Hopkins is great. And I had to memorize him growing up.
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
Woolverhampton_Blue
Player Valuation: £35m
Wait For Me by Konstantin Simonov. Read by Sir Laurence Olivier for the documentary The World At War.
Really, really enjoy his work as well. Such an interesting person filled with ardent religious faith and artistic ability.
You might like Exiles by Ron Hansen. It’s a novel that follows the story of the Deutschland and how its sinking led to a new vitality in his work
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
BigBlueConk
Player Valuation: £70m
If I may indulge your attention.
Back in the period we look back at with affection known as Lockdown One in 2020, I wrote a verse about an old school friend named Joanne.
Those were the days when lockdown was taken seriously.
We bumped into each other online on a mutual friends Facebook page and we exchanged witty banter in which she said we can meet up after lockdown.
Turned out she was allergic to cats. I had 5 at the time.
I hadn't seen her since 1984 and all I remember is she looked mighty fine.
However, I then discovered that it was just words and that in fact she is engaged to be re-married.
However, not until after I had written this one lockdown night.
Unseen by very few....
The title is:
My Lockdown Poem For Joanne. Who Doesn't Like My Cats. Or Anybody Else's For That Matter.
The other night I was wondering why,
Does one survive or does one die?
And after several sneezes
I knew what pleases me most
Is the prospect of dating Joanne.
Now I don't know why and I don't know how,
But I want you here and I want you now.
I really do.
And I consider that you might want me too.
You could be with me, you really can,
If you play your cards right sweet Joanne.
I dream a dream with contemplation,
Fuelled by a vivid imagination,
Go to a place of much elation,
Post on Facebook, tell the nation.
The other day to pass the time,
I wrote down words and made them rhyme.
With a clear thought out notion
To put this cunning plan into motion;
The prospect of dating Joanne.
Now I don't know how and I don't know why,
I can only ask, I can only try,
That's all I can do.
And I consider that you might want me too.
You could be with me, you really can,
If you play your cards right sweet Joanne.
Needless to say that once I found she would not be interested, I wasn't either.
That's how being a man works.
Back in the period we look back at with affection known as Lockdown One in 2020, I wrote a verse about an old school friend named Joanne.
Those were the days when lockdown was taken seriously.
We bumped into each other online on a mutual friends Facebook page and we exchanged witty banter in which she said we can meet up after lockdown.
Turned out she was allergic to cats. I had 5 at the time.
I hadn't seen her since 1984 and all I remember is she looked mighty fine.
However, I then discovered that it was just words and that in fact she is engaged to be re-married.
However, not until after I had written this one lockdown night.
Unseen by very few....
The title is:
My Lockdown Poem For Joanne. Who Doesn't Like My Cats. Or Anybody Else's For That Matter.
The other night I was wondering why,
Does one survive or does one die?
And after several sneezes
I knew what pleases me most
Is the prospect of dating Joanne.
Now I don't know why and I don't know how,
But I want you here and I want you now.
I really do.
And I consider that you might want me too.
You could be with me, you really can,
If you play your cards right sweet Joanne.
I dream a dream with contemplation,
Fuelled by a vivid imagination,
Go to a place of much elation,
Post on Facebook, tell the nation.
The other day to pass the time,
I wrote down words and made them rhyme.
With a clear thought out notion
To put this cunning plan into motion;
The prospect of dating Joanne.
Now I don't know how and I don't know why,
I can only ask, I can only try,
That's all I can do.
And I consider that you might want me too.
You could be with me, you really can,
If you play your cards right sweet Joanne.
Needless to say that once I found she would not be interested, I wasn't either.
That's how being a man works.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
Sassy Colombian
Member: Team PoP
Today I read this article in The NY Times about a Ukrainian soldier reciting a Persian poem on the eve of battle that went viral. It is not only the poem beautiful, but very poignant given the circumstances that are happening in Ukraine at the moment.
Here is the poem translated into English:
At times I wonder
Who will tell you the news of my death?
The moment when you hear of my death, from someone
I wish I could see your beautiful face
Shrugging your shoulders, carefree
Waving your hands — it’s no matter
Nodding your head, “Wow! He died! How sad!”
I wish I could see it
I ask myself
Who would believe
Your love burned to ashes
The jungle of my soul
Here is the poem translated into English:
At times I wonder
Who will tell you the news of my death?
The moment when you hear of my death, from someone
I wish I could see your beautiful face
Shrugging your shoulders, carefree
Waving your hands — it’s no matter
Nodding your head, “Wow! He died! How sad!”
I wish I could see it
I ask myself
Who would believe
Your love burned to ashes
The jungle of my soul
Sassy Colombian
Member: Team PoP
An old poem that’s very appropriate for this moment in time, the fear and uncertainty in the face of fascism and war.
September 1, 1939
W. H. Auden - 1907-1973
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
September 1, 1939
W. H. Auden - 1907-1973
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Bluerover
Player Valuation: £50m
The Love Song of J Alfred Prufock by TS Eliot. Absolutely brilliant.
"Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach". " In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo"
40 years since doing my Leaving Cert and I still remember that poem.
"Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach". " In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo"
40 years since doing my Leaving Cert and I still remember that poem.
I’m really fond of this one:
The senses are stirred in spring,
A season of rebirth, beauty and hope,
Sent but once a year to remind us,
The balance of nature perfectly interlopes,
The first shoots of green are upon us,
The scent of daffodils oh look and a squirrel,
Yet I’d rather live a life of eternal winter,
Than say I was from the Wirral.
The senses are stirred in spring,
A season of rebirth, beauty and hope,
Sent but once a year to remind us,
The balance of nature perfectly interlopes,
The first shoots of green are upon us,
The scent of daffodils oh look and a squirrel,
Yet I’d rather live a life of eternal winter,
Than say I was from the Wirral.
As big and square as a bed
Would describe an unusual head
That head may me empty or full
But it belongs to the @chicoazul
I love that poem x
Would describe an unusual head
That head may me empty or full
But it belongs to the @chicoazul
I love that poem x
I wish to respond to your kind ditty,
Although the situation is quite fluid,
Your land is principality not a country,
Now get to f you absolute Druid.
Diolch x
Massively incorrect and offensive
I’m considering suing for slander
Throwing around stereotypical insults
Is not becoming of an Easter islander
Xx
Im not doing anymore @chicoazul as I can’t be arsed ? you win x
- Status