Casabianca The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. The flames roll'd on...he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He call'd aloud..."Say, father, say If yet my task is done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. "Speak, father!" once again he cried "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death, In still yet brave despair; And shouted but one more aloud, "My father, must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud The wreathing fires made way, They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And stream'd above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound... The boy-oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea. With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart.
She stood on the bridge at midnight Her lips were all a'quiver She gave a cough Her leg fell off And floated down the river ;D ;D
This Be the Verse BY PHILIP LARKIN They f*** 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 f***ed 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. ;D
Warning by Jenny Joseph When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Dash by Linda Ellis I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend. He referred to the dates on her tombstone, from the beginning…to the end. He noted that first came the date of her birth and spoke of the following date with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years. For that dash represents all the time that she spent alive on earth. And now only those who loved her know what that little line is worth. For it matters not, how much we own, the cars…the house…the cash. What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash. So, think about this long and hard. Are there things you’d like to change? For you never know how much time is left that can still be rearranged. If we could just slow down enough to consider what’s true and real and always try to understand the way other people feel. And be less quick to anger and show appreciation more and love the people in our lives like we’ve never loved before. If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile, remembering that this special dash might only last a little while. So, when your eulogy is being read, with your life’s actions to rehash… would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent YOUR dash?
The Camper Van, by Elsie... When I was out walking I did spy A camper van with a tear in it`s eye, It wasn`t too big nor was it too small But from it's headlight a tear did fall. My pity for this I just couldn`t hide And so I dared to venture inside, I had to see just what was it's plight And see if I could help to put things right. You and I shall have a little natter And you can tell me what is the matter, `I don`t think I`m wanted` it replied And then it simply broke down and cried. `I have been sold by the people I knew They treated me well and my fondness grew, The family increased so I had to go It was hard to take, it was quite a blow`. `I was brought up North but this I don`t mind Just so long as my new owners are kind, But since I arrived my wheels have not turned And so I feel that I have been spurned`. `His cry is always` “I`m too busy to go I have a lot of work don`t you know”, `She replies` “You`ll have to learn to say NO Then off on our travels we can go”. I want the key in my ignition to turn Then on to the road and some rubber we`ll burn, To feel the breeze thru` my open windows blow Then I will show them just how I can go. But for now I stand all sad and forlorn I don`t want to be declared as SORN I`m scared if I stand that my bits will rust Then to scrap me would become a must. I said, `Oh camper van please do not cry I will help you or at least I`ll try, I`ll see if they will sell you to me I`d put you on the road and you`d be free. All seems fairly believable until you get to the bit about not minding going up North...
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 Roger McGough Love this guy's poems
The Pasture I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; I'll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): I shan't be gone long. -- You come too. I'm going out to fetch the little calf That's standing by the mother. It's so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue. I shan't be gone long. -- You come too. Robert Frost
The boy stood on the burning deck, picking his nose like mad, he rolled them into little balls, and flicked them at his dad.
Waiting at the Window by (A. A.) Milne These are my two drops of rain Waiting on the window-pane. I am waiting here to see Which the winning one will be. Both of them have different names. One is John and one is James. All the best and all the worst Comes from which of them is first. James has just begun to ooze. He's the one I want to lose. John is waiting to begin. He's the one I want to win. James is going slowly on. Something sort of sticks to John. John is moving off at last. James is going pretty fast. John is rushing down the pane. James is going slow again. James has met a sort of smear. John is getting very near. Is he going fast enough? (James has found a piece of fluff.) John has quickly hurried by. (James was talking to a fly.) John is there, and John has won! Look! I told you! Here's the sun!
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this is if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
Dylan Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night. 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 that 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.
Will not type it out but should any of you peeps have a bent re severe poetic imagery, Sylvia Plath"s "DADDY" is the one ! > helps if you know a little of the poem background and about plath herself (she is so real !!!) ,in my opinion
I love poetry! Great poems folks some i knew, some not. This one I always think of when I drive back through the Somme region in France - even tho it is in Belguim! 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. Dr John McRae
We bought ourselfs a campervan her name was Ellie mae for this little passion i found we had to pay For her engine twas all wrong when it made a big, bing bong We dragged it to a man who knew exactly what to do he sucked his breath and curled his toes while he did tell of lots of woes she sits and waits outside alone ,smiling all the while while me at work do stick a tile ,then ready for a ...dozen miles on and on we go... cross the moors and way down low now the money is all spent and still we have a bumper bent apoliges to all poets By ; JD Mc sporren
