gloom.

So but now with Tanks a'clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
By the star shell's ghastly glow.

So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more

George C Patton
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