aardvark6535 Posted December 27, 2023 Author Share Posted December 27, 2023 The Tyger By William Blake Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp. Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
aardvark6535 Posted December 27, 2023 Author Share Posted December 27, 2023 The Owl and the Pussy-Cat By Edward Lear I The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" II Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-Tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. III "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
aardvark6535 Posted January 23 Author Share Posted January 23 The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God John Milton Hayes There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu, There's a little marble cross below the town; There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, And the Yellow God forever gazes down. He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu, He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell; But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks, And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well. He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong, The fact that she loved him was plain to all. She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun To celebrate her birthday with a ball. He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew; They met next day as he dismissed a squad; And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do But the green eye of the little Yellow God. On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance, And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars: But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile, Then went out into the night beneath the stars. He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn, And a gash across his temple dripping red; He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day, And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed. He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through; She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod; He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew," And she found the little green eye of the god. She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do, Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet; But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get. When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night, She thought of him and hurried to his room; As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom. His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through; The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod; An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew, 'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God." There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu, There's a little marble cross below the town; There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, And the Yellow God forever gazes down. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Delbow Posted January 23 Share Posted January 23 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. Oh, that's very good. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
aardvark6535 Posted July 16 Author Share Posted July 16 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Slighty batty Posted July 16 Share Posted July 16 By the talking river You and I Gauzy wings a-quiver Dragonfly. I can't remember who wrote it, but I love it because it reminds me of walks with my dad. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
davyboy Posted July 16 Share Posted July 16 There once was a chick abit that went for a walk Met another chick abit and stopped for a talk. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
davyboy Posted July 16 Share Posted July 16 There once was a chick abit that went for a walk Met another chick abit and stopped for a talk. One smoked a pipe, the other wore a hat, trimmed with an onion, What do you think of that? my uncle recited that in the mid 1940's Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Draggletail Posted July 16 Share Posted July 16 On 28/11/2023 at 07:41, aardvark6535 said: Everyone knows a poem from their youth, a poem they either loved or hated, how about sharing it with us, including why you particularly liked or disliked it. My little ditty, though written in modern times, still takes me back to the Tall Ships that used to be at sea for two/three years at a time, and barely making it back to land. Attributed to Captain Hamish Blair, I give you - Bloody Orkney This bloody town's a bloody cuss No bloody trains, no bloody bus, And no one cares for bloody us In bloody Orkney. The bloody roads are bloody bad, The bloody folks are bloody mad, They'd make the brightest bloody sad, In bloody Orkney. All bloody clouds, and bloody rains, No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains, The Council's got no bloody brains, In bloody Orkney. Everything's so bloody dear, A bloody bob, for bloody beer, And is it good? - no bloody fear, In bloody Orkney. The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old, The bloody seats are bloody cold, You can't get in for bloody gold In bloody Orkney. The bloody dances make you smile, The bloody band is bloody vile, It only cramps your bloody style, In bloody Orkney. No bloody sport, no bloody games, No bloody fun, the bloody dames Won't even give their bloody names In bloody Orkney. Best bloody place is bloody bed, With bloody ice on bloody head, You might as well be bloody dead, In bloody Orkney There's nothing greets your bloody eye But bloody sea and bloody sky, 'Roll on demob!' we bloody cry In bloody Orkney. This sounds very much like a John Cooper Clarke poem! 😎 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Draggletail Posted July 16 Share Posted July 16 On 28/11/2023 at 07:41, aardvark6535 said: Everyone knows a poem from their youth, a poem they either loved or hated, how about sharing it with us, including why you particularly liked or disliked it. My little ditty, though written in modern times, still takes me back to the Tall Ships that used to be at sea for two/three years at a time, and barely making it back to land. Attributed to Captain Hamish Blair, I give you - Bloody Orkney This bloody town's a bloody cuss No bloody trains, no bloody bus, And no one cares for bloody us In bloody Orkney. The bloody roads are bloody bad, The bloody folks are bloody mad, They'd make the brightest bloody sad, In bloody Orkney. All bloody clouds, and bloody rains, No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains, The Council's got no bloody brains, In bloody Orkney. Everything's so bloody dear, A bloody bob, for bloody beer, And is it good? - no bloody fear, In bloody Orkney. The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old, The bloody seats are bloody cold, You can't get in for bloody gold In bloody Orkney. The bloody dances make you smile, The bloody band is bloody vile, It only cramps your bloody style, In bloody Orkney. No bloody sport, no bloody games, No bloody fun, the bloody dames Won't even give their bloody names In bloody Orkney. Best bloody place is bloody bed, With bloody ice on bloody head, You might as well be bloody dead, In bloody Orkney There's nothing greets your bloody eye But bloody sea and bloody sky, 'Roll on demob!' we bloody cry In bloody Orkney. This sounds very much like a John Cooper Clarke poem! 😎 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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