Drunken Bungle Whore

Thought I'd try and bring a bit of culture and class to a wet and rainy Friday. Dug out a couple of my favourite poetry books earlier this week - wet rainy weekends are perfect for flicking through a few old favourites.



I love Jenny Joseph (especially the Purple poem!) and Wendy Cope has me in fits - but usually has a serious message in a lot of her work.



Favourite of all time (and it's a close run thing!) Would have to be Wilfred Owens infamous Dulce et Decorum Est - although lots of the WWI poet come into the top ten!



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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped 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,
Obscene as cancer, bitter 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.

(Rough translation - It is sweet and right to die for your country)

Mind you - Dylan Thomas comes a very close second with:

Do not go gentle
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because there words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

fast bloke

Us Norn Iron people are probably not as cultured. My favourite is



















Beans beans
are good for your heart
the more you eat
the more you........

richiewong

Reminds of sitting in my old school doing English


Rupert Brooke

The Soldier

IF I should die, think only this of me;
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

bigsinky

Ahhh DBW a lady after my own heart. just in the process of reading Stephen Fry's new book "the ode less travelled". excellent book for budding poets. iambic pentameter, couplets, enjambments etc etc. alot of people don't admit they like poetry or posey as it is sometimes called thinking they will be labelled ghey. quite like milton, tennyson as well as some more modern poets like heaney and auden. also like certain ways in which poetry is written especially allerative verse.

one of my faves


The Forge


All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil's short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.

Seamus Heaney

bigsinky

Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal


Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font;
The firefly wakens, waken thou with me.

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts, in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake.
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

richiewong

Just waiting for somebody to post Blakes Tyger now

STi-Frenchie

...fart
the more you fart
the better you feel
so eat beans
with every meal

richiewong

My uncle Billy had a 10 foot *****...........

STi-Frenchie

Oo sez we've no culture or class? I'll kick their head in

Drunken Bungle Whore

Funny you should mention that - I never gave poetry a second thought until O'Level English Lit when we studied the WWI poets. I loved every second!

fast bloke

pervert

The Zohan

Mary had a little lamb.....

Not much into poetry really, i can appreciate it but it does not blow my skirt up. (thats not a poem BTW more IMHO)

Apparition

DAD’S CHRISTMAS

Everyone rushing from here to there.
There’s a sense of excitement filling the air.
Children are smiling, parents are frowning.
We smell the aroma of roast turkey browning.

Did we choose the right present for our Auntie Jane?
Is the sweater for Daniel a little too plain?
Has Mum bought enough in the way of good food?
Will the whiskey for Dad, put him in a good mood?

And the dogs and the cats, there’s them to consider.
They’ll happily follow the most generous food giver.
The table is set, the crackers are ready.
Dad’s having a job keeping everything steady.

“Come and look everyone, it’s snowing outside!”
Mum stands at the back looking on with great pride.
And through the window, what’s that they espy?
A man, on a sleigh, being pulled ‘cross the sky.

The turkey is finished, the floor strewn with wrapping.
Just the glow of the fire with the odd log a ‘cracking.
One more Christmas over, fond memories to have…
Except maybe Dad with his head down the lav !
© Yve
Dec 1996

STi-Frenchie

Here's one for you Paul...

Mary had a little skirt
with splits right up the sides
and everywhere that Mary went
the boys could see her thighs.
Mary had another skirt
'twas split right up the front
...But she didn't wear that one often

Bubba po

Design
by Robert Frost

I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.

Apparition

Like that one Bubba !
Yve

New_scooby_04

iTrader: (4)

I'd go for a good limerick myself:

There was a young man named Ennis.
Who had.......

Nah, we'd better not! :-)

Bubba po

Speaking of Dr. Seuss; here's a little-known extract from "Green Eggs and Ham" that ended up on the cutting-room floor.

I do not like it Sam I Am

I do not like Green Eggs and Ham:

Could you insert it up your ar$e?

I could not, would not, up my ar$e

Would you, could you, with a vase?

I would not could not with a vase

not with a bottle, nor with a glass

not with a weed, nor with some grass

not with a Tsung nor with a Ming

I could not Wedge Wood up my ring

To try such things would be a farce

Desist from pondering on my ar$e.

mattstant

Two of my all time favourites there Drunken Bungle

I want "Do not go gentle" reading at my funeral and "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower".

I have got the bbc recording of "Under Milkwood" in the car glove box it's sometimes sickening how brilliant his combination of economy of langauge, and similie are.

She's abit heavy on the maudling side but i do like Sylvia Plath as well

scotty44

iTrader: (12)

Maybe off topic on this & probley SIAL but its the time of year that some idiots are doing it

A moving poem with a powerful message - for all age drivers...

Laura

WENT TO A PARTY, MOM

I went to a party, And remembered what you said.
You told me not to drink, Mom, so I had a sprite instead.

I felt proud of myself, The way you said I would, that I didn't
drink and drive, though some friends said I should.
I made a healthy choice,
And your advice to me was right. The
party finally ended, and the kids drove out of
sight.

I got into my car, Sure to get home in one piece. I never
knew what was coming, Mom, something I expected
least.

Now I'm lying on the pavement, And I hear the policeman say, the kid that caused this wreck was drunk, Mom, his voice seems
far away.

My own blood's all around me,
As I try hard not to cry. I can hear the
paramedic say, this girl is going to die.

I'm sure the guy had no idea,
While he was flying high. Because he
chose to drink and drive, now I would have to die.

So why do people do it, Mom Knowing that it ruins lives? And now the
pain is cutting me, like a hundred stabbing knives.

Tell sister not to be afraid, Mom
Tell daddy to be brave. And when I go to
heaven, put " Mommy's Girl" on my grave.

Someone should have taught him, That it's wrong to drink and drive. Maybe if his parents had, I'd still be alive.

My breath is getting shorter, Mom
I'm getting really scared. These are my
final moments, and I'm so unprepared.
I wish that you could hold me Mom,
As I lie here and die. I wish that I
could say, "I love you, Mom!" So I love you and
good-bye.

MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Drivers) is
MADD

richieh

do not go gentle-superb best read by richard burton
most of the ww1 poetry
and as an oddball choice -some spike milligan and lewis caroll's jaberwocky

Jabberwocky

'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 hast 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 borogroves
And the mome raths outgrabe.

must be good they made it into a film
richie

Robbie T

iTrader: (8)

I'm not very cultured really, but i know what i like and what moves me :

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 all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath 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!

Rudyard Kipling - If

V5

From the sublime:

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 windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.


Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941



To the ridiculous:

The Marrog

My desk's at the back of the class
and nobody, nobody knows
I'm Marrog from Mars
With a body of brass
And seventeen fingers and toes

Would n't they shriek if they knew
I've three eyes at the back of my head
And my hair is bright purple
My nose is deep blue,
My teeth are half yellow, half red.


My five arms are silver and spiked
With knives on them sharper than spears
I could go back right now if I liked-
And return in a million light years


I could gobble them all
For I'm seven foot tall
And I'm breathing green flames from my ears.


Would n't they yell if they knew,
If they guessed that a Marrog was here?
Ha-ha they have n't a clue-
Or would n't they tremble with fear !
"Look, look a Marrog!"
They'd all scream - and SMACK
The blackboard would fall and the ceiling would crack
And the teacher would faint, I suppose.
But I grin to myself, sitting right at the back
And nobody, nobody knows.

By R. C. Scriven

On the Ning Nang Nong

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
Theres a Nang Nong Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the Mice go Clang!
And you just cant catch em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!

What a noisy place to belong,Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!


Spike Milligan - from Silly Verse for Kids, 1968

alcazar

iTrader: (2)

How about this one, for all the aircrew, who lost their lives?