aardvark6535 Posted December 2, 2023 Author Share Posted December 2, 2023 Ode to a Nightingale By John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
nikki-red Posted December 2, 2023 Share Posted December 2, 2023 (edited) I love this, I always feel the need to read it out loud. The Raven BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is and nothing more.” Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ’Tis the wind and nothing more!” Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.” But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said “Nevermore.” Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never—nevermore’.” But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.” This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted— On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! Edited December 2, 2023 by nikki-red 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hackey lad Posted December 2, 2023 Share Posted December 2, 2023 On 30/11/2023 at 11:33, wearysmith said: For me, this is one of the most memorable of recent years. Remains by Simon Armitage On another occasion, we got sent out to tackle looters raiding a bank. And one of them legs it up the road, probably armed, possibly not. Well myself and somebody else and somebody else are all of the same mind, so all three of us open fire. Three of a kind all letting fly, and I swear I see every round as it rips through his life – I see broad daylight on the other side. So we’ve hit this looter a dozen times and he’s there on the ground, sort of inside out, pain itself, the image of agony. One of my mates goes by and tosses his guts back into his body. Then he’s carted off in the back of a lorry. End of story, except not really. His blood-shadow stays on the street, and out on patrol I walk right over it week after week. Then I’m home on leave. But I blink and he bursts again through the doors of the bank. Sleep, and he’s probably armed, and possibly not. Dream, and he’s torn apart by a dozen rounds. And the drink and the drugs won’t flush him out – he’s here in my head when I close my eyes, dug in behind enemy lines, not left for dead in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land or six-feet-under in desert sand, but near to the knuckle, here and now, his bloody life in my bloody hands. Dunt rhyme. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
carosio Posted December 2, 2023 Share Posted December 2, 2023 Makes one ponder on what kind of education the great poets of the past did have. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
cressida Posted December 2, 2023 Share Posted December 2, 2023 (edited) 'In Belmont lives a lady, richly left, The Merchant of Venice - Sir William Shakespeare. and she is fair and fairer than than that word of wondrous virtue. Sometimes from her eyes I do receive fair speechless messages. Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued to Cato's daughter, Brutus' daughter. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, for the four winds blow in from every coast renowned suitors, and her sunny locks hang on her temple like a golden fleece. Which makes her seat of Belmont, Colchos Strand, and many Jasons come in quest of her.' For misbehaving in class I had to memorise this and say it in front of the headmistress, and had my classmates laughing outside the window. Edited December 2, 2023 by cressida Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
carosio Posted December 2, 2023 Share Posted December 2, 2023 (edited) I was chosen to learn and recite a poem (at the age of 10/11) in front of the whole school and some visiting dignatory. It was called "The Bridge", it told of a bridge which spanned a railway line and was chosen from the school's library. I can't remember any of it, apart from "here stands the bridge that spans the cutting", or something. That was my only moment of fame. Edit- just located it, by J Redwood Anderson. Edited December 2, 2023 by carosio Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
aardvark6535 Posted December 7, 2023 Author Share Posted December 7, 2023 Talking Turkeys! Poem by Benjamin Zephaniah - RIP Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas Cos' turkeys just wanna hav fun Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked An every turkey has a Mum. Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas, Don't eat it, keep it alive, It could be yu mate, an not on your plate Say, Yo! Turkey I'm on your side. I got lots of friends who are turkeys An all of dem fear christmas time, Dey wanna enjoy it, dey say humans destroyed it An humans are out of dere mind, Yeah, I got lots of friends who are turkeys Dey all hav a right to a life, Not to be caged up an genetically made up By any farmer an his wife. Turkeys just wanna play reggae Turkeys just wanna hip-hop Can yu imagine a nice young turkey saying, ÒI cannot wait for de chopÓ, Turkeys like getting presents, dey wanna watch christmas TV, Turkeys hav brains an turkeys feel pain In many ways like yu an me. I once knew a turkey called........ Turkey He said "Benji explain to me please, Who put de turkey in christmas An what happens to christmas trees?", I said "I am not too sure turkey But itÕs nothing to do wid Christ Mass Humans get greedy an waste more dan need be An business men mek loadsa cash'. Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas Invite dem indoors fe sum greens Let dem eat cake an let dem partake In a plate of organic grown beans, Be nice to yu turkey dis christmas An spare dem de cut of de knife, Join Turkeys United an dey'll be delighted An yu will mek new friends 'FOR LIFE'. Benjamin Zephaniah RIP 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
trastrick Posted December 7, 2023 Share Posted December 7, 2023 (edited) You got two winners there with my fave, The Highwayman, and this one I never heard of. Edited December 7, 2023 by trastrick Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
trastrick Posted December 7, 2023 Share Posted December 7, 2023 On 02/12/2023 at 08:44, cressida said: For misbehaving in class I had to memorise this and say it in front of the headmistress, and had my classmates laughing outside the window. The love of my life Janet Warburton, when I was in school was chatting and giggling at the back of the class while the teacher was discussing the story of Grace Darling, heroine of the Lighthouse keepers tale. She got called out to come to the front of the class to give a brief outline of the story. She stood there,an embarrassed grin on her face, and after fidgeting about while the teacher prompted her, finally came out with, in her best broad Sheffield accent, "Light went aht!" and went back to her seat. Everybody clapped. Funny, the stuff that sticks in your mind! 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
cressida Posted December 7, 2023 Share Posted December 7, 2023 31 minutes ago, trastrick said: You got two winners there with my fave, The Highwayman, and this one I never heard of. When my church group stayed at the Parseval retreat in Skipton the vicar had the largest and best room, it was called The Highwayman, I pretended to fake an interest in paying him a visit, I didn't but it was fun to believe he lay awake expecting me. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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