Other people's poems

Prose, poetry, music, art, it all goes in here! Showcase your creative talents.

Postby Noonan McKane » Sun May 15, 2005 8:44 pm

....What a star Billy is. Really and truly. I wish I knew where he was these days. I'd phone him up or eMail him or summit, just remind him.

If for nowt else, he'll go to heaven for 'The Saturday Boy'
_______________

I'll never forget the first day, I met her,
That September morning was clear and fresh,
The way she spoke,
And laughed at my jokes,
And the way she rubbed herself against the edge of my desk.

She became a magic mystery to me, and we'd,
Sit together in double history twice a week, and,
Some days we'd walk the same way home, and it's,
Surprising how quick a little rain can clear the streets......

In the end it took me a dictionary,
To find out the meaning of "unrequited"
When she was giving herself, for free,
At a party to which I was never invited.




(If you don't know this song, there are about four other verses. Also a trumpet solo. I just picked the best ones. I couldn't figure out how to anotate the trumpet solo.)
Last edited by Noonan McKane on Sun May 15, 2005 11:09 pm, edited 1 time in total.
i shouted out 'who killed the kennedys?' when after all it was you and me
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Postby The Boy with a thorn in his side » Sun May 15, 2005 9:10 pm

Billy's around still, being a political activist, I signed up on his mailing list and recieved an email giving details on a tactical voting scheme in his area.
The Saturday boy! That song is so easy to relate to.
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Postby Noonan McKane » Sun May 15, 2005 11:17 pm

YOUR STAR WILL SHINE

Your star will shine again someday, through deep blue velvet skies.
Shining for all the world to see,
The universe in your eye.

When the storm outside is raging, and the dogs they howl your name,
Lay down to sleep I'll kiss you,
Your star will shine again.

Hush my darling, don't you cry.
I'll stay by your side until morning,
All through the night I'll watch the sky.
And your distant sun,
Will shine like the gun,
That's trained right between your daddy's eyes.
i shouted out 'who killed the kennedys?' when after all it was you and me
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Postby chicken » Thu Sep 22, 2005 11:29 pm

i had a student wander into my office today looking for some academic assistance. she's QUITE bright, extremely well-read, but very sheltered. she's taking a literature course on "the language of civil rights" which has some splendid material for study.

she handed me a copy of this work with her scribbles, notes, and highlights all over it and we had the most delightful talk.
yet...
this poem is really a piece of art. there's but one word in it that i eludes me.
really a great mental rally here...

<!--QuoteBegin--></div><table border='0' align='center' width='95%' cellpadding='3' cellspacing='1'><tr><td>QUOTE </td></tr><tr><td id='QUOTE'><!--QuoteEBegin-->The Idea of Ancestry
Eldridge Knight


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

Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers ( 1 dead), grand
fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins; 1st & 2nd), nieces, and nephews. They stare
across the space at me sprawling on my bunk. I know
their dark eyes, they know mine. I know their style,
they know mine. I am all of them, they are all of me;
they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.


I have at one time or another been in love with my mother,
1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum),
and 5 cousins. I am now in love with a 7 yr old niece
(she sends me letters written in large block print, and
her picture is the only one that smiles at me).


I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews,
and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took
off and caught a freight (they say). He's discussed each year
when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in
the clan, he is an empty space. My father's mother, who is 93
and who keeps the Family Bible with everybody's birth dates
(and death dates) in it, always mentions him. There is no
place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown."


II

Each Fall the graves of my grandfathers call me, the brown
hills and red gullies of Mississippi send out their electric
messages, galvanizing my genes. Last yr/like a salmon quitting
the cold ocean-leaping and bucking up his birthstream/I
hitchhiked my way from L.A. with 16 caps in my pocket and a
monkey on my back, and I almost kicked it with the kinfolks.


I walked barefoot in my grandmother's backyard/l smelled the old
land and the woods/I sipped cornwhiskey from fruit jars with the men/
I flirted with the women/l had a ball till the caps ran out
and my habit came down. That night I looked at my grandmother
and split/my guts were screaming for junk/but I was almost
contented/I had almost caught up with me.
The next day in Memphis I cracked a croaker's crib for a fix.


This yr there is a gray stone wall damming my stream, and when
the falling leaves stir my genes, I pace my cell or flop on my bunk
and stare at 47 black faces across the space. I am all of them,
they are all of me, I am me, they are thee, and I have no sons
to float in the space between.
<!--QuoteEnd--></td></tr></table><div class='postcolor'><!--QuoteEEnd-->
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Postby chicken » Fri Sep 23, 2005 2:57 am

and that beautiful piece led me to this one, written by a poet with more accolades than i can list. this woman is really something else!!

<!--QuoteBegin--></div><table border='0' align='center' width='95%' cellpadding='3' cellspacing='1'><tr><td>QUOTE </td></tr><tr><td id='QUOTE'><!--QuoteEBegin-->Dusting
Rita Dove


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

Every day a wilderness--no
shade in sight. Beulah
patient among knicknacks,
the solarium a rage
of light, a "rainstorm
as her gray cloth brings
dark wood to life.

Under her hand scrolls
and crests gleam
darker still. What
was his name, that
silly boy at the fair with
the rifle booth? And his kiss and
the clear bowl with one bright
fish, rippling
wound!

Not Michael--
something finer. Each dust
stroke a deep breath and
the canary in bloom.
Wavery memory: home
from a dance, the front door
blown open and the parlor
in snow, she rushed
the bowl to the stove, watched
as the locket of ice
dissolved and he
swam free.

That was years before
Father gave her up
with her name, years before
her name grew to mean
Promise, then
Desert-in-Peace.
Long before the shadow and
sun's accomplice, the tree.

Maurice.<!--QuoteEnd--></td></tr></table><div class='postcolor'><!--QuoteEEnd-->
proud to say i have this one unraveled.
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Postby chicken » Sat Sep 24, 2005 4:44 pm

i did my homework and found the meaning of the word "croaker" in the above poem by eldridge knight. a croaker apparently means a person who complains excessively and/or regularly predicts evil.

and i'd bet the farm on the fact that the professor who assigned that poem in her class doesn't know this. so come monday i'll inform her.

however, i'm still uncertain as if that is the meaning intended in the work. i'm inclined to interpret it to mean a person who is an easy target or a person who is so strung out on drugs that they don't know any different.
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Postby rubygirl » Thu Sep 29, 2005 11:09 am

<!--QuoteBegin-chicken+Sep 24 2005, 04:44 PM--></div><table border='0' align='center' width='95%' cellpadding='3' cellspacing='1'><tr><td>QUOTE (chicken @ Sep 24 2005, 04:44 PM)</td></tr><tr><td id='QUOTE'><!--QuoteEBegin-->
however, i'm still uncertain as if that is the meaning intended in the work.  i'm inclined to interpret it to mean a person who is an easy target or a person who is so strung out on drugs that they don't know any different.<!--QuoteEnd--></td></tr></table><div class='postcolor'><!--QuoteEEnd-->
Or maybe someone speaking with a croaking voice <!--emo&:unsure:-->Image<!--endemo--> (this was more of a joke than a suggestion)
Interesting word though. I like the poem as well, that narrative style creates special rhythm - of slow building.

Night

I close my burning eyes
In vain; I cannot sleep
My brain, like heavy lead,
Is floating in the skull-bone
The pillow - like a stone,
Of thorns is made my bed.

And through the foggy window
Through evening darkness, from afar
My sight is tracking sullen skies,
The clouds - running in despai
All chased by stormy wind
I think, I vaguely sense
Under the starry space,
Of somewhat evil fall
The thunder's growl.

The sky afar is bent
And clouds run and scream\
But then again
Come back. And in my head
No thoughts remain

And although weak, my hand
Shall still be able- see... But this-
The chains! I wonder who and why
Has chained me.
And when I turn, it hurts,
It pains me so -----------
-----------Argh, dreamed of evil
And back into evil dreams forever!
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Color me red when I'm feeling blue.
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Postby chicken » Sat Oct 01, 2005 12:29 am

urbandictionary.com

a croaker refers to when an addict goes to a doctor who will give them bogus prescriptions for morphine. the listed defintion is unclear, but i'm starting to put it together. i love peoms that keep me thinking for weeks <!--emo&:D-->Image<!--endemo-->
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Postby helmoz » Mon Oct 31, 2005 11:22 am

i like this poem that one of my old teachers wrote. i think the bride of kilcar is a beauty queen type of thing that they have in kilcar, in ireland.

The Bride Of Kilcar

My thirty fifth birthday

Now here’s a good one.

Kilcar festival,
Scrubbed up shiny like a bachelor
After a meagre week
In the back of Donegal.
Peaks I had no name for
Tearing sky and sea into triangles
And all water uphill.

A nose to my ear in the dark
As quick as a blown leaf –
The Bride of Kilcar.

Eighteen, and mad with the thrill
Of her one road town gone antic.
Draggled veil,
Make-up blotting,
Shivering,
Giddy breathless from her crowning.

Face alight
For grabbing a stranger
And dance, chance
Or the end of the world.

And would I like to go to a Party?

Cartooned ructions of drunk shadows
In the seep of every pub window.
Silhouettes side-sliding,
Going down in the gutter.

A band on a lorry
Thrashing the downpour,
Slinging dustbins of heavy metal at the moon.
Young ones jumping to the pulse
Of their drenched northern fiesta.

I held her off
At half alarmed arm’s length
But with a feeling half like luck in me.

Her wedding dress
Was swan’s wing,
A sodden tissue
Strewn out from her grip on me
To the flooded kerb
Like she might be washed away
And drag me with her
On a cascade of sly chat and flattery,

And would I like to go to a party

My smile
Was honey slathered across my chin;
Sticky, foolish.
Buttered up in a doorway
By a girl half my age.

Not up for it
Of course,
But running with the thought,
Laughter dripping back down my throat,

To where I saw me and this girl
Chasing through the loose torrent
In a lash of drink
And the glee of misrule.
Her fresh gown of love
Trailing soaked feathers
Up the pelting street.

Come away to the party now

But I’d laughed my face into lamplight
Spilling the scrap iron of my years
Into the full yellow,
And her eyes.

Her laughter never stopped,
But her hanging off me
Broke.
And she fell up the street
Squealing her daftness.

She turned, grinning
And I shouted –
I’ll come away to the party

We both got a slice of the joke
But I think it cut me deepest.
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Postby Gwendolen » Fri Dec 23, 2005 4:53 am

my current favorite poem by my current favorite poet, Rochester

A Satyre Against Mankind

Were I - who to my cost already am
One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man -
A spirit free to choose for my own share
What sort of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,
I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or anything but that vain animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.

His senses are too gross; and he'll contrive
A sixth, to contradict the other five;
And before certain instinct will prefer
Reason, which fifty times for one does err.
Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind,
Which leaving light of nature, sense, behind,
Pathless and dangerous wand'ring ways it takes,
Through Error's fenny bogs and thorny brakes;
Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain
Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain;
Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,
Into Doubt's boundless sea where, like to drown,
Books bear him up awhile, and make him try
To swim with bladders of Philosophy;
In hopes still to o'ertake the escaping light;
The vapour dances, in his dancing sight,
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal night.
Then old age and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, make him to understand,
After a search so painful, and so long,
That all his life he has been in the wrong:

Huddled In dirt the reasoning engine lies,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch,
And made him venture; to be made a wretch.
His wisdom did has happiness destroy,
Aiming to know that world he should enjoy;
And Wit was his vain, frivolous pretence
Of pleasing others, at his own expense.
For wits are treated just like common whores,
First they're enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors;
The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains,
That frights th' enjoyer with succeeding pains:
Women and men of wit are dangerous tools,
And ever fatal to admiring fools.
Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape,
'Tis not that they're beloved, but fortunate,
And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate:

But now, methinks some formal band and beard
Takes me to task; come on sir, I'm prepared:

"Then by your Favour, anything that's writ
Against this jibing, jingling knack called Wit
Likes me abundantly: but you take care
Upon this point not to be too severe.
Perhaps my Muse were fitter for this part,
For I profess I can be very smart
On Wit, which I abhor with all my heart;
I long to lash it in some sharp essay,
But your grand indiscretion bids me stay,
And turns my tide of ink another way.
What rage Torments in your degenerate mind,
To make you rail at reason, and mankind
Blessed glorious man! To whom alone kind heaven
An everlasting soul hath freely given;
Whom his great maker took such care to make,
That from himself he did the image take;
And this fair frame in shining reason dressed,
To dignify his nature above beast.
Reason, by whose aspiring influence
We take a flight beyond material sense,
Dive into mysteries, then soaring pierce
The flaming limits of the universe,
Search heaven and hell, Find out what's acted there,
And give the world true grounds of hope and fear."

Hold mighty man, I cry, all this we know,
From the pathetic pen of Ingelo;
From Patrlck's Pilgrim, Sibbes' Soliloquies,
And 'tis this very reason I despise,
This supernatural gift that makes a mite
Think he's an image of the infinite;
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the eternal, and the ever-blessed.
This busy, pushing stirrer-up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out;
Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools
The reverend bedlam's, colleges and schools;
Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe;
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcass through the sky.
'Tis the exalted power whose business lies
In nonsense and impossibilities.
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer,
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who
Retire to think 'cause they have nought to do.
But thoughts are given for action's government;
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent:
Our sphere of action is life's happiness,
And he that thinks beyond thinks like an ass.

Thus, whilst against false reasoning I inveigh.
I own right reason, which I would obey:
That reason which distinguishes by sense,
And gives us rules of good and ill from thence;
That bounds desires. with a reforming will
To keep 'em more in vigour, not to kill. -
Your reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy,
Renewing appetites yours would destroy.
My reason is my friend, yours is a cheat,
Hunger calls out, my reason bids me eat;
Perversely. yours your appetite does mock:
This asks for food, that answers, 'what's o'clock'
This plain distinction, sir, your doubt secures,
'Tis not true reason I despise, but yours.
Thus I think reason righted, but for man,
I'll ne'er recant, defend him if you can:
For all his pride, and his philosophy,
'Tis evident: beasts are in their own degree
As wise at least, and better far than he.

Those creatures are the wisest who attain. -
By surest means. the ends at which they aim.
If therefore Jowler finds and kills the hares,
Better than Meres supplies committee chairs;
Though one's a statesman, th' other but a hound,
Jowler in justice would be wiser found.
You see how far man's wisdom here extends.
Look next if human nature makes amends;
Whose principles are most generous and just,
- And to whose morals you would sooner trust:

Be judge yourself, I'll bring it to the test,
Which is the basest creature, man or beast
Birds feed on birds, beasts on each other prey,
But savage man alone does man betray:
Pressed by necessity; they kill for food,
Man undoes man, to do himself no good.
With teeth and claws, by nature armed, they hunt
Nature's allowance, to supply their want.
But man, with smiles, embraces. friendships. Praise,
Inhumanely his fellow's life betrays;
With voluntary pains works his distress,
Not through necessity, but wantonness.
For hunger or for love they bite, or tear,
Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear.
For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid:
From fear, to fear, successively betrayed.
Base fear, the source whence his best passions came.
His boasted honour, and his dear-bought fame.
The lust of power, to whom he's such a slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave;
To which his various projects are designed,
Which makes him generous, affable, and kind.
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
And screws his actions, in a forced disguise;
Leads a most tedious life in misery,
Under laborious, mean hypocrisy.
Look to the bottom of his vast design,
Wherein man's wisdom, power, and glory join:
The good he acts. the ill he does endure.
'Tis all from fear, to make himself secure.
Merely for safety after fame they thirst,
For all men would be cowards if they durst.
And honesty's against all common sense,
Men must be knaves, 'tis in their own defence.
Mankind's dishonest: if you think it fair
Among known cheats to play upon the square,
You'll be undone.
Nor can weak truth your reputation save,
The knaves will all agree to call you knave.
Wronged shall he live, insulted o'er, oppressed,
Who dares be less a villain than the rest.

Thus sir, you see what human nature craves,
Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves;
The difference lies, as far as I can see.
Not in the thing itself, but the degree;
And all the subject matter of debate
Is only, who's a knave of the first rate.

All this with indignation have I hurled
At the pretending part of the proud world,
Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise,
False freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies,
Over their fellow slaves to tyrannise.

But if in Court so just a man there be,
(In Court, a just man - yet unknown to me)
Who does his needful flattery direct
Not to oppress and ruin, but protect:
Since flattery, which way soever laid,
Is still a tax: on that unhappy trade.
If so upright a statesman you can find,
Whose passions bend to his unbiased mind,
Who does his arts and policies apply
To raise his country, not his family;
Nor while his pride owned avarice withstands,
Receives close bribes, from friends corrupted hands.

Is there a churchman who on God relies
Whose life, his faith and doctrine justifies
Not one blown up, with vain prelatic pride,
Who for reproofs of sins does man deride;
Whose envious heart makes preaching a pretence
With his obstreperous, saucy eloquence,
To chide at kings, and rail at men of sense;
Who from his pulpit vents more peevlsh lies,
More bitter railings, scandals, calumnies,
Than at a gossiping are thrown about
When the good wives get drunk, and then fall out.
None of that sensual tribe, whose talents lie
In avarice, pride, sloth, and gluttony.
Who hunt good livings; but abhor good lives,
Whose lust exalted, to that height arrives,
They act adultery with their own wives.
And ere a score of years completed be,
Can from the loftiest pulpit proudly see,
Half a large parish their own progeny.
Nor doting bishop, who would be adored
For domineering at the Council board;

A greater fop, in business at fourscore,
Fonder of serious toys, affected more,
Than the gay, glittering fool at twenty proves,
With all his noise, his tawdry clothes and loves.
But a meek, humble man, of honest sense,
Who preaching peace does practise continence;
Whose pious life's a proof he does believe
Mysterious truths which no man can conceive.

If upon Earth there dwell such god-like men,
I'll here recant my paradox to them,
Adores those shrines of virtue, homage pay,
And with the rabble world their laws obey.

If such there are, yet grant me this at least,
Man differs more from man than man from beast.
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Postby Shakespeare's Sister » Tue Mar 28, 2006 3:01 am

They're some great poems here.

Anyway, these are from one of my favourite poets Robert Browning...

The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven—
All's right with the world!

-

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!
Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youth's brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt
Low kinds exist without,
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
Poor vaunt of life indeed,
Were man but formed to feed
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast;
Such feasting ended, then
As sure an end to men;

-

So, take, and use thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
My times be in thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!
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Postby chicken » Fri Apr 07, 2006 2:51 pm

here's "Delphinium" by Marianne Boruch, who read at this week's spring poetry reading series.

Near the exquisite vulgarity of the chickens,
delphinium casts passion
inward, until it purples
into rich targets. This one is lame, splinted up
with a split rod, quickly
like someone lit a fuse and stepped back.

All day the wind's been low static
and near the house the sound
of men fixing the chain saw. Delphinium
could care. About this, or rain,
or the chickens busy complaining, outraged
about everything, and dropping themselves
fitfully into mounds of dust. They'd bury themselves
if they could, eyeing the woods
through their little ball bearings.

The delphinium never angers.
It learns quietly, by rote: stars
are stars. Better to keep grass down, forestalling
violence. The pine is a brother, sardonic
and plain. Genius deepens, a deep

blue thing, too rapid
to see completely. I am this blue, the delphinium knows
vaguely, I am
poisonous. The delphinium loves
the sound of that: poisonous, like the true gift
perpetually offered.



such a nice woman, she signed my book of her poetry and even drew a little cartoon kitten!! delightful!!
Last edited by chicken on Fri Apr 07, 2006 2:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby chicken » Wed Apr 12, 2006 11:23 pm

last night i went to another poetry reading, the featured author was M.L.Smoker. she's just published her first book of poetry. there were perhaps 60 people in attendance.


...........it was silent throughout................

:blink:

since she is native american, and because she is native american, her poetry echoed this. it was sad, sad stuff.

two poems really reached me.
one was about her guilt, her remorse for what she perceived as failing to carry on her dying culture. less than 100 people are fluent in her native tongue, which means -if you've studied language at all- it will be a dead language in the next generation. it was a seemingly simple poem, one that was easy on the ears in her sexy, silky voice...but once the meaning set in....... :o :(

then she read one about two 11 year old boys who, upon getting out of school early one day, somehow got ahold of a litre of vodka. they went to the edge of the reservation, in the dead of a montana winter, and drank it all. the bodies were not found for three days. good god.
i sat there.
this absolutely beautiful woman reading out her heart.
she saw me wiping my eyes...and then read to me for about five lines.

well, yes. my head exploded.
just now i'm feeling sober again.
every tulip and pear blossom i walked by today i stopped to touch it. call me corney, call me olde-fashoined, call me sentimental, whatever--it matters not. somehow she ripped off a layer of husk on me, and for that i'm thankful.
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Postby Bref » Fri Apr 14, 2006 5:13 pm

Anyone know where I can find that poem Mark Lamar wrote"I am the James Dean of the dole queue", i've heard it's really good but I can't find it anywhere.
<!--sizeo:3--><span style="font-size:12pt;line-height:100%"><!--/sizeo--><!--fonto:Book Antiqua--><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua"><!--/fonto--><!--fonto:Arial Narrow--><span style="font-family:Arial Narrow"><!--/fonto--><!--fonto:Arial--><span style="font-family:Arial"><!--/fonto-->Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where,
we don't know where.
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Bref
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Postby sonandheir » Sat Apr 15, 2006 3:35 pm

A few poems by one of my favourite poets:

Sad Steps by Philip Larkin

Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am startled by
The rapid clouds, the moon's cleanliness.

Four o'clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.
There's something laughable about this,

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow
Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart
(Stone-coloured light sharpening the roofs below)

High and preposterous and separate -
Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!
O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,

One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare

Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can't come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.

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

The Explosion by Philip Larkin

On the day of the explosion
Shadows pointed towards the pithead:
In the sun the slagheap slept.

Down the lane came men in pitboots
Coughing oath-edged talk and pipe-smoke,
Shouldering off the freshened silence.

One chased after rabbits; lost them;
Came back with a nest of lark's eggs;
Showed them; lodged them in the grasses.

So they passed in beards and moleskins,
Fathers, brothers, nicknames, laughter,
Through the tall gates standing open.

At noon, there came a tremor; cows
Stopped chewing for a second; sun,
Scarfed as in a heat-haze, dimmed.

The dead go on before us, they
Are sitting in God's house in comfort,
We shall see them face to face -


Plain as lettering in the chapels
It was said, and for a second
Wives saw men of the explosion

Larger than in life they managed -
Gold as on a coin, or walking
Somehow from the sun towards them,

One showing the eggs unbroken.

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

This Be The Verse - Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
<span style='color:blue'>"You must be the change you wish to see in the world." - Mahatma Gandhi</span>
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