Jump to content
House Price Crash Forum

Archived

This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies.

SarahBell

Your Favourite Poem

Recommended Posts

One I like a lot is called “Warning” and was written by Jenny Joseph

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 flowers in other people’s 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 pickle 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.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Not well versed in poetry, but this is my favourite

Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Not to be confused by the shorter and almost as good Sea Fever by Spike Milligan

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky;

I left my shoes and socks there - I wonder if they're dry?

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Not well versed in poetry, but this is my favourite

Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Not to be confused by the shorter and almost as good Sea Fever by Spike Milligan

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky;

I left my shoes and socks there - I wonder if they're dry?

That's my all-time favourite poem - the Masefield - not the Milligan.

I once bought a mug in Dartmouth, which misquoted:

...And all I ask is a tall sheep... On reflection, perhaps they'd imported the mugs from Wales.

Another favourite is 'The Ice Cart' by Wilfred Gibson. It was in a Pattern Poetry school book of my Dad's that I inherited at age four when I was just reading a little. It spurred me on to reading even more, as did a copy of Paul Brickhill's Reach for the Sky, although I didn't read that till I was around nine.

The Ice Cart

Perched on my city office-stool,

I watched with envy, while a cool

And lucky carter handled ice. . . .

And I was wandering in a trice,

Far from the grey and grimy heat

Of that intolerable street,

O'er a sapphire berg and emerald floe,

Beneath the still, cold ruby glow

Of everlasting Polar night,

Bewildered by the queer half-light,

Until I stumbled, unawares,

Upon a creek where big white bears

Plunged headlong down with flourished heels

And floundered after shining seals

Through shivering seas of blinding blue.

And as I watched them, ere I knew,

I'd stripped, and I was swimming too,

Among the seal-pack, young and hale,

And thrusting on with threshing tail,

With twist and twirl and sudden leap

Through crackling ice and salty deep --

Diving and doubling with my kind,

Until, at last, we left behind

Those big, white, blundering bulks of death,

And lay, at length, with panting breath

Upon a far untravelled floe,

Beneath a gentle drift of snow --

Snow drifting gently, fine and white,

Out of the endless Polar night,

Falling and falling evermore

Upon that far untravelled shore,

Till I was buried fathoms deep

Beneath the cold white drifting sleep --

Sleep drifting deep,

Deep drifting sleep. . . .

The carter cracked a sudden whip:

I clutched my stool with startled grip.

Awakening to the grimy heat

Of that intolerable street.

Still very evocative.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

THE HANGMAN

By Maurice Ogden

Into our town the hangman came,
smelling of gold and blood and flame.
He paced our bricks with a different air,
and built his frame on the courthouse square.

The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
only as wide as the door was wide
with a frame as tall, or a little more,
than the capping sill of the courthouse door.

And we wondered whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal? What the crime?
The hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.

And innocent though we were with dread,
we passed those eyes of buckshot lead.
Till one cried, “Hangman, who is he,
for whom you raised the gallows-tree?”

Then a twinkle grew in his buckshot eye
and he gave a riddle instead of reply.
“He who serves me best,” said he
“Shall earn the rope on the gallows-tree.”

And he stepped down and laid his hand
on a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for anothers grief
at the hangmans hand, was our relief.

And the gallows frame on the courthouse lawn
by tomorrow’s sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way and no one spoke
out of respect for his hangmans cloak.

The next day’s sun looked mildly down
on roof and street in our quiet town;
and stark and black in the morning air
the gallows-tree on the courthouse square.

And the hangman stood at his usual stand
with the yellow hemp in his busy hand.
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike,
and his air so knowing and business-like.

And we cried, “Hangman, have you not done,
yesterday with the alien one?”
Then we fell silent and stood amazed.
“Oh, not for him was the gallows raised.”

He laughed a laugh as he looked at us,
“Do you think I’ve gone to all this fuss,
To hang one man? That’s the thing I do.
To stretch the rope when the rope is new.”

Above our silence a voice cried “Shame!”
and into our midst the hangman came;
to that mans place, “Do you hold,” said he,
“With him that was meat for the gallows-tree?”

He laid his hand on that one’s arm
and we shrank back in quick alarm.
We gave him way, and no one spoke,
out of fear of the hangmans cloak.

That night we saw with dread surprise
the hangmans scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
the gallows-tree had taken root.

Now as wide, or a little more
than the steps that led to the courthouse door.
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
half way up on the courthouse wall.

The third he took, we had all heard tell,
was a usurer…, an infidel.
And “What” said the hangman, “Have you to do
with the gallows-bound…, and he a Jew?”

And we cried out, “Is this one he
who has served you well and faithfully?”
The hangman smiled, “It’s a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows beam.”

The fourth man’s dark accusing song
had scratched our comfort hard and long.
“And what concern,” he gave us back,
“Have you … for the doomed and black?”

The fifth, the sixth, and we cried again,
“Hangman, hangman, is this the man?”
“It’s a trick”, said he, “that we hangman know
for easing the trap when the trap springs slow.”

And so we ceased and asked now more
as the hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night
the gallows grew to monstrous height.

The wings of the scaffold opened wide
until they covered the square from side to side.
And the monster cross beam looking down,
cast its shadow across the town.

Then through the town the hangman came
and called through the empy streets…my name.
I looked at the gallows soaring tall
and thought … there’s no one left at all

for hanging … and so he called to me
to help take down the gallows-tree.
And I went out with right good hope
to the hangmans tree and the hangmans rope.

He smiled at me as I came down
to the courthouse square…through the silent town.
Supple and stretched in his busy hand,
was the yellow twist of hempen strand.

He whistled his tune as he tried the trap
and it sprang down with a ready snap.
Then with a smile of awful command,
He laid his hand upon my hand.

“You tricked me Hangman.” I shouted then,
“That your scaffold was built for other men,
and I’m no henchman of yours.” I cried.
“You lied to me Hangman, foully lied.”

Then a twinkle grew in his buckshot eye,
“Lied to you…tricked you?” He said “Not I…
for I answered straight and told you true.
The scaffold was raised for none but you.”

“For who has served more faithfully?
With your coward’s hope.” said He,
“And where are the others that might have stood
side by your side, in the common good?”

“Dead!” I answered, and amiably
“Murdered,” the Hangman corrected me.
“First the alien … then the Jew.
I did no more than you let me do.”

Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
none before stood so alone as I.
The Hangman then strapped me…with no voice there
to cry “Stay!” … for me in the empty square.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Scary poem for me at six but just spurred me on to loving dogs!

A Night with a Wolf

by

Bayard Taylor

Little one come to my knee!

Hark how the rain is pouring

Over the roof in the pitch dark night,

And the winds in the woods a-roaring.

Hush, my darling, and listen,

Then pay for the story with kisses;

Father was lost in the pitch-black night

In just such a storm as this is.

High on the lonely mountain

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.

Little one, be not frightened;

I and the wolf together,

Side by side through the long, long night,

Hid from the awful weather.

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.

Darling, kiss me in payment . . .

Hark! how the wind is roaring!

Father's house is a better place

When the stormy rain is pouring.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I love good songwriting, and know naff all about poetry, but some songs read beautifully, so my choice is:

"AT SEVENTEEN"

By Janis Ian
I learned the truth at seventeen

That love was meant for beauty queens

And high school girls with clear skinned smiles

Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew

The Friday night charades of youth

Were spent on one more beautiful

At seventeen I learned the truth...
And those of us with ravaged faces

Lacking in the social graces

Desperately remained at home

Inventing lovers on the phone

Who called to say "come dance with me"

And murmured vague obscenities

It isn't all it seems at seventeen...
A brown eyed girl in hand me downs

Whose name I never could pronounce

Said: "Pity please the ones who serve

They only get what they deserve"
The rich relationed hometown queen

Marries into what she needs

With a guarantee of company

And haven for the elderly...
So remember those who win the game

Lose the love they sought to gain

In debitures of quality and dubious integrity

Their small-town eyes will gape at you

In dull surprise when payment due

Exceeds accounts received at seventeen...
To those of us who knew the pain

Of valentines that never came

And those whose names were never called

When choosing sides for basketball

It was long ago and far away

the world was younger than today

when dreams were all they gave for free

to ugly duckling girls like me...
We all play the game, and when we dare

We cheat ourselves at solitaire

Inventing lovers on the phone

Repenting other lives unknown

That call and say: "Come on, dance with me"

And murmur vague obscenities

At ugly girls like me, at seventeen...

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

One, at least, of my favourites:

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I once bought a mug in Dartmouth, which misquoted:

...And all I ask is a tall sheep... On reflection, perhaps they'd imported the mugs from Wales.

Hmmm, sounds like a Simon Drew mauling of literature. He's fun, but only in small amounts.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

That's my all-time favourite poem - the Masefield - not the Milligan.

I once bought a mug in Dartmouth, which misquoted:

...And all I ask is a tall sheep... On reflection, perhaps they'd imported the mugs from Wales.

Another favourite is 'The Ice Cart' by Wilfred Gibson. It was in a Pattern Poetry school book of my Dad's that I inherited at age four when I was just reading a little. It spurred me on to reading even more, as did a copy of Paul Brickhill's Reach for the Sky, although I didn't read that till I was around nine.

The Ice Cart

Perched on my city office-stool,

I watched with envy, while a cool

And lucky carter handled ice. . . .

And I was wandering in a trice,

Far from the grey and grimy heat

Of that intolerable street,

O'er a sapphire berg and emerald floe,

Beneath the still, cold ruby glow

Of everlasting Polar night,

Bewildered by the queer half-light,

Until I stumbled, unawares,

Upon a creek where big white bears

Plunged headlong down with flourished heels

And floundered after shining seals

Through shivering seas of blinding blue.

And as I watched them, ere I knew,

I'd stripped, and I was swimming too,

Among the seal-pack, young and hale,

And thrusting on with threshing tail,

With twist and twirl and sudden leap

Through crackling ice and salty deep --

Diving and doubling with my kind,

Until, at last, we left behind

Those big, white, blundering bulks of death,

And lay, at length, with panting breath

Upon a far untravelled floe,

Beneath a gentle drift of snow --

Snow drifting gently, fine and white,

Out of the endless Polar night,

Falling and falling evermore

Upon that far untravelled shore,

Till I was buried fathoms deep

Beneath the cold white drifting sleep --

Sleep drifting deep,

Deep drifting sleep. . . .

The carter cracked a sudden whip:

I clutched my stool with startled grip.

Awakening to the grimy heat

Of that intolerable street.

Still very evocative.

I was just transported and came back, unfortunately.

I really enjoyed it and have copied/saved it. Thanks.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

HAD I the heavens embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats

I love that one, too, though the last line bothers my sense of rhythm as it just doesn't scan for me.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Another favourite - needs to be read in Scots:

Sir Patrick Spens

Sir Patrick has been set up by one of the knights closest to the king who, in his jealousy, has recommended Sir Patrick to sail to Norway to bring back the king's daughter despite the threat of an impending storm.

Sir Patrick, in his loyalty to the king, decides to sail regardless; this decision was a badly informed one - read on to discover Sir Patrick's fate.

The king sits in Dumfermline town.

Drinking the blude-red wine: O

'O whare will I get a skeely skipper,

To sail this new ship of mine?'

O up and spake an eldern knight,

Sat at the king's right knee:

'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor

That ever saild the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter,

And seald it with his hand,

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,

Was walking on the strand.

'To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway oer the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,

'T is thou maun bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read,

Sae loud, loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,

The tear blinded his ee.

'O wha is this that has done this deed,

And tauld the king o me,

To send us out at this time of the year

To sail upon the sea?'

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must sail the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,

'T is we must fetch her hame.'

They hoysed thir sails on Monenday morn,

Wi a' the speed they may;

They hae landed in Noroway,

Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week

In Noroway but twae,

When that the lords o Noroway

Began aloud to say:

'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud,

And a' our queenis fee!'

'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud,

Fu loud I hear ye lie!

'For I brought as much white monie

As gane my men and me

And I brought a half-fou o gude red goud

Out oer the sea wi me.

'Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a',

Our gude ship sails the morn:'

'Now, ever alake! my master dear,

I fear a deadly storm!

'I saw the new moon late yestreen,

Wi the auld moon in her arm;

And if we gang to sea, master,

I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna saild 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 brak, and the topmasts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm,

And the waves came oer the broken ship,

Till a' her sides were torn.

'O where will I get a gude sailor,

To take my helm in hand,

Till I get up to the tall topmast;

To see if I can spy land?'

'O here am I, a sailor gude,

To take the helm in hand,

Till you go up the tall topmast;

But I fear you'll neer spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it came in.

'Gae fetch a web o the silken claith,

Another o the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And letna the sea come in.'

They fetched a web o the silken claith,

Another o the twine,

And they wapped them roun that gude ship's side,

But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords

To weet their cork-heeld shoon;

But lang or a' the play was playd,

They wat their hats aboon.

Any mony was the feather-bed

That flattered on the faem,

And mony was the gude lord's son

That never mair cam hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,

The maidens tore their hair,

A' for the sake of their true loves,

For them they'll see na mair.

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,

Wi their fans into their hand,

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens

Come sailing to the strand.

An lang, lang may the maidens sit,

Wi their goud kaims in their hair,

A' waiting for their ain dear loves,

For them they'll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdour

'T is fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,

Wi the Scots lords at his feet.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Some good poems have been posted. I like this one:-

There’s A Hole In My Sidewalk
– by Portia Nelson

  • Chapter One

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost… I am helpless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

  • Chapter Two

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I am in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

  • Chapter Three

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in… it’s a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault… I get out immediately.

  • Chapter Four

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

  • Chapter Five

I walk down another street.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I would hesitate to suggest any particular poem with corvidian finality, lest it be remembered for a very long time.

Is a latin entry allowed?

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W.B. Yeats

+1

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

Goodness, how to pick a favourite? But I have this in mind since heard it on R4 the other day - Adlestrop, Edward Thomas.

So evocative.

Yes, I remember Adlestrop -

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop - only the name.

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloud lets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mister,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I would hesitate to suggest any particular poem with corvidian finality, lest it be remembered for a very long time.

Is a latin entry allowed?

Latin is perfectly acceptable.

But what's final about crows? Or am I missing something? Apart from them caw-ing in leafless trees at fog shrouded funerals.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I'm not that fond of poetry at all! I'd rather hear somebody recite a plumbers suppliers catalog! :wacko:;)

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

I'm not that fond of poetry at all! I'd rather hear somebody recite a plumbers suppliers catalog! :wacko:;)

For some reason that post reminded me of this poem:

Naming of Parts

Henry Reed

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,

We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,

We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,

To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica

Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,

And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this

Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,

When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,

Which in your case you have not got. The branches

Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,

Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released

With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me

See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy

If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms

Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see

Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this

Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it

Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this

Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards

The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:

They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy

If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,

And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,

Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom

Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,

For to-day we have naming of parts.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

For some reason that post reminded me of this poem:

Naming of Parts

Henry Reed

Good Comment! Oddly, I remember that one from somewhere! Probably from school?

I am currently reading this year's "Screwfix" catalog for hints on the secret workings of lawnmowers! Much better than Ikea, and Habitat, and all those other second rate writers! :blink:

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

If I may inject some Larkin (checkout my avatar)

A miserable old bugger and a skeptic who like churches - I find I relate to him a little too much these days..

Going, going

I thought it would last my time -

The sense that, beyond the town,

There would always be fields and farms,

Where the village louts could climb

Such trees as were not cut down;

I knew thered be false alarms

In the papers about old streets

And split level shopping, but some

Have always been left so far;

And when the old part retreats

As the bleak high-risers come

We can always escape in the car.

Things are tougher than we are, just

As earth will always respond

However we mess it about;

Chuck filth in the sea, if you must:

The tides will be clean beyond.

- But what do I feel now? Doubt?

Or age, simply? The crowd

Is young in the M1 cafe;

Their kids are screaming for more -

More houses, more parking allowed,

More caravan sites, more pay.

On the Business Page, a score

Of spectacled grins approve

Some takeover bid that entails

Five per cent profit (and ten

Per cent more in the estuaries): move

Your works to the unspoilt dales

(Grey area grants)! And when

You try to get near the sea

In summer . . .

It seems, just now,

To be happening so very fast;

Despite all the land left free

For the first time I feel somehow

That it isnt going to last,

That before I snuff it, the whole

Boiling will be bricked in

Except for the tourist parts -

First slum of Europe: a role

It wont be hard to win,

With a cast of crooks and tarts.

And that will be England gone,

The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,

The guildhalls, the carved choirs.

Therell be books; it will linger on

In galleries; but all that remains

For us will be concrete and tyres.

Most things are never meant.

This wont be, most likely; but greeds

And garbage are too thick-strewn

To be swept up now, or invent

Excuses that make them all needs.

I just think it will happen, soon.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

The First Horses Were Made Of Sea Foam

The first horses were made of sea foam.

They rode their waves to the beaches

Then broke loose and dashed for the shore.

Wild horses, raging with pride

Look how much of the untamed sea

Is within them still.

By David Day

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

If I may inject some Larkin (checkout my avatar)

A miserable old bugger and a skeptic who like churches - I find I relate to him a little too much these days..

Going, going

I thought it would last my time -

The sense that, beyond the town,

There would always be fields and farms,

Where the village louts could climb

Such trees as were not cut down;

I knew thered be false alarms

In the papers about old streets

And split level shopping, but some

Have always been left so far;

And when the old part retreats

As the bleak high-risers come

We can always escape in the car.

Things are tougher than we are, just

As earth will always respond

However we mess it about;

Chuck filth in the sea, if you must:

The tides will be clean beyond.

- But what do I feel now? Doubt?

Or age, simply? The crowd

Is young in the M1 cafe;

Their kids are screaming for more -

More houses, more parking allowed,

More caravan sites, more pay.

On the Business Page, a score

Of spectacled grins approve

Some takeover bid that entails

Five per cent profit (and ten

Per cent more in the estuaries): move

Your works to the unspoilt dales

(Grey area grants)! And when

You try to get near the sea

In summer . . .

It seems, just now,

To be happening so very fast;

Despite all the land left free

For the first time I feel somehow

That it isnt going to last,

That before I snuff it, the whole

Boiling will be bricked in

Except for the tourist parts -

First slum of Europe: a role

It wont be hard to win,

With a cast of crooks and tarts.

And that will be England gone,

The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,

The guildhalls, the carved choirs.

Therell be books; it will linger on

In galleries; but all that remains

For us will be concrete and tyres.

Most things are never meant.

This wont be, most likely; but greeds

And garbage are too thick-strewn

To be swept up now, or invent

Excuses that make them all needs.

I just think it will happen, soon.

Too much reality.

Share this post


Link to post
Share on other sites

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.

  • The Prime Minister stated that there were three Brexit options available to the UK:   224 members have voted

    1. 1. Which of the Prime Minister's options would you choose?


      • Leave with the negotiated deal
      • Remain
      • Leave with no deal

    Please sign in or register to vote in this poll. View topic


×

Important Information

We have placed cookies on your device to help make this website better. You can adjust your cookie settings, otherwise we'll assume you're okay to continue.