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.

Topical Kipling.

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.

Huh?

And so, in a sentence, a global literary tradition encompassing medieval songsters, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Keats, Yeats, Betjeman, Larkin and a million between (not to mention others from virtually every civilisation known to have existed - including the French even) is dismissed in favour of some lyrics by long-forgotten 1980s quasi-rock bands.

The whole point of poetry is that it's to be read, heard, absorbed, processed, enjoyed and applied to one's own situation.

I think your dismissal is a bit much.

I'm prepared to admit that there are a few songwriters who's work is modern day poetry. Bob Dylan's work would stand up without the music. Morrissey and the Smiths wrote amazing beautiful and poetic lyrics ("Two lovers entwined, passed me by, And heaven knows I'm miserable now . . "). Even today I reckon you could take the hip hop out of Eminem's lyrics, slap a Faber & Faber dustjacket around them and they'd stand the test of time . . .

But come on . . your dismissal of poetry was almost Bendixian in its abruptness.

Apologies Bendix, I agree with you.

Unfortunately, unlike your good self, I phrased myself rather badly (it was late and I was tired) I was actually eluding to most modern poetry, most of which I would put in the same bucket as modern art.

Remember Yoko Ono

Gonna give you a good thrashing now, Thaddy. Modern art no good? Whoosh with my machete in the air. The recreators of old into new for the masses to understand and develop. That is modern art, good friend.

Gonna give you a good thrashing now, Thaddy. Modern art no good? Whoosh with my machete in the air. The recreators of old into new for the masses to understand and develop. That is modern art, good friend.

I love most modern art. It's just so confronting in a lot of cases; I saw the Rembrandt's at the Rijksmuseum and they were great but not confronting.

Remember the hue and cry when the Whitlam Australian government paid $2 million for Pollock's Blue Poles in 1973??? This was one of the factors that lead to the dismissal of his government for wasting tax payers money. Latest estimate please?

Sorry.. this is a little different.

I read somewhere that Graffiti is the one form of Art most young people of this generation understand.

Gonna give you a good thrashing now, Thaddy. Modern art no good? Whoosh with my machete in the air. The recreators of old into new for the masses to understand and develop. That is modern art, good friend.

Okey dokey ..... here we go (please bear in mind that throughout this thread I have used the word 'most' never the word 'all')

"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."

That is poetry.

:I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told

I have squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises

All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear

And disregards the rest (hmmmm....mmmm......)

When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy

In the company of strangers.....

In the quiet of the railway station, runnin' scared

Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go

Looking for the places only they would know

(Li la li... li la la la li la li)

(Li la li... li la la la li la li)

(La la la la li...)

Seeking only workman's wages, I come looking for a job, but I get no offers.....

Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue

I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome

I took some comfort there (li la la, la, la la)

Now the years are rolling by me, they are rockin' even me

I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be, that's not unusual

No it isn't strange, after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same

After changes we are more or less the same.........

(Li la li... li la la la li la li)

(Li la li... li la la la li la li)

(La la la la li...)

And I'm laying out my winter clothes, wishing I was gone, goin' home

Where the New York city winters aren't bleedin' me, leadin' me to go home

In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminder of every glove that laid him down or cut him

'Til he cried out in his anger and his shame

I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains"

That is poetry set to music, a very potent combination. (and I can practically guarantee that everyone here knows the tune, and you all did the middle eight in your head, you can't help yourself)

Since the dawn of time, man has had rhythm, foot tapping is not a new thing, it's in the genes.... beats and patterns drive us, we march to the beat of a drum, and when the drum become silent, we tap our fingers lest we forget.

Compare

or

That's art is it? ...... not in my book.

Perhaps I should have used the word 'contemporary' rather than 'modern'

Art, music, poetry, whichever genre.... contemporary usually means shiite.

//edit/ and I caused Bendix to look in to Bedlam twice at least/ that has to be a record

Aww. I wrote a reply and it vanished. Is that Byron's daffodils? Dam. I'm not so good at English poets. But that's Paul Simon's song.

Thaddy, all new thinkers and artists were trashed. Impressionists, cubists, surrealists, stream of consciousness writers, poets using layout for emphasis and no punctuation or caps, rock'n'roll, Bob Dylan. Even Tawara Machi was trashed for modernizing tanka in Japan.

Ah. Artists of every genre evolve. If I wanted realism, I'd take a picture (but Kan Win does it so much better than I). Sure, I don't like the cow slabs in plexiglass or the chick laying in bed in the gallery. But, they are there to make you think in new ways. How about that German guy that does the plasticised Bodyworks of real corpses?

Next time you are in Thailand, go to Nong Khai and Laos to see the monk's Buddha park sculptures. Absolutely hallucinogenic. Not many snaps on the Inet, but he often portrayed people as dogs, most wearing Rayban sunglasses. You have to see it to believe it. On the Laos side, he has a three-floor heaven, earth and hel_l building that is scarier than Hostel. It's the only places I took photos after 5 years in Thailand.

A few snaps.

Bodyworks (people donated their corpses for this)

Here's one of Buddha Park (wat Kaek, I think). Sorry, no dog and h*ll photos available on the net. CVic, help.

Aww. I wrote a reply and it vanished. Is that Byron's daffodils?

Wordsworth, Byron was much darker (and I don't mean skin tone)

Thaddy, all new thinkers and artists were trashed. Impressionists, cubists, surrealists, stream of consciousness writers, poets using layout for emphasis and no punctuation or caps, rock'n'roll, Bob Dylan. Even Tawara Machi was trashed for modernizing tanka in Japan.

Yes, because a good percentage of it was crap.

Sure, I don't like the cow slabs in plexiglass or the chick laying in bed in the gallery. But, they are there to make you think in new ways.

No they aren't, they are there to make a profit for the so called artist and to give pretentious people something to talk about other than what a shame about the dress that cousin Milly was wearing at the last Gala.

Next time you are in Thailand, go to Nong Khai and Laos to see the monk's Buddha park sculptures. Absolutely hallucinogenic. Not many snaps on the Inet, but he often portrayed people as dogs, most wearing Rayban sunglasses. You have to see it to believe it.

I am in Thailand, my first wife was from Udon, I've already been there........ again, purely for profit. (especially with the dual pricing system)

A few snaps.

Bodyworks (people donated their corpses for this)

Pictures removed from quote, as that is just sick. (sic)

Now...... back to poetry shall we

OK. Forgot you were there. Are you mad at me?

For I have known them all already, known then all --

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...

OK. Forgot you were there. Are you mad at me?

Not in the slightest ...... One that means quite a bit to me, another bit of Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you

But make allowance for their doubting too,

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,

If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much,

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

OK, I know that one by Kipling. I hated it because it was about how to be a Man. Ya, F*O. Nice poem tho, for a guy.

OK, I know that one by Kipling. I hated it because it was about how to be a Man. Ya, F*O. Nice poem tho, for a guy.

Is this "If" more to your liking?

If a picture paints a thousand words

Then why can't I paint you

The words will never show

The you I've come to know

If a face could launch a thousand ships

Then where am I to go

There's no one home but you

You're all that's left me too

And when my love for life is running dry

You come and pour yourself on me

If a man could be two places at one time

I'd be with you

Tomorrow and today

Beside you all the way

If the world should stop revolving

Spinning slowly down to die

I'd spend the end with you

And when the world was through

Then one by one the stars would all go out

And you and I would simply fly away

"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.

..................................................

.................................................

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."

That is poetry.

as a young girl having to study the above amongst other poems in school....I think back and still wonder what am I going to do with all these poetry words that Ive read so often that Im able to memorise even after more than 10 years

although....quoting Shakespeare from high school can be used to sometime impress people of my exceptional (long term?) memory perhaps.....?

now that Im writing this..I suddenly realise that poetry has a certain calming effect

It can also take you on wonderful flights of fantasy

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

(or perhaps just a load of old nonsense )

It can also take you on wonderful flights of fantasy

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

(or perhaps just a load of old nonsense )

I always sympathized with the Jabberwock, I've done a bit of burbling myself.

To all the Kipling readers, it always bemused me that Kipling, the arch-imperialist, refused a knighthood and also the position of poet laureate.

Yet he accepted the Nobel Prize, the first English language writer to do so.

This isn't bad, by another imperialist.

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

That the colt from old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far

Had mustered at the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,

And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —

He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,

He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —

And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won’t say die —

There was courage in his quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, ‘That horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you’d better stop away,

Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’

So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —

‘I think we ought to let him come,’ he said;

‘I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,

For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

‘He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,

Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,

The man that holds his own is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,

Where the river runs those giant hills between;

I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,

But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.’

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —

They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,

And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,

If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place,

And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,

But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,

And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,

And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,

Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;

And the old man muttered fiercely, ‘We may bid the mob good day,

No man can hold them down the other side.’

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest hold their breath,

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —

It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,

With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,

He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,

For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Hey!! Jabberwocky! and "If" (Kipling's)

Love the ol' Jabberwock, because the "Alice" books were absolute faves as a child and I read "If" for my father at his funeral. Thanks, Thaddy & Quiksilva!

Please, no more photos of corpses (animal or human) in my nice little thread.

BTW, Jet, I agree wholeheartedly with Thaddy about modern art. Anything Saatchi & Saatchi buys is to be avoided like the plague!

Sorry, NR. They were on exhibition in Vanc awhile ago. I did not attend, but the plasticination process the guy developed to preserve the bodies is a feat in itself. Here's another modern one to make you happy:

This is one of my favourite poems, chirpy with a hidden undertone....

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

A more haunting one thats has always brought me back to its feet to read is;

Sylvia Plath

Elm

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:

It is what you fear.

I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,

Its dissatisfactions?

Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.

How you lie and cry after it

Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,

Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,

Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?

This is rain now, this big hush.

And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.

Scorched to the root

My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.

A wind of such violence

Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me

Cruelly, being barren.

Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go

Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.

How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.

Nightly it flaps out

Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing

That sleeps in me;

All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.

Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?

Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.

What is this, this face

So murderous in its strangle of branches? -

Its snaky acids hiss.

It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults

That kill, that kill, that kill.

Here's another modern one to make you happy:

Tell me, how long does it take for 'modern' to become 'classic'? ....... time element only, quality and aesthetic value I can work out for myself.

The poem about the horse reminded me of something from my dim and distant past. It was written by William Hargreaves and then immortalised by Val Doonican, neither of whom will be well known outside of The British Isles..... Kayo, Tiggy and a few others may remember this one (hope it brings a smile)

Now Delaney had a donkey that everyone admired,

Tempo'rily lazy and permanently tired

A leg at ev'ry corner balancing his head,

And a tail to let you know which end he wanted to be fed

Riley slyly said "We've underrated it, why not train it?"

Then he took a rag

They rubbed it, scrubbed it,

They oiled and embrocated it,

Got it to the post

And when the starter dropped his flag

There was Riley pushing it, shoving it, shushing it

Hogan, Logan and ev'ryone in town lined up

Attacking it and shoving it and smacking it

They might as well have tried to push the Town Hall down

The donkey was eyeing them,

Openly defying them

Winking, blinking and twisting out of place

Riley reversing it,

Ev'rybody cursing it

The day Delaney's donkey ran the halfmile race.

The muscles of the mighty never known to flinch,

They couldn't budge the donkey a quarter of an inch

Delaney lay exhausted, hanging round its throat

With a grip just like a Scotchman on a five pound note

Starter, Carter, he lined up with the rest of 'em.

When it saw them, it was willing then

It raced up, braced up, ready for the best of 'em.

They started off to cheer it but it changed its mind again

There was Riley pushing it, shoving it and shushing it

Hogan, Logan and Mary Ann Macgraw,

She started poking it, grabbing it and choking it

It kicked her in the bustle and it laughed "Hee Haw!"

The whigs, the conservatives,

Radical superlatives

Libr'rals and tories,

They hurried to the place

Stood there in unity,

Helping the community

The day Delaney's donkey ran the halfmile race.

The crowd began to cheer it. Then Rafferty, the judge

He came to assist them, but still it wouldn't budge

The jockey who was riding, little John MacGee,

Was so thoroughly disgusted that he went to have his tea

Hagan, Fagan was students of psychology,

Swore they'd shift it with some dynamite

They bought it, brought it, then without apology

The donkey gave a sneeze and blew the darn stuff out of sight

There was Riley pushing it, shoving it and shushing it

Hogan, Logan and all the bally crew,

P'lice, and auxil'ary,

The Garrison Artillery

The Second Enniskillen's and the Life Guards too

They seized it and harried it,

They picked it up and carried it

Cheered it, steered it to the winning place

Then the Bookies drew aside,

They all commited suicide

Well, the day Delaney's donkey won the halfmile race.

(I'd rather smile than grimace any day, even sighing or crying is better than that, real horror is available in real life every day, it's inescapable, so when I need to escape, viewing something that shocks will not be on the agenda, unless it is on DVD and about 90 minutes long BTW Mig, "If" was my Dad's favourite poem, it's impossible for me to read it without thinking of him and only remembering the good stuff)

One for Jet

The Little Dog's Day by Rupert Brooke

All in the town were still asleep,

When the sun came up with a shout and a leap.

In the lonely streets unseen by man,

A little dog danced. And the day began.

All his life he'd been good, as far as he could,

And the poor little beast had done all that he should.

But this morning he swore, by Odin and Thor

And the Canine Valhalla—he'd stand it no more!

So his prayer he got granted—to do just what he wanted,

Prevented by none, for the space of one day.

"Jam incipiebo, sedere facebo,"

In dog-Latin he quoth, "Euge! sophos! hurray!"

He fought with the he-dogs, and winked at the she-dogs,

A thing that had never been heard of before.

"For the stigma of gluttony, I care not a button!" he

Cried, and ate all he could swallow—and more.

He took sinewy lumps from the shins of old frumps,

And mangled the errand-boys—when he could get 'em.

He shammed furious rabies, and bit all the babies,

And followed the cats up the trees, and then ate 'em!"

They thought 'twas the devil was holding a revel,

And sent for the parson to drive him away;

For the town never knew such a hullabaloo

As that little dog raised—till the end of that day.

When the blood-red sun had gone burning down,

And the lights were lit in the little town,

Outside, in the gloom of the twilight grey,

The little dog died when he'd had his day.

A link for Mig Vogon Poetry

hehehe thankyou

OK. Forgot you were there. Are you mad at me?

For I have known them all already, known then all --

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...

Mm, the Wasteland. I once wrote music for it, to be performed on my Gran's 90th birthday, but chickened out.

Yes, TS Eliot, but his other biggie, Prufrock.

A link for Mig Vogon Poetry

There is nothing on this planet, nor any other, that will make me click that link.

No way jose!

Except maybe a Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster

A link for Mig Vogon Poetry

There is nothing on this planet, nor any other, that will make me click that link.

No way jose!

Except maybe a Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster

It's like being hit on the head by a slice of lemon ..... wrapped around a rather large gold brick..... I bet you did click on it

Gilbert O'Sullivan (the flat capped whippet cuddler, not to be confused with the penners of "I am the very model of a modern major general")

In a little while from now

If I’m not feeling any less sour

I promise myself

to treat myself

And visit a nearby tower.

And climbing to the top

will throw myself off

In an effort to

make clear to whoever,

What it's like when you're shattered.

Left standing in the lurch

at a church

Where people saying

"My God, that’s tough, she's stood him up"

"No point in us remaining"

"We may as well go home"

As I did on my own

Alone again, naturally

To think that only yesterday

I was cheerful, bright and gay

Looking forward to

well wouldn’t do?

The role I was about to play

But as if to knock me down

Reality came around

And without so much

as a mere touch

Cut me into little pieces

Leaving me to doubt

Talk about

God in His mercy

Who if He really does exist

Then why did He desert me

in my hour of need

I truly am indeed

Alone again, naturally

It seems to me that there are more hearts

broken in the world that can’t be mended

Left unattended

What do we do?

What do we do?

Now looking back over the years

And whatever else that appears

I remember I cried

when my father died

Never wishing to hide the tears

And at sixty-five years old

My mother, God rest her soul,

Couldn’t understand

why the only man

She had ever loved had been taken

Leaving her to start

with a heart

so badly broken

Despite encouragement from me

No words were ever spoken

And when she passed away

I cried and cried all day

Alone again, naturally

Alone again......................naturally

A Season In Hel_l

By Arthur Rimbaud

Once, if I remember well,

my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.

One evening I seated Beauty on my knees.

And I found her bitter.

And I cursed her.

I armed myself against justice.

I fled.

O Witches.

O Misery, O Hate, to you has my treasure been entrusted!

I contrived to purge my mind of all human hope.

On all joy, to strangle it, I pounced with the stealth of a wild beast.

I called to the executioners that I might gnaw their rifle-butts while dying.

I called to the plagues to smother me in blood, in sand.

Misfortune was my God.

I laid myself down in the mud.

I dried myself in the air of crime.

I played sly tricks on madness.

And spring brought me the idiot's frightful laughter.

Now, only recently, being on the point of giving my last squawk,

I thought of looking for the key to the ancient feast where I might find my appetite again.

Charity is that key.

This inspiration proves that I have dreamed!

"You will always be a hyena..." etc., protests the devil who crowned me with such pleasant poppies.

"Attain death with all your appetites, your selfishness and all the capital sins!"

Ah! I'm fed up:-But, dear Satan. a less fiery eye I beg you!

And while awaiting a few small infamies in arrears,

you who love the absence of the instructive or descriptive faculty in a writer,

for you let me tear our these few,

hideuos pages from my notebook of one of the damned.