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great poems gathered together hereINFORMATION
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Favourite poems
Re: Favourite poems
bump
I can't find the longer poem I was looking for after reading the christian society by Cameron thread but this short one by Adrian Mitchell says it too:
HUMAN BEINGS
We all start human,
We end up human.
Human first,
Human last,
We're human
Or we're nothing.
I can't find the longer poem I was looking for after reading the christian society by Cameron thread but this short one by Adrian Mitchell says it too:
HUMAN BEINGS
We all start human,
We end up human.
Human first,
Human last,
We're human
Or we're nothing.
- Lifelinking
- Posts: 3248
- Joined: July 4th, 2007, 11:56 am
Re: Favourite poems
Like it Fia.
It has been ages since I inflicted one 'wot I wrote' on TH, so here goes:
Hide and Seek
One, two .....
Catch me if you can - in places most exclusive
That is if you know who to look for, I am really quite elusive
I choose nationality, more than one, and chop and change
As mood and fiscal expediency, incline me to arrange
Not a single cent or penny, do I ever pay in tax
No accountant that I pay for, would ever be so lax
Without the slightest sense of shame, I will tell you to your face
Get those dole scroungers off to jail, they’re a National disgrace
The thing that you call freedom is a pale facsimile of mine
As money, power and influence so neatly intertwine
Prime Ministers and Presidents, Kings and Princes too
Will flatter and fawn over me, and ask me what to do
We’ve convinced you economics is something ethics free
Invisible hands are working, absolving responsibility from me
I choose my countries carefully, not to do so is for jerks
And without a trace of irony, accept all subsidies and perks
Cheap labour is a given, reliable and compliant too
If they unionise or demand more wages we know just what to do
Up sticks, move on, it’s simple - who has the power to stop it?
The only thing that matters is we maximise our profit
Publicity about the human effluent, can sometimes be a pain
So we give a bung to charity, do a nice slick website, our altruism to explain
That keeps the hacks off our backs most of the time, and lets our critics slumber
As long as no one takes the time, to add up all the numbers
While politicians blame refugees for refugee camps, we don’t have much to fear
Scapegoating the poor and ignorant; it makes me want to cheer!
Just the tiniest fraction of the population but we possess most of the wealth
And we like the ideology that let us acquire it with such stealth
And I appreciate the back up with bombs, guns, planes and tanks
And the taxpayers bail out when we fucked up with the banks
Some work some don’t, some eat or starve, based on the things that I decide
No regulations rein me in, my influence is worldwide
I never have and never will ask you for your vote, there will be no kind of election
The power I wield behind the scenes would never stand such close inspection
................. ninety nine, one hundred, here I come!
It has been ages since I inflicted one 'wot I wrote' on TH, so here goes:
Hide and Seek
One, two .....
Catch me if you can - in places most exclusive
That is if you know who to look for, I am really quite elusive
I choose nationality, more than one, and chop and change
As mood and fiscal expediency, incline me to arrange
Not a single cent or penny, do I ever pay in tax
No accountant that I pay for, would ever be so lax
Without the slightest sense of shame, I will tell you to your face
Get those dole scroungers off to jail, they’re a National disgrace
The thing that you call freedom is a pale facsimile of mine
As money, power and influence so neatly intertwine
Prime Ministers and Presidents, Kings and Princes too
Will flatter and fawn over me, and ask me what to do
We’ve convinced you economics is something ethics free
Invisible hands are working, absolving responsibility from me
I choose my countries carefully, not to do so is for jerks
And without a trace of irony, accept all subsidies and perks
Cheap labour is a given, reliable and compliant too
If they unionise or demand more wages we know just what to do
Up sticks, move on, it’s simple - who has the power to stop it?
The only thing that matters is we maximise our profit
Publicity about the human effluent, can sometimes be a pain
So we give a bung to charity, do a nice slick website, our altruism to explain
That keeps the hacks off our backs most of the time, and lets our critics slumber
As long as no one takes the time, to add up all the numbers
While politicians blame refugees for refugee camps, we don’t have much to fear
Scapegoating the poor and ignorant; it makes me want to cheer!
Just the tiniest fraction of the population but we possess most of the wealth
And we like the ideology that let us acquire it with such stealth
And I appreciate the back up with bombs, guns, planes and tanks
And the taxpayers bail out when we fucked up with the banks
Some work some don’t, some eat or starve, based on the things that I decide
No regulations rein me in, my influence is worldwide
I never have and never will ask you for your vote, there will be no kind of election
The power I wield behind the scenes would never stand such close inspection
................. ninety nine, one hundred, here I come!
"Who thinks the law has anything to do with justice? It's what we have because we can't have justice."
William McIlvanney
William McIlvanney
- Lifelinking
- Posts: 3248
- Joined: July 4th, 2007, 11:56 am
Re: Favourite poems
Thank you Fia.
"Who thinks the law has anything to do with justice? It's what we have because we can't have justice."
William McIlvanney
William McIlvanney
Re: Favourite poems
I think this has always been my favorite poem:
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost
Transformative fire...
Re: Favourite poems
The Robert Frost poem The Road Not Taken is very often requested at funerals, and I have read it several times. The more often I rread it the more I seem to read into it. pm me if you wish to continue to discuss this. lol
Re: Favourite poems
Yes I agree, Val and Marian. There is a lot to read into it and I wonder (having also read it at funerals !) if those choosing it for a loved one actually get what they think they are getting.
Re: Favourite poems
This bit of poetry slamming made my day
Katie Makkai, a veteran poetry slammer - defining the word "pretty".
Re: Favourite poems
Excommunication
The priest finished hearing her whispered confession
Then solemnly rose to his feet and turned his back.
'Absolvo Me, in Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.'
He said, and walked away.
Still kneeling, she watched him leave,
and her tears began to fall; silent and ashamed.
She bent low, and hid her face in her hands,
And wept for herself, and for the priest she loved.
And her tears fell through her hands,
And through her fingers and into the earth,
And the earth trembled to feel the pain of her tears.
******
The priest felt the earth shake as he walked,
And thought it caused by his footsteps.
'What it is to be a powerful man!' he said.
The priest finished hearing her whispered confession
Then solemnly rose to his feet and turned his back.
'Absolvo Me, in Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.'
He said, and walked away.
Still kneeling, she watched him leave,
and her tears began to fall; silent and ashamed.
She bent low, and hid her face in her hands,
And wept for herself, and for the priest she loved.
And her tears fell through her hands,
And through her fingers and into the earth,
And the earth trembled to feel the pain of her tears.
******
The priest felt the earth shake as he walked,
And thought it caused by his footsteps.
'What it is to be a powerful man!' he said.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Re: Favourite poems
John Cooper-Clack seems to be making a bit of a come back (did he ever go away?). I just loved Beasley Street and the line
"Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies in a box on Beasley street"
from Beasley Street. i wasn't aware he was poet untill recently, I just thought he was a singer songwriter who couldn't sing.
Ahh! The memories of listening to him late into the night, with friends. A wee bit worse for the weed.
"Keith Joseph smiles and a baby dies in a box on Beasley street"
from Beasley Street. i wasn't aware he was poet untill recently, I just thought he was a singer songwriter who couldn't sing.
Ahh! The memories of listening to him late into the night, with friends. A wee bit worse for the weed.
"It's hard to put a leash on a dog once you've put a crown on his head"-Tyrion Lannister.
Re: Favourite poems
Sorry to double post, but doesn't this just sum up the Thatcher Years?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejKIgsR5W6k
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejKIgsR5W6k
"It's hard to put a leash on a dog once you've put a crown on his head"-Tyrion Lannister.
Re: Favourite poems
One of my favorite poems that has helped tremendously:
“when your dying came
the world was never
quite the same
nor will be ever
though my heart and mind
and feelings are laid bare
I smile to find
that part of you is there”.
“when your dying came
the world was never
quite the same
nor will be ever
though my heart and mind
and feelings are laid bare
I smile to find
that part of you is there”.
Transformative fire...
Re: Favourite poems
I came here to post a new find, not realising the last one from Marian was actually written by our very own jaywhat.
Attribution is important
Attribution is important
Re: Favourite poems
I've just found out Roger McGough has written a new version of his famous poem on death. Here they both are:
LET ME DIE A YOUNGMAN’S DEATH
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death
NOT FOR ME A YOUNGMAN’S DEATH
Not for me a youngman’s death
Not a car crash, whiplash
John Doe, DOA at A&E kind of death.
Not a gun in hand, in a far off land
IED at the roadside death
Not a slow-fade, razor blade
bloodbath in the bath, death.
Jump under a train, Kurt Cobain
bullet in the brain, death
Not a horse-riding paragliding
mountain climbing fall, death.
Motorcycle into an old stone wall
you know the kind of death, death
My nights are rarely unruly. My days
of allnight parties are over, well and truly.
No mistresses no red sports cars
no shady deals no gangland bars
no drugs no fags no rock’n'roll
Time alone has taken its toll
Not for me a youngman’s death
Not a domestic brawl, blood in the hall
knife in the chest, death.
Not a drunken binge, dirty syringe
“What a waste of a life” death.
LET ME DIE A YOUNGMAN’S DEATH
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death
NOT FOR ME A YOUNGMAN’S DEATH
Not for me a youngman’s death
Not a car crash, whiplash
John Doe, DOA at A&E kind of death.
Not a gun in hand, in a far off land
IED at the roadside death
Not a slow-fade, razor blade
bloodbath in the bath, death.
Jump under a train, Kurt Cobain
bullet in the brain, death
Not a horse-riding paragliding
mountain climbing fall, death.
Motorcycle into an old stone wall
you know the kind of death, death
My nights are rarely unruly. My days
of allnight parties are over, well and truly.
No mistresses no red sports cars
no shady deals no gangland bars
no drugs no fags no rock’n'roll
Time alone has taken its toll
Not for me a youngman’s death
Not a domestic brawl, blood in the hall
knife in the chest, death.
Not a drunken binge, dirty syringe
“What a waste of a life” death.
Re: Favourite poems
what an original action, to contradict one's own previous sentiment. Fia, having now read this twice, it seems to me the obvious take on it is that Roger is (happily) now sensible enough to realise that older age has its compensations. What do you think?Fia wrote:I've just found out Roger McGough has written a new version of his famous poem on death. Here they both are:
LET ME DIE A YOUNGMAN’S DEATH
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death
NOT FOR ME A YOUNGMAN’S DEATH
Not for me a youngman’s death
Not a car crash, whiplash
John Doe, DOA at A&E kind of death.
Not a gun in hand, in a far off land
IED at the roadside death
Not a slow-fade, razor blade
bloodbath in the bath, death.
Jump under a train, Kurt Cobain
bullet in the brain, death
Not a horse-riding paragliding
mountain climbing fall, death.
Motorcycle into an old stone wall
you know the kind of death, death
My nights are rarely unruly. My days
of allnight parties are over, well and truly.
No mistresses no red sports cars
no shady deals no gangland bars
no drugs no fags no rock’n'roll
Time alone has taken its toll
Not for me a youngman’s death
Not a domestic brawl, blood in the hall
knife in the chest, death.
Not a drunken binge, dirty syringe
“What a waste of a life” death.
Re: Favourite poems
When one is young death is not the companion it is when one's older, it has a kind of glamour - think James Dean, where our image of him will always be young man. So the young folk who live/drive too fast assume, with that youthful innocence, that it will never happen to them. And if it does may it probably should be in a blaze of glory.animist wrote: what an original action, to contradict one's own previous sentiment. Fia, having now read this twice, it seems to me the obvious take on it is that Roger is (happily) now sensible enough to realise that older age has its compensations. What do you think?
It's hard enough to contemplate one's own death having lived a good few decades, but the funerals one attends start to be more of peers. The 'nice way to go' death becomes more understandable: about dignity, family, reflection, conversations and adequate pain relief. The gentle and good end of a life well lived and loved, if properly managed. Midwived out of life as gently as one was midwived in...
But then death might still be unexpected, like a sudden catastrophic heart problem, which is awful for the loved ones but is swift and clean.
It beholds us to talk openly with our loved ones about death, being the only surety we have. Preparing for the possibility of suddenly not living. It's not glamorous, but really important to understand the possibilities and share with our families. I've done too many funerals for folk who have never discussed this, and it leaves the families at sea, rudderless, confused, in deep pain yet trying to guess what the deceased might have wanted.
The compensations of old age are myriad, if one lives well. Feeling comfortable in one's own skin. Having a sense of some jobs well done and others in progress. Understanding continuity. Having the time to be engaged. Being able to be responsible only to oneself even if that is grumpy and challenging.
My greatest fear, as many, is dementia. If that's my scenario, then give me a young person's death...
Even sentient old age can be challenging: as my clients frequently tell me :'old age is not for fearties'...
Re: Favourite poems
Here's one for my funeral.
Quiet please! Kindly don’t impede my concentration
I am sitting in the garden thinking thoughts of propagation
Of sowing and of nurturing the fruits my work will bear
And the place won’t know what’s hit it
Once I get up from my chair.
I’m at the planning stages now, if you should need to ask
And if I’m looking weary, it’s the rigours of the task
While the creation of a garden is a strain, as you can guess
So if my eyes should close, it isn’t sleep of course, it’s stress.
Oh, the mower I will cherish, and the tools I will oil
The dark, nutritious compost I will stroke into the soil
My sacrifice, devotion and heroic aftercare
Will leave you green with envy
Once I get up from my chair.
I’ve got lots of leeks to dibble and my runner beans to stake
And I want everything hung up – the garden hoe, the garden rake
I’ll disinfect the green house, when I’ve finished in the shed
Then, beside my faded roses, I will snip off every head.
I will excavate the bindweed, treat the moss upon the lawn
That hairy bittercress will curse the day that it was born
I will rise against the foe, and in the fight we will be matched
And the cabbage caterpillars they will curse the day they hatched.
Oh the branches I will layer and the cuttings I will take
Let other fellows dig a pond, I shall dig a LAKE
My garden – what a showpiece!
There’ll be pilgrims come to stare
And I’ll bow and take the credit
Once I get up from my chair.
Pam Ayres (from Ayres on the Air)
Quiet please! Kindly don’t impede my concentration
I am sitting in the garden thinking thoughts of propagation
Of sowing and of nurturing the fruits my work will bear
And the place won’t know what’s hit it
Once I get up from my chair.
I’m at the planning stages now, if you should need to ask
And if I’m looking weary, it’s the rigours of the task
While the creation of a garden is a strain, as you can guess
So if my eyes should close, it isn’t sleep of course, it’s stress.
Oh, the mower I will cherish, and the tools I will oil
The dark, nutritious compost I will stroke into the soil
My sacrifice, devotion and heroic aftercare
Will leave you green with envy
Once I get up from my chair.
I’ve got lots of leeks to dibble and my runner beans to stake
And I want everything hung up – the garden hoe, the garden rake
I’ll disinfect the green house, when I’ve finished in the shed
Then, beside my faded roses, I will snip off every head.
I will excavate the bindweed, treat the moss upon the lawn
That hairy bittercress will curse the day that it was born
I will rise against the foe, and in the fight we will be matched
And the cabbage caterpillars they will curse the day they hatched.
Oh the branches I will layer and the cuttings I will take
Let other fellows dig a pond, I shall dig a LAKE
My garden – what a showpiece!
There’ll be pilgrims come to stare
And I’ll bow and take the credit
Once I get up from my chair.
Pam Ayres (from Ayres on the Air)
Re: Favourite poems
Came across this today:
CATECHISM
We like you; some of our best friends are fools.
You’ve little to embrace, much to forbid;
It seems, alas, that you have made the rules.
Your storied faith all reason ridicules;
False-promise charlatans of quo for quid.
We like you; some of our best friends are fools.
Those rituals, the teachings of your schools,
Faith-justify the wrongs your dogma did;
It seems, alas, that you have made the rules.
Swindlers find the flaws in all our jewels;
When souls come up for sale you always bid.
We like you; some of our best friends are fools.
Your superstitions served as tyrant’s tools;
Behind your crescent, cross or star you hid.
It seems, alas, you always made the rules.
It’s time we put the sifter to the sieve;
We find no fault in faulting, being rid.
It’s time now that we made ourselves new rules;
We, like you. Some of our best friends are fools.
©HANROD (Hank Rodgers)
CATECHISM
We like you; some of our best friends are fools.
You’ve little to embrace, much to forbid;
It seems, alas, that you have made the rules.
Your storied faith all reason ridicules;
False-promise charlatans of quo for quid.
We like you; some of our best friends are fools.
Those rituals, the teachings of your schools,
Faith-justify the wrongs your dogma did;
It seems, alas, that you have made the rules.
Swindlers find the flaws in all our jewels;
When souls come up for sale you always bid.
We like you; some of our best friends are fools.
Your superstitions served as tyrant’s tools;
Behind your crescent, cross or star you hid.
It seems, alas, you always made the rules.
It’s time we put the sifter to the sieve;
We find no fault in faulting, being rid.
It’s time now that we made ourselves new rules;
We, like you. Some of our best friends are fools.
©HANROD (Hank Rodgers)