A nice contrast to my usual shallow and silly postings...
Here's one I like from the wonderful Thom Gunn.
Fellow poety-afficiando's and all round sensitive types feel free to submit your own.
Jocks and general testosterone-crazed simpletons feel free to take the piss and/or give me a wedgy.
Cheers
Cock of the North
---------------------
The Hug
Thom Gunn
It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined
_____Half of the night with our old friend
__________Who'd showed us in the end
_____To a bed I reached in one drunk stride.
__________Already I lay snug,
And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.
I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,
__________Suddenly, from behind,
In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:
__________Your instep to my heel,
_____My shoulder-blades against your chest.
_____It was not sex, but I could feel
_____The whole strength of your body set,
_______________Or braced, to mine,
___________And locking me to you
_____As if we were still twenty-two
_____When our grand passion had not yet
___________Become familial.
_____My quick sleep had deleted all
_____Of intervening time and place.
___________I only knew
The stay of your secure firm dry embrace.
Edit: Because I can't spell.
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Poems, whats you favourite?
My favourite favourite poem is " I wonder lonely as a cloud "
My partner is a poet.................. and I have waited for him to write one for me........... but so far have passed.............. A Chritsmas, A newYear, My Birthday and a Valentines days and still no poem................... Maybe one day I will inspire one.............. who knows??
Sex God
Cock of the North (no relation), thank you for the excellent poem you posted.
We have a poetry thread here in the Cafe, where many of us have posted, both to post poems we ourselves have written, and sometimes to post our favourite poems of other poets.
See at the top of the cafe thread page. Read, enjoy, and maybe post some more.
Mike.
We have a poetry thread here in the Cafe, where many of us have posted, both to post poems we ourselves have written, and sometimes to post our favourite poems of other poets.
See at the top of the cafe thread page. Read, enjoy, and maybe post some more.
Mike.
Mike,
Glad you liked it, I got into Thom Gunn about ten years ago and The Hug was one of the first I read.
I had a peek at the poetry section but thought it was just original compositions.
Could a helpful mod move this or is it easier to just post it again in the relevent place?
Cheers
Cock of the North
Glad you liked it, I got into Thom Gunn about ten years ago and The Hug was one of the first I read.
I had a peek at the poetry section but thought it was just original compositions.
Could a helpful mod move this or is it easier to just post it again in the relevent place?
Cheers
Cock of the North
Sex God
I love poetry and have written some which can be found in the SH Poetry thread. There are a number i think are great, some from a friend, some my own and many others by miscellaneous poets, but my favourite is a humourous monologue called Albert and the Lion. My dad used to know if off by heart and recite it to me, putting on a brilliant accent and making me laugh so much. Brings back some beautiful memories of my dad :inlove: :love:
Ode to Blondeslave... by Parrot.
I'm only a parrot, but seeing your face.
Reminds me of someone whose name I can't place.
I knew her so well, but a long time has passed.
Time that reminds me that not all things last.
So writing these words is the best I can do.
To help me remember a loved one so true.
A girl from my past that I wish I still knew.
At last, I've remembered that her name was Sue.
I'm only a parrot, but seeing your face.
Reminds me of someone whose name I can't place.
I knew her so well, but a long time has passed.
Time that reminds me that not all things last.
So writing these words is the best I can do.
To help me remember a loved one so true.
A girl from my past that I wish I still knew.
At last, I've remembered that her name was Sue.
Sex God
Wordsworth's 'Daffodils' is the earliest poem I remember but my favourite poem?
This one ... amongst the war poems we studied back at school ...
Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
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,
Obscene as cancer, 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.
( )
This one ... amongst the war poems we studied back at school ...
Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
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,
Obscene as cancer, 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.
( )
It's all pretty personal and subjective when it comes to music and poetry (stating the bleedin' obvious).
However, this one will always rate highly with me.
Aodh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven - by William Butler Yeats
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
This poem is more commonly known as "He Wishes For The Cloths OF Heaven", presumably because English speakers have difficulty pronouncing the Irish name Aodh.
I shudder at the thought of how some folk might try to pronounce it.
In the context of this site, a more appropriate title might be "He Wishes For The Cloths Of Swinging Heaven".
However, this one will always rate highly with me.
Aodh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven - by William Butler Yeats
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
This poem is more commonly known as "He Wishes For The Cloths OF Heaven", presumably because English speakers have difficulty pronouncing the Irish name Aodh.
I shudder at the thought of how some folk might try to pronounce it.
In the context of this site, a more appropriate title might be "He Wishes For The Cloths Of Swinging Heaven".
Sex God
Quote by GenHertsCpl
I love poetry and have written some which can be found in the SH Poetry thread. There are a number i think are great, some from a friend, some my own and many others by miscellaneous poets, but my favourite is a humourous monologue called Albert and the Lion. My dad used to know if off by heart and recite it to me, putting on a brilliant accent and making me laugh so much. Brings back some beautiful memories of my dad :inlove: :love:
My grandad used to have that on a 78 and he knew it word for word. My dad now has it on CD, we downloaded it for him and he now recites it to my children
My favourite poem is 'If' by Rudyard Kipling
Keats was a genius. Wordsworth had his moments, but 'Daffodils' wasn't one of them if you ask me. 'The Prelude', however, is amazing. Dylan Thomas is sadly neglected these days - God only knows why. W. H. Auden was brilliant. The best contemporary poet I reckon is Wendy Cope. But we must never forget the real masters: Shakespeare, Chaucer, Donne, Milton and the rest - you really can't beat 'em! And that's where everything else has come from.
Sex God
if it is one piece of poetry i love it is "the raven" by edgar allen poe.... it is just so dark.....
the good thing about poetry is that it is going to mean a lot of things to different people... i still have stuff from when i was a youngster...all of the christopher robin stuff...... and a poem called " raindrops" which is delightfullly silly.....
sean xxxxxxxx
the good thing about poetry is that it is going to mean a lot of things to different people... i still have stuff from when i was a youngster...all of the christopher robin stuff...... and a poem called " raindrops" which is delightfullly silly.....
sean xxxxxxxx
I love poetry, both writing and reading.
Favourite of all time is this.....
Kind of fits in with my way of life really
the Laird
Favourite of all time is this.....
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
Kind of fits in with my way of life really
the Laird
I have two faves:
1. Philip Larkin: This Be The Verse
and
2. Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. Too long to quote in its entirety!
1. Philip Larkin: This Be The Verse
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.
and
2. Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. Too long to quote in its entirety!
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
"Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruined in my ruin;
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?"
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.
Sex God
Quote by LadyFeeBee
I love poetry, both writing and reading.
Favourite of all time is this.....
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
Kind of fits in with my way of life really
the Lairdmy all time favourite too
Sex God
If
G
G
One of my favourites is Thom Gunn's THE SILVER AGE
Do not enquire from the centurion nodding
At the corner, with his head gentle over
The swelling breastplate, were true Rome is found.
Even of Livy there are volumes lost.
All he can do is guide you through the moonlight.
When he moves, mark how his eager striding,
To which we know the darkness is a river
Sullen with mud, is easy as on ground.
We know it is a river never crossed
By any but some few who hate the moonlight.
And when he speaks, mark how his ancient wording
Is hard with indignation of a lover.
' I do not think our new Emperor likes the sound
of turning squadrons or the last post.
Consorts with Christians, I think he lives in moonlight.'
Hurrying to show you his companions guarding,
He grips your arm like a cold strap of leather,
Then halts, earthpale, as he stares round and round.
What made this one fragment of a sunken coast
Remain,far out, to be beaten by the moonlight?
Love Cicero
Do not enquire from the centurion nodding
At the corner, with his head gentle over
The swelling breastplate, were true Rome is found.
Even of Livy there are volumes lost.
All he can do is guide you through the moonlight.
When he moves, mark how his eager striding,
To which we know the darkness is a river
Sullen with mud, is easy as on ground.
We know it is a river never crossed
By any but some few who hate the moonlight.
And when he speaks, mark how his ancient wording
Is hard with indignation of a lover.
' I do not think our new Emperor likes the sound
of turning squadrons or the last post.
Consorts with Christians, I think he lives in moonlight.'
Hurrying to show you his companions guarding,
He grips your arm like a cold strap of leather,
Then halts, earthpale, as he stares round and round.
What made this one fragment of a sunken coast
Remain,far out, to be beaten by the moonlight?
Love Cicero
Sex God
Quote by LadyFeeBee
I love poetry, both writing and reading.
Favourite of all time is this.....
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
Kind of fits in with my way of life really
the Laird
This one is very moving for me, read it at my dads funeral. :love:
Sex God
He Wishes For Cloths of Heaven.
By W B Yeats
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams
this is my favourite poem read it once and have loved it ever since
ive only ever wanted to be one thing. just one thing, and i always thought it was somethiing id never be. not because i couldnt be, mind you, but because... well... life always seems to find a way to fuck me over.
but next week... i think i get to be that thing.
dramatic pause......... next week i get to be--
DING
ooooh! cookies are done!
but next week... i think i get to be that thing.
dramatic pause......... next week i get to be--
DING
ooooh! cookies are done!
had a thought, but lost it...
every part of me is in pain. its not excruciating, but its definately there,
its real and harsh and lingering... physical, most of it, but once in awhile it pushes its way in to my brain...
painful thoughts, painful dreams, painful memories...insane
i wake up with gnarled hands, no explanation, just curled and hurting... sometimes numb. what does it mean when you wake with numb hands?
not slept on numb,
not like you sat on the bare floor for 3 hours and you got that sore bum
i need a doctor. i curse my lack of health, on whats becoming a regular basis. or do i need more wealth?
people trying to get close, and me still pulling away...
and you worry that ive found someone new to confide in,
but the truth is i confide in no one...but myself
ive drifted away in a way thats caused a loss of interest... i know some of you read
and to those that do...take heed
i bare to you...
my soul
welcome in
by me
every part of me is in pain. its not excruciating, but its definately there,
its real and harsh and lingering... physical, most of it, but once in awhile it pushes its way in to my brain...
painful thoughts, painful dreams, painful memories...insane
i wake up with gnarled hands, no explanation, just curled and hurting... sometimes numb. what does it mean when you wake with numb hands?
not slept on numb,
not like you sat on the bare floor for 3 hours and you got that sore bum
i need a doctor. i curse my lack of health, on whats becoming a regular basis. or do i need more wealth?
people trying to get close, and me still pulling away...
and you worry that ive found someone new to confide in,
but the truth is i confide in no one...but myself
ive drifted away in a way thats caused a loss of interest... i know some of you read
and to those that do...take heed
i bare to you...
my soul
welcome in
by me
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Quote by Parrot
Ode to Blondeslave... by Parrot.
I'm only a parrot, but seeing your face.
Reminds me of someone whose name I can't place.
I knew her so well, but a long time has passed.
Time that reminds me that not all things last.
So writing these words is the best I can do.
To help me remember a loved one so true.
A girl from my past that I wish I still knew.
At last, I've remembered that her name was Sue.
Parrot,
Nice thought babes........... but my name is Samantha
Thanx anyway..........lol lol
I think My favourite is this one by Kipling.......
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!
Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:
"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?"
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
At dusk he harries the Abazai -- at dawn he is into Bonair,
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."
The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell
and the head of the gallows-tree.
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat --
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride."
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course -- in a woful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand -- small room was there to strive,
"'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive:
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.
They will feed their horse on the standing crop,
their men on the garnered grain,
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
But if thou thinkest the price be fair, -- thy brethren wait to sup,
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, -- howl, dog, and call them up!
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!"
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet.
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father's gift -- by God, she has carried a man!"
The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;
"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best.
So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain."
The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he;
"will ye take the mate from a friend?"
"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.
Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest --
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides,
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
Thy life is his -- thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,
And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power --
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur."
They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear --
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son.
"Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief --
to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!"
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!
Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:
"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?"
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
At dusk he harries the Abazai -- at dawn he is into Bonair,
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."
The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell
and the head of the gallows-tree.
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat --
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride."
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.
They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course -- in a woful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand -- small room was there to strive,
"'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive:
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,
But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.
They will feed their horse on the standing crop,
their men on the garnered grain,
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
But if thou thinkest the price be fair, -- thy brethren wait to sup,
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, -- howl, dog, and call them up!
And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!"
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet.
May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father's gift -- by God, she has carried a man!"
The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;
"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best.
So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain."
The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he;
"will ye take the mate from a friend?"
"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.
Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest --
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides,
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
Thy life is his -- thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,
And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,
And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power --
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur."
They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear --
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son.
"Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief --
to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!"
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face,
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!
Excellent, some really, really good stuff there, I'm pleased this thread had taken off.
As per the start of this thread I'm not sure if it is better to move this to the poetry section or if that is just original compositions? Mods input gratefully received.
I've always found a lot to be learnt from Ozymandius by Peter Bysshe Shelley. I read it when I was a kid and it always comes to mind if I'm getting delusions of grandeur:
Cheers
Cock of the North
Ozymandius
by: Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whos frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandius, king of kings:
Look on my words, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
As per the start of this thread I'm not sure if it is better to move this to the poetry section or if that is just original compositions? Mods input gratefully received.
I've always found a lot to be learnt from Ozymandius by Peter Bysshe Shelley. I read it when I was a kid and it always comes to mind if I'm getting delusions of grandeur:
Cheers
Cock of the North
Ozymandius
by: Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whos frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandius, king of kings:
Look on my words, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Sex God
Anything by the now absent and missed Agricola.
A real talent there and some of his work still remains dotted around the poetry thread.
My favourite fun poems are written by Spike Milligan or Roald Dahl.
A real talent there and some of his work still remains dotted around the poetry thread.
My favourite fun poems are written by Spike Milligan or Roald Dahl.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-- William Butler Yeats, January 1919
I am finding Yeats poetry to be becomming more and more relevant, or is that just my paranoia?
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-- William Butler Yeats, January 1919
I am finding Yeats poetry to be becomming more and more relevant, or is that just my paranoia?
