DownOnTheUpside
Player Valuation: £30m
So stealing that next time i chat up a bird
Follow along with the video below to see how to install our site as a web app on your home screen.
Note: This feature may not be available in some browsers.
Your Favourite Poem
- Thread starter summerisle
- Start date
- Status
So stealing that next time i chat up a bird
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
The Cherry Tree.
Abertonian
Player Valuation: £20m
bring back the catt
Player Valuation: £8m
Deep and moving.
Like most, I had never read this before and am somewhat taken by the author. Not, I hasten to add, that I don't think Max is capable of such works, it's more because I imagined it had been written by a more 'heavy' literary.
I read that slowly and silently in my head. With a slight echo reverberation. Alone. It was wonderful.
Thank you, roydo.
hallamblue
Player Valuation: £40m
Kubla Khan
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"
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.
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.
Seathestars
Player Valuation: £60m
Nice that mate, thanks for sharing.
I'm sure the bright red dragon on the field of green is watching over them.
Whitebootman
Player Valuation: £35m
“Out of every one hundred transfer targets, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real players, and we would be lucky to have them, for they make the team sheet. Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back to winning silverware.”
Heraclitus if he were a blue during the transfer window.
Heraclitus if he were a blue during the transfer window.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
*bemoans lack of a classical education.
Bei Hennef by D.H. Lawrence (replace the "You" and "I" in the last stanza for Juan Mata and Everton- it fits)
The little river twittering in the twilght,
The wan, wandering look of the pale sky.
This is almost bliss.
And everything shut up and gone to sleep,
All the troubles and anxieties and pain
Gone under the twilight.
Only the twilight now, and the soft 'Sh! ' of the river
That will last for ever.
And at last I know my love for you is here;
I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight,
It is large, so large, I could not see it before,
Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,
Troubles, anxieties and pains.
You are the call and I am the answer.
You are the wish, and I the fufilment.
You are the night, and I the day.
What else? It is perfect enough.
It is perfectly complete,
You and I,
What more--?
Strange how we suffer in spite of this.
The little river twittering in the twilght,
The wan, wandering look of the pale sky.
This is almost bliss.
And everything shut up and gone to sleep,
All the troubles and anxieties and pain
Gone under the twilight.
Only the twilight now, and the soft 'Sh! ' of the river
That will last for ever.
And at last I know my love for you is here;
I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight,
It is large, so large, I could not see it before,
Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,
Troubles, anxieties and pains.
You are the call and I am the answer.
You are the wish, and I the fufilment.
You are the night, and I the day.
What else? It is perfect enough.
It is perfectly complete,
You and I,
What more--?
Strange how we suffer in spite of this.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
Never say that you are walking the final road, by Hirsh Glit.
Written on May 1st 1943 in the Vilna Ghetto, Lithuania it became known as the Partisan Song. It was adapted with music by Jewish fighters, partisans, and Jews entombed in the Ghettos of Eastern Europe. Glit was deported from Vilna on September 1st and was never seen again.
Never say that you have reached the very end,
Though leaden skies a bitter future may portend ;
And the hour for which we've yearned will yet arrive,
And our marching step will thunder : 'We survive !'
From green palms to the land of distant snow,
We are here with our sorrow, our woe,
And wherever our blood was shed in pain,
Our fighting spirits now will resurrect again.
The golden rays of morning sun will dry our tears,
Dispelling bitter agony of yesteryears,
But if the sun and dawn with us will be delayed,
Then let this song ring out to you the call, instead.
Not lead, but blood inscribed this mighty song we sing,
It's not a carolling of birds upon the wing
But a people midst the crashing fires of hell,
Sang this song with guns in hands, until it fell.
Written on May 1st 1943 in the Vilna Ghetto, Lithuania it became known as the Partisan Song. It was adapted with music by Jewish fighters, partisans, and Jews entombed in the Ghettos of Eastern Europe. Glit was deported from Vilna on September 1st and was never seen again.
Never say that you have reached the very end,
Though leaden skies a bitter future may portend ;
And the hour for which we've yearned will yet arrive,
And our marching step will thunder : 'We survive !'
From green palms to the land of distant snow,
We are here with our sorrow, our woe,
And wherever our blood was shed in pain,
Our fighting spirits now will resurrect again.
The golden rays of morning sun will dry our tears,
Dispelling bitter agony of yesteryears,
But if the sun and dawn with us will be delayed,
Then let this song ring out to you the call, instead.
Not lead, but blood inscribed this mighty song we sing,
It's not a carolling of birds upon the wing
But a people midst the crashing fires of hell,
Sang this song with guns in hands, until it fell.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
National Poetry Day today. Also this week the 60th anniversary of The Battle of Cable Street.
The Battle of Cable Street 4th Oct 1936 - 4th Oct 2006
By Patrick Henry
A lifetime since when that ring of steel clashed down these streets.
Boot-heels struck cobbles. Bin-lids for shields buckled in defence
To batons, rocks, banner-shafts. Ears cocked to hear drum-rolls and fast heart-beats.
Blood drenched the gutters spelling a race to make the difference.
That ghostly noise now matched by this grainy print which holds
A moment grasping turmoil of a decade that drowned continents .
In regimes inhuman as vulturous, Futuristic, ill-starred worlds,
Faced by the stern Yiddish reply in frayed grey garments,
In need of repair mentioned by the smashed overhead shop-sign,
Where they stand ground on pavements trod by Oswald and The Met:
"A. LEVI. SUITS TO FIT." Clothes make the man for each occasion:
A black shirt; a skull cap; a khaki blouse; a funeral suit.
Now nearby market traders and clients loom mostly Afro, Slav, Asiatics.
Waves of resentment resurge through the present White Have-Not.
Jack-The-Lads turn their sport of Wog-Bashing to New Party Agendas.
Too young for El Duce, Tojo, Franco? We who date from then never have forgot.
My own lines come mixed: Irish, Nordic, Saxon, Romany,
Who clashed sometime at Clontarf, Stamford Bridge, Ypres, Auschwitz.
Some who spawned me proved strong by command of territory,
Others lived by songs of the road, and not by closed identities.
The Battle of Cable Street 4th Oct 1936 - 4th Oct 2006
By Patrick Henry
A lifetime since when that ring of steel clashed down these streets.
Boot-heels struck cobbles. Bin-lids for shields buckled in defence
To batons, rocks, banner-shafts. Ears cocked to hear drum-rolls and fast heart-beats.
Blood drenched the gutters spelling a race to make the difference.
That ghostly noise now matched by this grainy print which holds
A moment grasping turmoil of a decade that drowned continents .
In regimes inhuman as vulturous, Futuristic, ill-starred worlds,
Faced by the stern Yiddish reply in frayed grey garments,
In need of repair mentioned by the smashed overhead shop-sign,
Where they stand ground on pavements trod by Oswald and The Met:
"A. LEVI. SUITS TO FIT." Clothes make the man for each occasion:
A black shirt; a skull cap; a khaki blouse; a funeral suit.
Now nearby market traders and clients loom mostly Afro, Slav, Asiatics.
Waves of resentment resurge through the present White Have-Not.
Jack-The-Lads turn their sport of Wog-Bashing to New Party Agendas.
Too young for El Duce, Tojo, Franco? We who date from then never have forgot.
My own lines come mixed: Irish, Nordic, Saxon, Romany,
Who clashed sometime at Clontarf, Stamford Bridge, Ypres, Auschwitz.
Some who spawned me proved strong by command of territory,
Others lived by songs of the road, and not by closed identities.
- Status