Said Hamlet to Ophelia
I'll draw a sketch of thee
What kind of pencil shall I use
2B or not 2B ?
Spike Milligan
I'll draw a sketch of thee
What kind of pencil shall I use
2B or not 2B ?
Spike Milligan
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Your Favourite Poem
- Thread starter summerisle
- Start date
- Status
Donald Twain
Vide cor meum
well done for bumping this guys .
Donald Twain
Vide cor meum
Roger McGough . 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
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
Donald Twain
Vide cor meum
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
Keith Douglas, killed 9/6/44, Normandy.
How To Kill - Keith Douglas
Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.
Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears
And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.
The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches
Simplify Me When I'm Dead - Keith Douglas
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.
As the processes of earth
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye
and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.
Of my skeleton perhaps,
so stripped, a learned man will say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.
Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore
the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.
Time's wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.
Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,
not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.
How To Kill - Keith Douglas
Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.
Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears
And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.
The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches
Simplify Me When I'm Dead - Keith Douglas
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.
As the processes of earth
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye
and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.
Of my skeleton perhaps,
so stripped, a learned man will say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.
Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore
the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.
Time's wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.
Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,
not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.
Donald Twain
Vide cor meum
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
brieverton
Player Valuation: £50m
Seamus Heaney - Mid-Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying -
He had always taken funerals in his stride -
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble."
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple.
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying -
He had always taken funerals in his stride -
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble."
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple.
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Bird on the wire
Like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, "You must not ask for so much."
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
Oh like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free
Leonard Cohen
Rest in peace - a life well lived.
Like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
Like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
And by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
He said to me, "You must not ask for so much."
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
Oh like a bird on the wire,
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free
Leonard Cohen
Rest in peace - a life well lived.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
Nothing changes, this poem was written in response to a letter he received from destitute survivors of the Charge of the Light Brigade. The unnamed personage to whom they address their pleas is Lord Tenyson.
The Last of the Light Brigade by Rudyard Kipling
There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four !
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove to stand to attention, to straighen the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.
"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
The Last of the Light Brigade by Rudyard Kipling
There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four !
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove to stand to attention, to straighen the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.
"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
This was an unfinished effort of mine (from about May this year):
Ode to Bill
Roberto, the thin Spanish waiter
Made from Dave's spare leg and JJB sports gear at half price
Spent an unhappy time in Motherwell the daft bugger
But so did Jimmy Mac - he was a hero, well he was once (or twice)
But at least he's not Kenny Dogsh1te, another Scottish hero who came back for more
And we definitely don't want Moyesie or Smith or Walker back - capiche Bill?
So get on the blower to Porto pronto and get Jenny to make some more eggs
Cos if you hire Stubbsy we'll send you his spare ball in the post
Just like Kopites send bullets to people they don't like
Only kidding about the last bit by the way Bill - can you get off the phone now
Instead of searching 24/7 for a new investor and a new manager and a new ground,
And listen to the fans - Thanks for the new badge eh Bill
I WANDER'D over as a Blue (with apologies to Wordsworth)
To float on high o'er Stanley Park,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of fecking Redsh-tes;
Beside the ground and in the trees,
Spewing and spitting on the Mancs
Continuous as the Stars and Stripes
And urinate on th' Shankly Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending push
Along the margin of a gate:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing d+ckheads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in pee:
A Blue could never be so gay,
As such a fecund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What lack of wealth the shower had bought:
For oft, when on their couch they lie
In vacant - not in pensive - mood,
They flash upon their inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
To see the b+stards lose 3-0.
Only Fools and Harrys
Stick a few grand in me pocket,
I’ll fetch the fullback from Milan,
Cos if you want the best ’uns,
But you don’t ask questions,
Then brother, I’m your man-ager.
’Cos where it all goes to is a mystery,
It’s like the transfer window season,
And the owner of Chelsea.
But here’s the one that’s drivin’ me beserk,
Why don't effing lazy Scousers work?
La-lala-la-la la-lala-lala-la
La-lala-la-la la-lala-lala-la.
Closing lyrics:
I’ve got some half-price Peter Crouch
And how about some Ferdinand,
Jamie, Defoe, and David Beckham splash on,
Ball players, Joe Cole, whassa-names, and at a push,
Some Trevor Francis look-a-like or maybe another Ian Rush,
Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush….
No income tax, no V.A.T.
No money back, no guarantee,
Black or white, rich or poor,
You pay five & I'll keep four.
God bless Fratton Park,
Viva Fratton Park,
Long live Fratton Park,
C’est magnifique, Fratton Park,
Magnifique, Fratton Park,
Fratton Park — Fratton Park — Fratton Park.
Ode to Bill
Roberto, the thin Spanish waiter
Made from Dave's spare leg and JJB sports gear at half price
Spent an unhappy time in Motherwell the daft bugger
But so did Jimmy Mac - he was a hero, well he was once (or twice)
But at least he's not Kenny Dogsh1te, another Scottish hero who came back for more
And we definitely don't want Moyesie or Smith or Walker back - capiche Bill?
So get on the blower to Porto pronto and get Jenny to make some more eggs
Cos if you hire Stubbsy we'll send you his spare ball in the post
Just like Kopites send bullets to people they don't like
Only kidding about the last bit by the way Bill - can you get off the phone now
Instead of searching 24/7 for a new investor and a new manager and a new ground,
And listen to the fans - Thanks for the new badge eh Bill
I WANDER'D over as a Blue (with apologies to Wordsworth)
To float on high o'er Stanley Park,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of fecking Redsh-tes;
Beside the ground and in the trees,
Spewing and spitting on the Mancs
Continuous as the Stars and Stripes
And urinate on th' Shankly Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending push
Along the margin of a gate:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing d+ckheads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in pee:
A Blue could never be so gay,
As such a fecund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What lack of wealth the shower had bought:
For oft, when on their couch they lie
In vacant - not in pensive - mood,
They flash upon their inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
To see the b+stards lose 3-0.
Only Fools and Harrys
Stick a few grand in me pocket,
I’ll fetch the fullback from Milan,
Cos if you want the best ’uns,
But you don’t ask questions,
Then brother, I’m your man-ager.
’Cos where it all goes to is a mystery,
It’s like the transfer window season,
And the owner of Chelsea.
But here’s the one that’s drivin’ me beserk,
Why don't effing lazy Scousers work?
La-lala-la-la la-lala-lala-la
La-lala-la-la la-lala-lala-la.
Closing lyrics:
I’ve got some half-price Peter Crouch
And how about some Ferdinand,
Jamie, Defoe, and David Beckham splash on,
Ball players, Joe Cole, whassa-names, and at a push,
Some Trevor Francis look-a-like or maybe another Ian Rush,
Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush, Rush….
No income tax, no V.A.T.
No money back, no guarantee,
Black or white, rich or poor,
You pay five & I'll keep four.
God bless Fratton Park,
Viva Fratton Park,
Long live Fratton Park,
C’est magnifique, Fratton Park,
Magnifique, Fratton Park,
Fratton Park — Fratton Park — Fratton Park.
Last edited:
LEONARD
Player Valuation: £60m
UNLIKELY ( Roger McGough)
It seems unlikely now
that I shall ever nod in the winning goal for Everton
and run around Wembley with the cup.
Unlikely too
that I shall rout
the Aussies at Lords
with my deadly inswingers.
that I shall play
the romantic lead in a Hollywood film
based on a Broadway musical
in which I starred.
that I shall be a missionary
spreading wisdom
and the word of God
to our pagan bretheran
it all seems unlikely now.
And so I seek dreams more mundane
ambitions more easily attained.
A day at the seaside
a poem started
a change of beard
an unruly orgasm
a new tracksuit.
and at the end of the day
I count my successes
( adding 10 if I go to bed sober)
by thus keeping one pace ahead of myself.
I need never catch up with the truth.
It seems unlikely now that you will enter the room
close the curtains
and turn back the clock.
It seems unlikely now
that I shall ever nod in the winning goal for Everton
and run around Wembley with the cup.
Unlikely too
that I shall rout
the Aussies at Lords
with my deadly inswingers.
that I shall play
the romantic lead in a Hollywood film
based on a Broadway musical
in which I starred.
that I shall be a missionary
spreading wisdom
and the word of God
to our pagan bretheran
it all seems unlikely now.
And so I seek dreams more mundane
ambitions more easily attained.
A day at the seaside
a poem started
a change of beard
an unruly orgasm
a new tracksuit.
and at the end of the day
I count my successes
( adding 10 if I go to bed sober)
by thus keeping one pace ahead of myself.
I need never catch up with the truth.
It seems unlikely now that you will enter the room
close the curtains
and turn back the clock.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
Seek the Oldies Thread for solace old bean.
Donald Twain
Vide cor meum
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 1914-1953
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 1914-1953
- Status