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gruffydd

Depressing Poems

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Bloody hell, want to slit my wrists after reading that one! Any other contenders for the most depressing poem of the year award?

OLD

Its tough, growing old.

Loved ones, fading

Possibilities, escaping.

Life, dying.

:blink:

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Bessie met the bus.

The bus met Bessie.

The bus was all messy.

The mess was Bessie.

The boy stood on the railway track

The engine gave a squeal

The driver took an oily rag

And wiped him off the wheel.

With thanks to my old minister, the late Andrew Shaw, PhD.

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Bessie met the bus.

The bus met Bessie.

The bus was all messy.

The mess was Bessie.

The boy stood on the railway track

The engine gave a squeal

The driver took an oily rag

And wiped him off the wheel.

With thanks to my old minister, the late Andrew Shaw, PhD.

LOL! Thank you Dr Shaw.

The poetry, the endless poetry!

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LOL! Thank you Dr Shaw.

The poetry, the endless poetry!

Bless him. He kept us kids entertained all day Sunday 50 years ago!! Sadly [or not], I still have that mental age!!

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When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other peoples' gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickles for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Be Warned!:ph34r:

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High up on the lonely mountains,

Where the wild men watched and waited;

Wolves in the forest and bears in the bush,

And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together

Came down, and the wind came after,

Bending the props of the pine tree roof,

And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness,

Stunned, and bruised, and blinded;

Crept to a fir with thick set boughs

And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining,

Crouching, I sought to hide me.

Something rustled; two green eyes shone;

And a wolf lay down beside me!

His wet fur pressed against me;

Each of us warmed the other;

Each of us felt, in the stormy dark,

That beast and man were brother.

And when the falling forest

No longer crashed in warning,

Each of us went from our hiding place

Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Bayard Taylor

For some reason, I've loved this poem since age 5 - a long time to be depressive!:unsure:

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THese poems are great - keep them coming :) I think I bumped into a wolf yesterday (no kidding!) - I bolted across the nearest field!

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Oh, thou demon Drink, thou fell destroyer;

Thou curse of society, and its greatest annoyer.

What hast thou done to society, let me think?

I answer thou hast caused the most of ills, thou demon Drink.

Thou causeth the mother to neglect her child,

Also the father to act as he were wild,

So that he neglects his loving wife and family dear,

By spending his earnings foolishly on whisky, rum and beer.

And after spending his earnings foolishly he beats his wife-

The man that promised to protect her during life-

And so the man would if there was no drink in society,

For seldom a man beats his wife in a state of sobriety.

And if he does, perhaps he finds his wife fou',

Then that causes, no doubt, a great hullaballo;

When he finds his wife drunk he begins to frown,

And in a fury of passion he knocks her down.

And in that knock down she fractures her head,

And perhaps the poor wife she is killed dead,

Whereas, if there was no strong drink to be got,

To be killed wouldn't have been the poor wife's lot.

Then the unfortunate husband is arrested and cast into jail,

And sadly his fate he does bewail;

And he curses the hour that ever was born,

And paces his cell up and down very forlorn.

And when the day of his trial draws near,

No doubt for the murdering of his wife he drops a tear,

And he exclaims, "Oh, thou demon Drink, through thee I must die,"

And on the scaffold he warns the people from drink to fly,

Because whenever a father or a mother takes to drink,

Step by step on in crime they do sink,

Until their children loses all affection for them,

And in justice we cannot their children condemn.

The man that gets drunk is little else than a fool,

And is in the habit, no doubt, of advocating for Home Rule;

But the best Home Rule for him, as far as I can understand,

Is the abolition of strong drink from the land.

And the men that get drunk in general wants Home Rule;

But such men, I rather think, should keep their heads cool,

And try and learn more sense, I most earnestlty do pray,

And help to get strong drink abolished without delay.

If drink was abolished how many peaceful homes would there be,

Just, for instance in the beautiful town of Dundee;

then this world would be heaven, whereas it's a hell,

An the people would have more peace in it to dwell

Alas! strong drink makes men and women fanatics,

And helps to fill our prisons and lunatics;

And if there was no strong drink such cases wouldn't be,

Which would be a very glad sight for all christians to see.

O admit, a man may be a very good man,

But in my opinion he cannot be a true Christian

As long as he partakes of strong drink,

The more that he may differently think.

But no matter what he thinks, I say nay,

For by taking it he helps to lead his brither astray,

Whereas, if he didn't drink, he would help to reform society,

And we would soon do away with all inebriety.

Then, for the sake of society and the Church of God,

Let each one try to abolish it at home and abroad;

Then poverty and crime would decrease and be at a stand,

And Christ's Kingdom would soon be established throughout the land.

Therefore, brothers and sisters, pause and think,

And try to abolish the foul fiend, Drink.

Let such doctrine be taught in church and school,

That the abolition of strong drink is the only Home Rule.

William Topaz McGonagall, widely hailed as the writer of the worst poetry in the English language..

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A few reflections on old age from 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 the 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-petalled 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.

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Remember studying Siegfried Sassoon at school the WWI poet

and being moved by his work.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siegfried_Sassoon

It doesn't get much more depressing than the futility of war.

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy.....

Who grinned at life in empty joy,

Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,

And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,

With crumps and lice and lack of rum,

He put a bullet through his brain.

And no one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye

Who cheer when soldier lads march by,

Sneak home and pray you'll never know

The hell where youth and laughter go.

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From Vernon Scannell

Ageing Schoolmaster

And now another autumn morning finds me

With chalk dust on my sleeve and in my breath,

Preoccupied with vague, habitual speculation

On the huge inevitability of death.

Not wholly wretched, yet knowing absolutely

That I shall never reacquaint myself with joy,

I sniff the smell of ink and chalk and my mortality

And think of when I rolled, a gormless boy,

And rollicked round the playground of my hours,

And wonder when precisely tolled the bell

Which summoned me from summer liberties

And brought me to this chill autumnal cell

From which I gaze upon the april faces

That gleam before me, like apples ranged on shelves,

And yet I feel no pinch or prieck of envy

Nor would I have them know their sentenced selves.

With careful effort I can separate the faces,

The dull, the clever, the various shapes and sizes,

But in the autumn shades I find I only

Brood upon death, who carries off all the prizes.

Edit for stupid censor which wouldn't let pr*ck through!

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A great and glorious thing it is

To learn, for seven years or so,

The Lord knows what of that and this,

Ere reckoned fit to face the foe—

The flying bullet down the Pass,

That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."

Three hundred pounds per annum spent

On making brain and body meeter

For all the murderous intent

Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!"

And after—ask the Yusufzaies

What comes of all our 'ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station—

A canter down some dark defile—

Two thousand pounds of education

Drops to a ten-rupee jezail—

The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,

Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote,

No formulae the text-books know,

Will turn the bullet from your coat,

Or ward the tulwar's downward blow

Strike hard who cares—shoot straight who can—

The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp

Will pay for all the school expenses

Of any Kurrum Valley scamp

Who knows no word of moods and tenses,

But, being blessed with perfect sight,

Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,

The troop-ships bring us one by one,

At vast expense of time and steam,

To slay Afridis where they run.

The "captives of our bow and spear"

Are cheap—alas! as we are dear.

Still as true as when Kipling wrote it.

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It Came To This

I wandered, lonely. Alone.

Darkness descends. The unforgiving moon.

Thirst and hunger scream. No hope left.

Slowly, I edge closer to the precipice.

The inviting blackness below, waves crashing.

After so many years it came to this. Nothing.

Falling is the final act. Deaths embrace.

And as the void welcomes me in, a last thought crosses my mind,

"Did I leave the oven on?"

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Guest DissipatedYouthIsValuable

Fiat money ran out.

Economy up the spout.

When, when, when can I ease the burning emptiness of my barren houseless soul?

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A great and glorious thing it is

To learn, for seven years or so,

The Lord knows what of that and this,

Ere reckoned fit to face the foe—

The flying bullet down the Pass,

That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."

Three hundred pounds per annum spent

On making brain and body meeter

For all the murderous intent

Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!"

And after—ask the Yusufzaies

What comes of all our 'ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station—

A canter down some dark defile—

Two thousand pounds of education

Drops to a ten-rupee jezail—

The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,

Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote,

No formulae the text-books know,

Will turn the bullet from your coat,

Or ward the tulwar's downward blow

Strike hard who cares—shoot straight who can—

The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp

Will pay for all the school expenses

Of any Kurrum Valley scamp

Who knows no word of moods and tenses,

But, being blessed with perfect sight,

Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,

The troop-ships bring us one by one,

At vast expense of time and steam,

To slay Afridis where they run.

The "captives of our bow and spear"

Are cheap—alas! as we are dear.

Still as true as when Kipling wrote it.

What a pity we didn't learn from the Victorians' [and the Russians'] experiences in Afghanistan, and that our soldiers should be paying for that in the 21st Century.

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How's about this cheery and uplifting number*:

In violent times

You shouldn’t have to sell your soul

In black and white

They really really ought to know

Those one track minds

That took you for a working boy

Kiss them goodbye

You shouldn’t have to jump for joy

You shouldn’t have to jump for joy

Shout

Shout

Let it aloud

These are the things I can do without

Come on

I’m talking to you

Come on

They gave you life

And in return you gave them hell

As cold as ice

I hope we live to tell the tale

I hope we live to tell the tale

Shout

Shout

Let it aloud

These are the things I can do without

Come on

I’m talking to you

Come on

And when you’ve taken down your guard

If I could change your mind

I’d really love to break your heart

I’d really love to break your heart

Shout

Shout

Let it aloud

These are the things I can do without

Come on

I’m talking to you

Come on

- "Shout", Orzabal & Smith, 1984

Notes from the authors :

"A lot of people think that 'Shout' is just another song about primal scream theory, continuing the themes of the first album. It is actually more concerned with political protest. It came out in 1984 when a lot of people were still worried about the aftermath of The Cold War and it was basically an encouragement to protest."

—Roland Orzabal

"It concerns protest inasmuch as it encourages people not to do things without actually questioning them. People act without thinking because that's just the way things go in society. So it's a general song, about the way the public accepts any old grief which is thrown at them."

—Curt Smith

_____________________________________________

* so think the wallies Dizzee Rascal et al that have made this the England world cup 2010 song.

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Guest X-QUORK

Black. Black. Black! Like the clouds of death that follow me into the Forest of Doom! And hide in the wardrobe of darkness! Black!

Black! Listen! Listen! Do you hear? The moon is weeping in a secret room! They tap at my window, with tiny pools!

Oh! Oh! The monks are troubled and full of woe! I'm a fly! Trapped in a jar of shadows!

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Black. Black. Black! Like the clouds of death that follow me into the Forest of Doom! And hide in the wardrobe of darkness! Black!

Black! Listen! Listen! Do you hear? The moon is weeping in a secret room! They tap at my window, with tiny pools!

Oh! Oh! The monks are troubled and full of woe! I'm a fly! Trapped in a jar of shadows!

Set that to a grime lick and Dizzee will make it his 2010 "b" side.

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Sir Patrick Spens

  • The King sits in Dunfermline town,

    Drinking the blood-red wine;

    "O where shall I get a skeely skipper

    To sail this ship or mine?"

    Then up and spake an eldern knight,

    Sat at the King's right knee:

    "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor

    That ever sailed the sea."

    The King has written a broad letter,

    And sealed it with his hand,

    And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,

    Was walking on the strand.

    "To Noroway, to Noroway,

    To Noroway o'er the foam;

    The King's daughter of Noroway,

    'Tis thou must fetch her home."

    The first line that Sir Patrick read,

    A loud laugh laughed he;

    The next line that Sir Patrick read,

    The tear blinded his ee.

    "O who is this has done this deed,

    Has told the King of me,

    To send us out at this time of the year,

    To sail upon the sea?

    "Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet,

    Our ship must sail the foam;

    The king's daughter of Noroway,

    'Tis we must fetch her home."

    They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,

    With all the speed they may;

    And they have landed in Noroway

    Upon a Wodensday

    They had not been a week, a week,

    In Noroway but twae,

    When that the lords of Noroway

    Began aloud to say, -

    "Ye Scottishmen spend all our King's gowd,

    And all our Queenis fee."

    "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

    So loud I hear ye lie.

    "For I brought as much of the white monie

    As gane my men and me,

    And a half-fou of the good red gowd

    Out o'er the sea with me.

    "Make ready, make ready, my merry men all,

    Our good ship sails the morn."

    "Now, ever alack, my master dear

    I fear a deadly storm.

    "I saw the new moon late yestreen

    With the old moon in her arm;

    And if we go to sea, master,

    I fear we'll come to harm."

    They had not sailed a league, a league,

    A league but barely three,

    When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,

    And gurly grew the sea.

    The ankers brake and the top-masts lap,

    It was such a deadly storm;

    And the waves came o'er the broken ship

    Till all her sides were torn.

    "O where will I get a good sailor

    Will take my helm in hand,

    Till I get up to the tall top-mast

    To see if I can spy land?"

    "O here am I, a sailor good,

    Will take the helm in hand,

    Till you go up to the tall top-mast,

    But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

    He had not gone a step, a step,

    A step but barely ane,

    When a bolt flew out of the good ship's side,

    And the salt sea came in.

    "Go fetch a web of the silken cloth,

    Another of the twine,

    And wap them into our good ship's side,

    And let not the sea come in."

    They fetched a web of the silken cloth,

    Another of the twine,

    And they wapp'd them into the good ship's side,

    But still the sea came in.

    O loth, both, were our good Scots lords

    To wet their cork-heel'd shoon,

    But long ere all the play was play'd

    They wet their hats aboon.

    And many was the feather-bed

    That fluttered on the foam;

    And many was the good lord's son

    That never more came home.

    The ladies wrang their fingers white,

    The maidens tore their heair,

    All for the sake of their true loves,

    For them they'll see nae mair.

    O lang, lang may the maidens sit

    With their gold combs in their hair,

    All waiting for their own dear loves,

    For them they'll see nae mair.

    O forty miles of Aberdeen,

    'Tis fifty fathoms deep;

    And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens,

    With the Scots lords at his feet.

I believe this one's by that well know poet, Anon. This poem conflates two incidents:

In the reign of Alexander III of Scotland, his daughter Margaret was escorted by a large party of nobles to Norway for her marriage to King Eric; on the return journey many of them were drowned.

Twenty years later, after Alexander's death, his grand-daughter Margaret, the Maid of Norway, was heiress to the Scottish throne, and on the voyage to Scotland she died. Here endeth the Scottish history lesson!:P

Always makes me sad.

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  • 259 Brexit, House prices and Summer 2020

    1. 1. Including the effects Brexit, where do you think average UK house prices will be relative to now in June 2020?


      • down 5% +
      • down 2.5%
      • Even
      • up 2.5%
      • up 5%



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