Inspired by a couple of other threads, I thought it might be nice to have a thread where favourite poems or song lyrics (your own originals or classics) can be shared.

To start us off, here's one of my favourites, Ozymandious by Shelley.

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight

Got to kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight

Bruce Cockburn (From Lovers in a Dangerous Time)

A short one.

"It's not having what you want

it's wanting what you've got"

Sheryl Crow

Awesome. Gee I hate that word, but it does denote my feelings for the letter strings here. I have one of my favs, and I regret, I forget the poet's name. Nonetheless, it is an old haiku and I love it still, tho the translation is a bit manky and doesn't follow the 5-7-5 scheme.

Love, when you left me

my heart shattered into a thousand pieces

I treasure every one

A longer one. But please read it, the Wonder Stuff.

Maybe.

Maybe I should be a writer,

write a book and feel much brigter,

and share my thoughts with the world.

Or maybe I could be a film maker,

celluloid's more fun than paper,

you never see the screen's corners curl.

Or maybe then I could be a lover,

find a girl and win her over,

and tell her that she's the only one.

But maybe then a philanderer,

I'd sneak around and lie to her,

and kid myself that I'm the happy one.

I'm not looking over four leaf clovers,

I'm just waiting for hel_l to freeze over.

Maybe I should take the mike, (mic')

stand up tall like Michael Stipe,

and try to solve all the problems of the earth.

Or maybe then I should sit back down,

scratch my chin and use my frown,

and try to figure out exactly what I'm worth.

We're still building churches, burning books,

killing the babies to feed the crooks.

Who said the world would turn out fair?

So I guess I'll dig myself a hole,

ask the devil if he wants my soul,

And do something real like cut my hair.

I'm not looking over four leaf clovers,

I'm just waiting for hel_l to freeze over.

Ooh, "maybe this" and "maybe that",

it may be satin and it may be sack.

it won't really matter much in the end.

Maybe my enemy, maybe my friend?

I'd drive myself around the bend,

thanks for your time and ears to lend.

I'm not looking over four leaf clovers,

I'm just waiting for hel_l to freeze over.

yeah, over.

//edit/spelling

That's wonderful, Thaddy. Is it yours? Big kisses to you.

Two poems by Matsuo Basho from The Narrow Road to Oku

The summer grasses-

Of brave soldier's dreams

The aftermath

I'll sweep the garden

Before I leave-in the temple

The willow-leaves fall

That's wonderful, Thaddy. Is it yours?

I'm afraid I can't take any credit for that, it comes from a group called 'The Wonder Stuff'. They had a cult following in the UK but never really made it that big (apart from a shameful single they made with Vic Reeves) their highest charters were probably "Size of a cow" and "Welcome to the cheap seats" (Kirsty McColl did backing vocals on that one)

The last time I saw them was on their Sleigh the UK tour in 99 at the GMEX Centre in Manchester, it was almost impossible to get a ticket because they had just had that shameful single get to the top of the charts and I only managed to get there because a friend of a friend fell ill and I volunteered to drive. The auditorium was full of teenaged kids who only knew one song. I, and a couple of thousand others enjoyed the whole gig though...... and I managed to obtain three cracked ribs in the process, but that's another story.

They did write some great lyrics and if you want to listen to some great poetry set to music I would heartily recommend their album "Never Loved Elvis", every single track is a gem.

A snippet from a previous one though.

"I ain't calling you familiar

I don't know your face that well.

Not like the shaving mirror

hanging up inside this cell.

I didn't call you here to tell ya

I didn't call you here at all

'cos I'm talking to myself again

and your talking to the wall"

Fantastic stuff, The Wonder Stuff.

nice ones thaddy!

I got a poem, but it's far too rude for you lot.

Nice one, I like the Wonderstuff too, their first album 'Eight Legged Groove Machine' got played to death when it first came out ('86-'87?) and stilll gets a spin now and then.

How about The Streets? Mike Skinner is a very talented wordsmith.

It might not be your thing, but he captures some of the thoughts and experiences of life in contemporary Britain perfectly.

The Streets - Weak Become Heroes

Turn left up the street

Nothing but grey concrete and dead beats

Grab something to eat

Maccy D's or KFC

Only one choice in the city

Done voice in my pity now lets get to the nitty gritty

Tune reminds me of my first e

Like unique still sixteen and feelin horny

Point to the sky, feel free

A sea of people all equal smiles in front and behind me

Swim in the deep blue sea cornfields sway lazily

All smiles all easy, where you from, what you on and what's your story

Mesmerizing tones, risin pianos, this is my zone so stop clonin

Pick paper, scissors or stone

Coz me and you are same, I've known you all my life, I don't know your name

The names European Bob, sorted anyway

Gonna have dance now, see you later, please to meet you

Likewise a pleasure

We were just standin there mindin our own

And it went on and on

We all smile we all sing

The weak become heroes then the stars align

We all sing we all sing all sing

The night slowly fades and goes slow motion

All the commotion becomes floatin emotions

Same piano loops over

Arms wave, eyes roll back and jaws fall open

I see in soft focus

Chattin to this bloke in the toilets

Dizzy new heights blinded by the lights

These people are for life, its all back to his place at the end of the night

They could settle wars with this

If only they will imagine the worlds leaders on pills then imagine the mornin after

Wars causing disaster, don't talk to me i don't know ya

But this aint tommorow and for now i still love ya

Hours fly over, sail round diamonds and pearls, never seen so many fit girls

Discover new worlds, look at my watch can't focus

Last two hours I lost, every move fills me with lust

All of life's problems I just shake off

Mad little events happen, things map out and a few blue maddens alight the toilets

Big beefy bouncers out to reveal us geezers on e's and first timers, kids on whizz

Darlins on Charlie

All come together for this party

All races, many faces from places you never heard of

Where you from, what's your name and what you on

Sing to the words, flex to the fat one

The tribal drums, the sun's risin we all smile we all sing

Then the girl in the cafe taps me on the shoulder

I realize five years went by, I'm older

Memories smoulder, winters colder

But that same piano loops over and over and over

The road shines and the rain washes away

The same Chinese takeaway selling shit in a tray

It's dark all round, I walk down, same sight same sounds, new beats though

Solid concrete under my feet

No surprises, no treats the world stands still as my mind sloshes round

The washing up bowl in my crown

My life's been up and down since I walked from that crowd

We were just standin there mindin our own

And it went on and on

We all smile we all sing

The weak become heroes then the stars align

We all sing we all sing all sing

Benjamin Zephaniah.

Ride

"We first met on a golden night

As the moon radiated love light

On the dock of the bay.

Somewhere between the real deal and an illusion

We lay unapologetically

Stroking each others lack of responsibility."

Very (to nick a word from the song) gritty.

Very (to nick a word from the song) gritty.

For Rob.... of the downhill slalom variety.

"so who wants to laugh

and who wants to sing

and who the hel_l would be a disco king

over and over and over and over

the radios on but I don't hear a song

absurd is the word

to describe what I heard

and my head's in a spin

with the state that we're in"

Pre-dates Eight Legs and Hup by more than a couple of years.... Neds Atomic Dustbin used to be the warm up act in those days, I wonder why they never got anywhere? ...... just remembered.... they were crap.

This is the only problem I have with lyrics..... read this.

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

No one knows what it's like

To be hated

To be fated

To telling only lies

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

No one knows what it's like

To feel these feelings

Like I do

And I blame you

No one bites back as hard

On their anger

None of my pain and woe

Can show through

But my dreams

They aren't as empty

As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely

My love is vengeance

That's never free

When my fist clenches, crack it open

Before I use it and lose my cool

When I smile, tell me some bad news

Before I laugh and act like a fool

If I swallow anything evil

Put your finger down my throat

If I shiver, please give me a blanket

Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

No one knows what it's like

To be the bad man

To be the sad man

Behind blue eyes

Without Keith going mental on the skins, Roger busting a lung, Pete destroying anything in his path with whichever six string he had at the time and John contemplating nose surgery ........ they are only words.... that's all.

Poetry is, to be quite honest, self serving, and in most cases self gratifying, pompous and quite shallow. Music isn't, it;s a multiple medium .... mere words alone do not do it justice.

OK . I'll bite. One of my favourites by fellow cynical old git, Philip Larkin.

The Old Fools

What do they think has happened, the old fools,

To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose

It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,

And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember

Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,

They could alter things back to when they danced all night,

Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?

Or do they fancy there's really been no change,

And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,

Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming

Watching light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange:

Why aren't they screaming?

At death, you break up: the bits that were you

Start speeding away from each other for ever

With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:

We had it before, but then it was going to end,

And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour

To bring to bloom the million-petaled flower

Of being here. Next time you can't pretend

There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs:

Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power

Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it:

Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines -

How can they ignore it?

Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms

Inside your head, and people in them, acting.

People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms

Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,

Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting

A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only

The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,

The blown bush at the window, or the sun's

Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely

Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:

Not here and now, but where all happened once.

This is why they give

An air of baffled absence, trying to be there

Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving

Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear

Of taken breath, and them crouching below

Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving

How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet:

The peak that stays in view wherever we go

For them is rising ground. Can they never tell

What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night?

Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout

The whole hideous, inverted childhood? Well,

We shall find out.

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.

The rain in November falls mainly on one member.

Shackled in the chains of conformity.

Shrouded with the blinders of tradition.

Mind Stagnant from the horrors of redundancy.

Hearts constricted by the absence of kindness.

Strength and power encapsulated by the lack of nourishment.

Soul weak from the enormous wall.

Life is nothing but terminal illness.

The vision was grand and far.

The vision was complete.

The vision was fair and compassionate.

This vision was all encompassing.

Now a seed buried in the frozen earth.

Dreams can sustain but do not prevent death.

They must be executed.

With careful planning.

With the last breath.

With the last leap.

With the last grasp.

With the last residuum of courage.

The escape is accomplished.

Now I begin!

written by - GracelessFawn

The piano has been drinking

my necktie is asleep

and the combo went back to New York

the jukebox has to take a leak

and the carpet needs a haircut

and the spotlight looks like a prison break

cause the telephone's out of cigarettes

and the balcony's on the make

and the piano has been drinking

the piano has been drinking...

and the menus are all freezing

and the lightman's blind in one eye

and he can't see out of the other

and the piano-tuner's got a hearing aid

and he showed up with his mother

and the piano has been drinking

the piano has been drinking

cause the bouncer is a Sumo wrestler

cream puff casper milk toast

and the owner is a mental midget

with the I.Q. of a fencepost

cause the piano has been drinking

the piano has been drinking...

and you can't find your waitress

with a Geiger counter

And she hates you and your friends

and you just can't get served

without her

and the box-office is drooling

and the bar stools are on fire

and the newspapers were fooling

and the ash-trays have retired

the piano has been drinking

the piano has been drinking

The piano has been drinking

not me, not me, not me, not me, not me

Wow! Nice contributions. Hope you have begun, GFawn.

This one's for the Bopper:

ara umi ya!

sado ni yokotau

ama no gawa

The wild and restless sea!

the only way to reach Sado:

the milky way

Basho

(Japanese princes, et al, who lost favour were banished to Sado Island -- off the NW coast from Niigata, Honshu -- nigh impossible to get to, except of course by the heavens. Sorry, I mucked the translation)

OK . I'll bite. One of my favourites by fellow cynical old git, Philip Larkin.

The Old Fools

What do they think has happened, the old fools,

To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose

It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,

And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember

Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,

They could alter things back to when they danced all night,

Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?

Or do they fancy there's really been no change,

And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,

Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming

Watching light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange:

Why aren't they screaming?

At death, you break up: the bits that were you

Start speeding away from each other for ever

With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:

We had it before, but then it was going to end,

And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour

To bring to bloom the million-petaled flower

Of being here. Next time you can't pretend

There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs:

Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power

Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it:

Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines -

How can they ignore it?

Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms

Inside your head, and people in them, acting.

People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms

Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,

Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting

A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only

The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,

The blown bush at the window, or the sun's

Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely

Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:

Not here and now, but where all happened once.

This is why they give

An air of baffled absence, trying to be there

Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving

Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear

Of taken breath, and them crouching below

Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving

How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet:

The peak that stays in view wherever we go

For them is rising ground. Can they never tell

What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night?

Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout

The whole hideous, inverted childhood? Well,

We shall find out.

Phil Larkin did a better one than that

They <deleted> 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*cked 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.

Not a poem or a song sorry but I've always like this quote.

The worm that destroys us is the temptation to agree with our critics.

To get their approval.

Thomas Harris

Wow! Nice contributions. Hope you have begun, GFawn.

This one's for the Bopper:

ara umi ya!

sado ni yokotau

ama no gawa

The wild and restless sea!

the only way to reach Sado:

the milky way

Basho

(Japanese princes, et al, who lost favour were banished to Sado Island -- off the NW coast from Niigata, Honshu -- nigh impossible to get to, except of course by the heavens. Sorry, I mucked the translation)

Thank you. I have always loved Basho.

Here is something from a long time ago.....

The flowers of the cherry tree,

How they wave about!

It's not that I don't think of you,

But your home is so far away.

The Master commented, " He did not really think of her. If he did, there is no such thing as being far away."

Kung-<deleted> Tzu (Confucius)

The Analects

Book IX Verus 31

I have a particular liking for the World War I poets, particularly Owen, Sassoon & Brooke.

Wilfred Owen: Dulce et decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! -- - An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. -- -

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitten as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- -

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kahil Gibran

Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful.

And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy you may find in them a harness and a chain.

Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your skin and less of your raiment,

For the breath of life is in the sunlight and the hand of life is in the wind.

Some of you say, "It is the north wind who has woven the clothes to wear."

But shame was his loom, and the softening of the sinews was his thread.

And when his work was done he laughed in the forest.

Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean.

And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind?

And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

Kahil Gibran

And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.

I like that.

some more of K.G. on the topic of marriage,

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

A new England by Billy Bragg.

Funny as fukc.

I was twenty one years when I wrote this song

Im twenty two now, but I wont be for long

People ask when will you grow up to be a man

But all the girls I loved at school

Are already pushing prams

I loved you then as I love you still

Tho I put you on a pedestal,

They put you on the pill

I dont feel bad about letting you go

I just feel sad about letting you know

I dont want to change the world

Im not looking for a new england

Im just looking for another girl

I dont want to change the world

Im not looking for a new england

Im just looking for another girl

I loved the words you wrote to me

But that was bloody yesterday

I cant survive on what you send

Every time you need a friend

I saw two shooting stars last night

I wished on them but they were only satellites

Is it wrong to wish on space hardware

I wish, I wish, I wish youd care

I dont want to change the world

Im not looking for a new england

Im just looking for another girl

Wow! Nice contributions. Hope you have begun, GFawn.

Thanks.

Ancient love poems

touch my heart this evening --

to each one I give a star

From "Salad Anniversary" by Tawara Machi

Was trying to find another one from this collection for you Bopper, but not on the net and my book is in storage.

The now politically incorrect Mr Kipling.

Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Aryan brown.

For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the Christian down;

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased,

And the epitaph drear: "A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.

Oh, but that is very PC, Scea!