Poetry Corner

[Huguenot]

What, you can't defend communism, so you pretend I'm having a go at democracy and defend that instead? What kind of argument is that?

Don't stay in school kids - with thanks to Nathaniel Spengler

I wish I could grow up dumb

No belief in an education

With one hand firmly on the bible

The other hand on a Gun

[PeckhamRose]

Here's my favourite poetry about motorcycling, written by the excellent American self styled professor G Frazier.

D'you like my bike?

D'you like my bike?

Show us yer tits.

D'you like my bike?

[brum]

Very good PR! I remember such phrases during my time in the US back in 1980. Happy days.

[immaterial]

Huguenot Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

You honestly believe that 'Communes' are the solution, and you use poetry as a tool of persuasion?

Hah! What a belly laugh.

> What, you can't defend communism, so you pretend

> I'm having a go at democracy and defend that

> instead? What kind of argument is that?

Hugenot - Open up another thread for your ill-considered, twisted rants!

Leave Poetry Corner for Lyrics, of whatever political complexion.

Percy Bysshe Shelley - The Mask of Anarchy

Written on the occasion of the massacre carried out at Peterloo, Manchester 1819

As I lay asleep in Italy

There came a voice from over the Sea,

And with great power it forth led me

To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way -

He had a mask like Castlereagh -

Very smooth he looked, yet grim;

Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might

Be in admirable plight,

For one by one, and two by two,

He tossed the human hearts to chew

Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,

Like Eldon, an ermined gown;

His big tears, for he wept well,

Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who

Round his feet played to and fro,

Thinking every tear a gem,

Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,

And the shadows of the night,

Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy

On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played

In this ghastly masquerade,

All disguised, even to the eyes,

Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rode

On a white horse, splashed with blood;

He was pale even to the lips,

Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;

And in his grasp a sceptre shone;

On his brow this mark I saw -

'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'

With a pace stately and fast,

Over English land he passed,

Trampling to a mire of blood

The adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,

With their trampling shook the ground,

Waving each a bloody sword,

For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, they

Rode through England proud and gay,

Drunk as with intoxication

Of the wine of desolation.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,

Passed the Pageant swift and free,

Tearing up, and trampling down;

Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,

Felt his heart with terror sicken

Hearing the tempestuous cry

Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,

Clothed in arms like blood and flame,

The hired murderers, who did sing

'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

'We have waited, weak and lone

For thy coming, Mighty One!

Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,

Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,

To the earth their pale brows bowed;

Like a bad prayer not over loud,

Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -

Then all cried with one accord,

'Thou art King, and God and Lord;

Anarchy, to thee we bow,

Be thy name made holy now!'

And Anarchy, the skeleton,

Bowed and grinned to every one,

As well as if his education

Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces

Of our Kings were rightly his;

His the sceptre, crown and globe,

And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before

To seize upon the Bank and Tower,

And was proceeding with intent

To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,

And her name was Hope, she said:

But she looked more like Despair,

And she cried out in the air:

'My father Time is weak and gray

With waiting for a better day;

See how idiot-like he stands,

Fumbling with his palsied hands!

He has had child after child,

And the dust of death is piled

Over every one but me -

Misery, oh, Misery!'

Then she lay down in the street,

Right before the horses' feet,

Expecting, with a patient eye,

Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foes

A mist, a light, an image rose,

Small at first, and weak, and frail

Like the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,

Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,

And glare with lightnings as they fly,

And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail

Brighter than the viper's scale,

And upborne on wings whose grain

Was as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,

A planet, like the Morning's, lay;

And those plumes its light rained through

Like a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passed

O'er the heads of men - so fast

That they knew the presence there,

And looked, - but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,

As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,

As waves arise when loud winds call,

Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitude

Looked - and ankle-deep in blood,

Hope, that maiden most serene,

Was walking with a quiet mien:

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,

Lay dead earth upon the earth;

The Horse of Death tameless as wind

Fled, and with his hoofs did grind

To dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,

A sense awakening and yet tender

Was heard and felt - and at its close

These words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant Earth

Which gave the sons of England birth

Had felt their blood upon her brow,

And shuddering with a mother's throe

Had turned every drop of blood

By which her face had been bedewed

To an accent unwithstood, -

As if her heart had cried aloud:

'Men of England, heirs of Glory,

Heroes of unwritten story,

Nurslings of one mighty Mother,

Hopes of her, and one another;

'Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number,

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you -

Ye are many - they are few.

'What is Freedom? - ye can tell

That which slavery is, too well -

For its very name has grown

To an echo of your own.

'Tis to work and have such pay

As just keeps life from day to day

In your limbs, as in a cell

For the tyrants' use to dwell,

'So that ye for them are made

Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,

With or without your own will bent

To their defence and nourishment.

'Tis to see your children weak

With their mothers pine and peak,

When the winter winds are bleak, -

They are dying whilst I speak.

'Tis to hunger for such diet

As the rich man in his riot

Casts to the fat dogs that lie

Surfeiting beneath his eye;

'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold

Take from Toil a thousandfold

More that e'er its substance could

In the tyrannies of old.

'Paper coin - that forgery

Of the title-deeds, which ye

Hold to something of the worth

Of the inheritance of Earth.

'Tis to be a slave in soul

And to hold no strong control

Over your own wills, but be

All that others make of ye.

'And at length when ye complain

With a murmur weak and vain

'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew

Ride over your wives and you -

Blood is on the grass like dew.

'Then it is to feel revenge

Fiercely thirsting to exchange

Blood for blood - and wrong for wrong -

Do not thus when ye are strong.

'Birds find rest, in narrow nest

When weary of their wing?d quest

Beasts find fare, in woody lair

When storm and snow are in the air.

'Asses, swine, have litter spread

And with fitting food are fed;

All things have a home but one -

Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!

'This is slavery - savage men

Or wild beasts within a den

Would endure not as ye do -

But such ills they never knew.

'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves

Answer from their living graves

This demand - tyrants would flee

Like a dream's dim imagery:

'Thou art not, as impostors say,

A shadow soon to pass away,

A superstition, and a name

Echoing from the cave of Fame.

'For the labourer thou art bread,

And a comely table spread

From his daily labour come

In a neat and happy home.

'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food

For the trampled multitude -

No - in countries that are free

Such starvation cannot be

As in England now we see.

'To the rich thou art a check,

When his foot is on the neck

Of his victim, thou dost make

That he treads upon a snake.

'Thou art Justice - ne'er for gold

May thy righteous laws be sold

As laws are in England - thou

Shield'st alike the high and low.

'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen never

Dream that God will damn for ever

All who think those things untrue

Of which Priests make such ado.

'Thou art Peace - never by thee

Would blood and treasure wasted be

As tyrants wasted them, when all

Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

'What if English toil and blood

Was poured forth, even as a flood?

It availed, Oh, Liberty,

To dim, but not extinguish thee.

'Thou art Love - the rich have kissed

Thy feet, and like him following Christ,

Give their substance to the free

And through the rough world follow thee,

'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make

War for thy belov?d sake

On wealth, and war, and fraud - whence they

Drew the power which is their prey.

'Science, Poetry, and Thought

Are thy lamps; they make the lot

Of the dwellers in a cot

So serene, they curse it not.

'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,

All that can adorn and bless

Art thou - let deeds, not words, express

Thine exceeding loveliness.

'Let a great Assembly be

Of the fearless and the free

On some spot of English ground

Where the plains stretch wide around.

'Let the blue sky overhead,

The green earth on which ye tread,

All that must eternal be

Witness the solemnity.

'From the corners uttermost

Of the bounds of English coast;

From every hut, village, and town

Where those who live and suffer moan,

'From the workhouse and the prison

Where pale as corpses newly risen,

Women, children, young and old

Groan for pain, and weep for cold -

'From the haunts of daily life

Where is waged the daily strife

With common wants and common cares

Which sows the human heart with tares -

'Lastly from the palaces

Where the murmur of distress

Echoes, like the distant sound

Of a wind alive around

'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,

Where some few feel such compassion

For those who groan, and toil, and wail

As must make their brethren pale -

'Ye who suffer woes untold,

Or to feel, or to behold

Your lost country bought and sold

With a price of blood and gold -

'Let a vast assembly be,

And with great solemnity

Declare with measured words that ye

Are, as God has made ye, free -

'Be your strong and simple words

Keen to wound as sharpened swords,

And wide as targes let them be,

With their shade to cover ye.

'Let the tyrants pour around

With a quick and startling sound,

Like the loosening of a sea,

Troops of armed emblazonry.

Let the charged artillery drive

Till the dead air seems alive

With the clash of clanging wheels,

And the tramp of horses' heels.

'Let the fix?d bayonet

Gleam with sharp desire to wet

Its bright point in English blood

Looking keen as one for food.

'Let the horsemen's scimitars

Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars

Thirsting to eclipse their burning

In a sea of death and mourning.

'Stand ye calm and resolute,

Like a forest close and mute,

With folded arms and looks which are

Weapons of unvanquished war,

'And let Panic, who outspeeds

The career of arm?d steeds

Pass, a disregarded shade

Through your phalanx undismayed.

'Let the laws of your own land,

Good or ill, between ye stand

Hand to hand, and foot to foot,

Arbiters of the dispute,

'The old laws of England - they

Whose reverend heads with age are gray,

Children of a wiser day;

And whose solemn voice must be

Thine own echo - Liberty!

'On those who first should violate

Such sacred heralds in their state

Rest the blood that must ensue,

And it will not rest on you.

'And if then the tyrants dare

Let them ride among you there,

Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, -

What they like, that let them do.

'With folded arms and steady eyes,

And little fear, and less surprise,

Look upon them as they slay

Till their rage has died away.

'Then they will return with shame

To the place from which they came,

And the blood thus shed will speak

In hot blushes on their cheek.

'Every woman in the land

Will point at them as they stand -

They will hardly dare to greet

Their acquaintance in the street.

'And the bold, true warriors

Who have hugged Danger in wars

Will turn to those who would be free,

Ashamed of such base company.

'And that slaughter to the Nation

Shall steam up like inspiration,

Eloquent, oracular;

A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then become

Like Oppression's thundered doom

Ringing through each heart and brain,

Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number -

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you -

Ye are many - they are few

[Huguenot]

Well this one's just for you immaterial, from Ovid's Metamorphoses....

Once a noisy Nymph,

(who never held her tongue when others spoke,

who never spoke till others had begun)

mocking Echo, spied him as he drove,

in his delusive nets, some timid stags.--

for Echo was a Nymph, in olden time,--

and, more than vapid sound,--possessed a form:

and she was then deprived the use of speech,

except to babble and repeat the words,

once spoken, over and over.

I trust you'll note my use of brevity for added impact.

[antijen]

Babble babble toil and travel,

Stories from the past,

Repetition, smothered words,

A quiet silence lasts.

Over and over they try to gag,

If you dont agree,

A wall of words and judgement,

To protect there liberty.

[gallinello]

Huguenot, came across this in T.S Eliot's The Wasteland:

A rat crept softly through the vegetation

Dragging its slimy belly on the bank

While I was fishing in the dull canal

On a winter evening round behind the gashouse

Musing upon the king my brother's wreck

And on the king my father's death before him.

White bodies naked on the low damp ground

And bones cast in a little low dry garret,

Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.

But at my back from time to time I hear

The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter

And on her daughter

They wash their feet in soda water

Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit

Jug jug jug jug jug jug

So rudely forc'd.

Tereu

Class(ic) poem!

[Huguenot]

Is that your own, antijen?

Very good Gallinello, although I'm not too familiar with it.

So much for armed revolution:

Move him into the sun --

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds --

Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides

Full-nerved, -- still warm, -- too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

-- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?

With thanks to Wilfred Owen

[gallinello]

Huguenot - your disingenuousness knows no bounds!

Futility refers to the pointlessness of the catastrophic, imperialist '14-'18 war, and not 'armed revolution'.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen

From Dulce et Decorum Est, absolutely not a poem about armed revolution!

[antijen]

Who sees the revolution,

Whilst the people are slaughted and maimed,

Who speaks of the sun and the seed and the stars,

Whilst the bodies lie unclaimed.

A view from a heart that says pointles,

So much for that says another,

Whos empty hand can understand,

Tears flowing, son, daughter, father and mother.

[brum]

Nice work Antijen - is it your own?

[Huguenot]

Oh Gallinello, too many 'el's

But oh, I suppose she was ugly; she wasn't elegant;

I hadn't yearned for her often in my prayers.

Yet holding her I was limp, and nothing happened at all:

I just lay there, a disgraceful load for her bed.

I wanted it, she did too; and yet no pleasure came

from the part of my sluggish loins that should bring joy.

The girl entwined her ivory arms around my neck

(her arms were whiter than the Sithonian snows) ,

and gave me greedy kisses, thrusting her fluttering tongue,

and laid her eager thigh against my thigh,

and whispering fond words, called me the lord of her heart

and everything else that lovers murmur in joy.

And yet, as if chill hemlock were smeared upon my body,

my numb limbs would not act out my desire.

I lay there like a log, a fraud, a worthless weight;

my body might as well have been a shadow.

Too much humour I fear..

My bad, I didn't credit, but you know where it's from don't you?

[Huguenot]

I suspect not with antijen - but glamorous nevertheless.

[bigbadwolf]

Now I'm old and feeble

and my pilot light is out.

What used to be my sex appeal

is now my water spout.

Twas a time, when of it's own accord

from my trousers would it spring.

But now I have a part time job

to find the bloody thing.

I used to be embarressed

to make the thing behave.

For every single morning it

would stand and watch me shave.

Alas old age approaches

it sure gives me the blues,

to see it hang it's withered head

and watch me tie my shoes.

[Huguenot]

Marvellous, doggerel still lives!

[bigbadwolf]

Thank you Huguenot.

I'm sure either Pam Ayres or Ogden Nash would be proud that some are still carrying the torch.

[antijen]

Hugo and Brum the words are mine,

Plagiarism is fine,

Intentional is a sign.

You've crossed the line.

Who says? Not me, Didnt know the meaning,

Till kids in higher education,

Originality exaggeration.

Ideas, words, theories, google to claim them yours,

Already been said, running round in your head,

Are they mine? I'm now really unsure.

Hasn't everything been said before,

Diffrent meanings for you and for me,

Call me naive but I really believe,

Put together yourself, they are free.

[brum]

Dear Antijen,

You work with originality

And often quite creatively,

That's as obvious to me...

As that big bump in your belly!

(Best wishes by the way)

[antijen]

Thanks brum, my daughters the one with the bump,

Around 2 weeks, then for me first time gran,

Overwhelming and I'm not good with plans,

Busy nesting away for the birthing day,

So my daughter has rest when she can.

[brum]

Begging your pardon I raced ahead

An earlier post I clearly misread!

Such a case of mistaken identity

Deserves to be in the Monkey Puzzle story!

Are you familiar with this book?

If not it's worth a look -

As there's someone who will need

A bedtime story for you to read...

[Sally81]

Lost a friend in Afghanistan this week. RIP Sean and all those who have lost their lives fighting this war.

Young Hearts

Young hearts run free apparently

They beat near us no longer

They slip down cracks in busy pavements

Get lost like socks and bits of paper

Young hearts throb with life one moment

Then fade like broken promises the next

They skip away from happy homes

Chasing boys, chasing girls, chasing dreams

They don?t come back that night, next morning

They lie in streets, broken hearts broken bones

Young hearts float above the world they roamed

They leave behind a life time of aching

Baited breath awaits a return

Who could tell? Who could have known?

Free they go, those young hearts

Swaggering and weaving their journey

And in a single nothingness flash

A young heart leaves us

A whole world will smash.

[brum]

My sincere condolences and a very appropriate choice of poem. If I meet you at the forum drinks we'll drink to Sean and all his fallen comrades and the families and friends they have left behind. RIP.

[jim_the_chin]

My first ever poem, should I give up the day job?

176

I see you, every morning,

your red livery with the white striped front

speeding away from my stop, evermore.

oh 176, bus of my nightmares

cramped seating, magnificent heating -

in summer.

yet ice cold in winter, torture you are

and tortoise you are, in speed

walking pace crawl, through traffic

'this bus is stopped to regulate the service'

or so you tell us.

bollocks, I think, bollocks

and drivers who can't find 3rd gear

or stop to chat outside Edwardes

Grrr! I think, Grrr!

I have yet to look

but assured am I that

somewhere, in that great tome,

you are mentioned

in the geneva convention:

protocol four

[Ted Max]

I like it.

[Jah Lush]

Very good.