Poets Corner

[Tankus]

Same as Nel .....Im up for it....!

[peter e]

I don't really mind when posts go off topic. It's interesting (sometimes) to follow the pattern and see how people's minds work.

Yes, Tankus. I just bet Will Shakespeare had the same problems. I can just hear the audience on leaving The Globe. "Nah, there wasn't enough sex. And that Juliet; what a stupid bint!"

The Life of Brian - liked the bit about "What have the Romans ever done for us?". People in Iraq are at this very moment saying, "What have the Americans ever done for us?" "Well, they got rid of that hateful dictator who murdered thousands of our people". "Weeeell, yes, but apart from that, what have the..." and so on.

I can't say I've paid much attention Crabbe's poetry before, Tankus. But I will read his poem.

Nel. I'm sure you know that you don't have to know about poetry to like poems. An appreciation of the written word is quite enough. Here's one from Thomas Gray. (When I was a child I went to Stoke Poges churchyard where it was written. I may even have sat on the old bench where he did when he wrote it. But I thought nothing of poetry nor had any respect in those days). I've pasted it in from the vers libre poetry site 'cos I can't be bothered to type it (hope that's not illegal). It's a bit mournful, but then it's supposed to be.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

Thomas Gray

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

The c**k's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,

If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,

'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

'The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'

[peter e]

Oh. I forgot, Tankus. You made a very interesting point about "The Life of Brian". I shall now set myself to wondering what future generations will think of some of our contemporary works. :blink:

(Shakespeare's teacher: "You'll never make anything of yourself, young man, unless you stop making up those stupid stories and coming over all dramatic!").

[artist]

Just had to have DAFFODILS

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

-- William Wordsworth

[artist]

And this:

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

With a cargo of ivory,

And apes and peacocks,

Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,

Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,

With a cargo of diamonds,

Emeralds, amethysts,

Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rails, pig-lead,

Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

-- John Masefield

Oh, the nightmare of learning this one!!

[artist]

THE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT

The Owl and the p***y 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 p***y, O p***y, my love,

What a beautiful p***y you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful p***y you are!"

p***y said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,

How charmingly sweet you sing!

Oh! 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.

"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.

- Edward Lear

[peter e]

Must have been at school at the same time as me, Artist. We had to learn Daffodils, Cargoes and... did you have to learn "Carrying the Good News from Ghent to Aix"? (Browning). :blink: We did.

A National curriculum is all the rage now, but I'm sure that in my school days, all kids throughout England followed the same syllabuses. When I speak to people of my age about school, we all seem to have had a similar experience with course content.

[artist]

Yes, 'Carrying the good news...........'

I do like lots of poetry and remember them well - but at the time it was a nightmare to learn them , especially if they didn't 'rhyme' properly.

Bits of Shakespeare was the worst - none of made sense to me then. :(

I'm not sure education has improved really. It did us no harm to learn things by rote - and we seem to have retained it for all these years. Not telling how many. :rolleyes:

[mmmbisto]

I still love the poem that the character "Kat" reads out in class in one of my fav movies "10 things I hate about you" (Modern version of Shakespeare's Taming Of The Shrew)

I hate the way you talk to me

And the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car.

I hate it when you stare.

I hate your big dumb combat boots

And the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick -

It even makes me rhyme.

I hate the way you're always right.

I hate it when you lie.

I hate it when you make me laugh -

Even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it that you're not around

And the fact that you didn't call.

But mostly I hate the way

I don't hate you --

Not even close, not even a little bit, not any at all.

lol, it makes me cry when she reads it out and starts to cry herself.

[artist]

I like that one :) Never heard it before.

[Guest moon]

Sorry, mmmbisto. Can't find anything good about that one. Just as well we're all different, innit. You maybe won't like this one. I think it's the most emotive poem of all time.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

John McRae

[Tankus]

I look at some of my more boring indignant posts sometimes ,and think ,god what an easy life Ive had.............

To sit among the corpses and think of something meaningful to write after witnessing the pointless carnage.....I feel embarrassed sometimes about wingeing over trivia.........

My grandfather was a strong man , but even in his late 80's before he died he would still get the occasional nightmare over what happened to him in WW2 in North Africa............And I get pissed of if my extra shot Latte grand with vanilla is not hot enough.....Arnt we the really fortunate ones.......!

Hard to read McRae without having experienced what it truly means , I'm thankful for it ....!

[Tankus]

Pete "the life of Brian"

(Shakespeare's teacher: "You'll never make anything of yourself, young man, unless you stop making up those stupid stories and coming over all dramatic!").

That film just works on so many levels...............

All Christians should see it......

[peter e]

Very emotive, Moon. I try to avoid McCrae, Brook, etc because it's all too heart-wrenching.

I shall read Crabbe this weekend, Tankus. Found some of his stuff in an anthology. You are right. Compared with other generations, and some unfortunates in my own generation, I've also had it easy. It does one good to remember that sometimes - and give grateful thanks.

I quite like that "poem", too, mmmbisto.

Idea! We could leave Craig to it and start a poetry forum. What do you all think? ;)

Pete