[Closed] Do you think poetry is for puffs?

Well in answer to your question I have no idea if poetry is for puffs.

.

But as far as I'm concerned it's definitely for poofs.

So I didn't bother reading the poem.

HTH

Hi grizz

Sorry I was trying to be polite

"puffs" being maybe a bit less gratuitous than poofs

or poufs

or pouffes

Is there an "authorised" spelling of the word as applied to a derogatory reference to homosexual men?

I'm Northern, you see. And the remark came from a pupil of mine, in my first year of teaching, in "an area of social deprivation" in the NW of England

he deffo said "Puffs", with the "u" as in "up"

Bet you say "scowne" rather than "sconn"!

No way! It's for everyone!

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.

Sorry I was trying to be polite

Well that case, if were "trying to be polite" expect it to go straight over my head 😕

"Politeness" is for puffs.

As far as I'm concerned.

The boy stood on the burning deck...

Poetry's brilliant.

Did Linton Kwesi Johnson with my class today.

Original question is misguided and crass though.

straight over my head

Obviously we wouldn't have aim very far above the ground to do that

Poetry to GF gets me sex.

Creative art.

What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

zaskar that's brilliant

just what I've found

birds love to think a bloke's most important organ is his brain

until you introduce them to the other one

No! Poetry is for everyone. You can even set it to music, and call it "songs".
Well, I like it, and I'm not a poof.

rightplacerighttime - Member
The boy stood on the burning deck

His feet were full of blisters
He hadn't got the from the fire
But from screwing both his sisters

Leo Marks...

It's rubbish innit ...

I never get it with poetry put it this way.

Definitely not. Especially haiku form.

Poems are for puffs.
According to grizzlygus.
But he knows nothing.

And now I predict -
He's googling furiously.
What does Haiku mean?

Singletrack website.
Fount of all knowledge? Or just
Random made up facts?

in fact a lot of men are so butch they find women too poofy and only get excited about machines 🙁

[u]Singletrackworld[/u]

What tyres for mud, rocks?
SFB's raging sex drive.
Covers most of it.

Obviously we wouldn't have aim very far above the ground to do that

For your information : Six foot one and, if I've had a hot bath and done me stretches, five-eighths.

It's rubbish innit ...

I never get it with poetry put it this way.

It's not rubbish, but it is difficult sometimes!

Find a good teacher who can let you in on the secret.

You wil be forever grateful

For your information : Six foot one and, if I've had a hot bath and done me stretches, five-eighths.

Hi again grizzlygus

It was your mental dimensions I was referring to

SFB's raging sex drive

fame at last! (or infamy) :o)

My favourite:

[b]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. [/b]

[img] [/img]

Quite possibly the greatest poem ever written in the English language.....

No, for that you need IF / Rudyard 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!

- almost on topic: 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!'

It was your mental dimensions I was referring to

Sorry, you've lost me mate. Still never mind, don't what I'm doing on this thread anyway - going to find myself a more [i]manly[/i] thread. About rioting or street-fighting or sum think.

or sum think.

What a thicko.

N e fule noe it's '[i]sumfink[/i]'.

Grizzly; Sir, you are nought but a philistine and a savage. Begone; you graceless barbarian, for you bring but only a brutality of thought.

Poetry to GF gets me sex.

Better still, try it in another language. She'll love it.... 😉

It was your mental dimensions I was referring to

Sorry, you've lost me mate

Q E effing D!

RudeBoy - Member

N e fule noe

What's that then - some poncy latin bollox ?

grizzlygus you are busted!

you are a total troll!

you know what "N e fule noe" means, because you linked it with Latin!

because you know about the importance of Latin to Nigel Molesworth, utterer of the immortal phrase "any fule kno"

Why would you want to disguise your intellect?

It's like pretending you haven't got an 8" dick

I much prefer this:
[img] [/img]

**** no

without poetry there would be nothing to put to music

for what is a song but a poem made melodic?

well I've enjoyed the poems posted on here and I'm definately not a puff!
I also like Mint Sauce (MBUK) thats quite poetic.
cheers

grizzlygus ............you are a total troll

You're bang out of order there mate - I don't know nothing about no fancy foreign words.

And whilst I'm here :

gecko76 - Member
Poetry's brilliant.

Did Linton Kwesi Johnson with my class today.

And people wonder why kids grow up gay these days, ffs.

Good old Maggie tried to put a stop to all these trendy leftie teachers polluting our kids minds with filthy perverted nonsense - she of course introduced Section 28. And then, New Labour mincers come along a scrap it all and re-introduce their sick agenda.

Still Maggie done her best. Bless her.

I'm a little late but can I contribute my favourite...

BASKING SHARK
To stub an oar on a rock where none should be
To have it rise with a slounge out of the sea
is a thing that happened once, too often, to me.

But not too often, though enough,I count as gain
That i once met, on a sea tin-tacked with rain
that roomsized monster with a matchbox brain.

He displaced more than water, he shoggled me
Centuries back, this decadent townee
Shook on a branch of his family tree.

Swish up the dirt and, when it settles
a spring is all the clearer. I saw me in one fling,
emerging from the slime of everything.

So who's the monster? The thought made me grow pale
For twenty seconds as, sail after sail,
the tall fin slid away, and then the tail.

I agree with Zaskar... (my) Mrs loves it

Though when I start reading Classical Chinese poetry to her, she thinks it's time I had a beer 😀

Yep, just for Puffs...........

[u][b]Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days[/b][/u]

She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles

He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment

She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her

He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous

Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up

And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it

They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step

And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible

And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire

She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body

He sets the little circlets on her fingertips

She stiches his body here and there with steely purple silk

He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth

She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck

He sinks into place the inside of her thighs

So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.

[u][b]Ted Hughes [/b][/u]

The Kipling one was a cracker BTW

Poetry for puffs? Some release imagination within me, magical words. At school I remember first hearing Dulce et Decorum est and being totally transfixed and shocked. Then I read about the connection with Sassoon and how Sassoon helped nurture/hone Owen's poetry.
.
.
.
Another:
The Tiger
William Blake

Tiger Tiger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

I'm sure its great, but, I just don't get it. Perhaps its because of my p*ss-poor education and utter lack of ability to even read it correctly.

Are there any resources on where one may look to explore a little more poetry? i.e. 'dummies guide'?

I still can't quite imagine reading a little, but a greater understanding wouldn't go amiss would it?

jt

I like the old ww1/2 ones

Rendezvous

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous

nickname that is beautiful.

I think this is turning into a poetry competition, so may I present the undisputed champion of the world

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.

Cant believe nobody has recommended you introduce the young chap in your lesson to listen to
John Cooper Clarke

Worked for me as a kid 😉

Err... i'm knocking on the door of my 30th!!

[i]Try Simon Armitage:
It ain’t what you do, it’s what it does to you.[/i]

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall, picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stone’s inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light aircraft;
but I held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the lightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

[i] `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe. [/i]

A cheap imitation of the true classic from The Outcast. Which I can't currently locate. Anyone...?

[i]The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori. [/i]
ah...more whining squaddies. Always the same.
😉

I can't quite believe i'm asking this on a public web forum, but, hey ho. I have no shame!

How do I read it??????

[i]I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.[/i]

Is it; I have not bummed across America , with only a dollar to spare,

or is it, I have not bummed across America with only a dollar to spare,

etc (I hope that makes sense...)

hopefully my ineptness serves as a guide to more, err, inept people!?

jt

Jontawn
It was meant for Eldridge who started the topic 😉

jontawn, punctuation within poetry is quite deliberate and for effect. If there is no comma there, then read it without one.

HTH

[url=

for puffs? Not a chance[/url]

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They f*ck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f*cked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Lol, for poofs? No I have always loved poetry, beautiful and mysterious... I do think that thicko's or machismo obsessed teenagers might say its only for effeminate men though,

try Miltons Paradise Lost/regained.... or Philip Larkin;

This Be The Verse
They **** you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****ed up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
......................................

The Old Fools

What do they think has happened, the old fools,
To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose
It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,
And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember
Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,
They could alter things back to when they danced all night,
Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?
Or do they fancy there's really been no change,
And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,
Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming
Watching light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange:
Why aren't they screaming?

At death, you break up: the bits that were you
Start speeding away from each other for ever
With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:
We had it before, but then it was going to end,
And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour
To bring to bloom the million-petaled flower
Of being here. Next time you can't pretend
There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs:
Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power
Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it:
Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines -
How can they ignore it?

Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms
Inside your head, and people in them, acting.
People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms
Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,
Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting
A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only
The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,
The blown bush at the window, or the sun's
Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely
Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:
Not here and now, but where all happened once.
This is why they give

An air of baffled absence, trying to be there
Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving
Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear
Of taken breath, and them crouching below
Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving
How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet:
The peak that stays in view wherever we go
For them is rising ground. Can they never tell
What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night?
Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout
The whole hideous, inverted childhood? Well,
We shall find out.

Philip Larkin

some old classics popping up here, Jabberwocky, IF, Dulce et... don't forget the Nations favourite for a long time, Daffodils

Dunno. I'm a

'poof'/'pouf' or any of the other words you want to say in a similar vein.

Do I like poetry? As much as the next 'real man'/'idiot'/'neanderthal bigot' (choose as appropriate) I guess.

Or am I missing the point here?

duntstick - You're going to get your account suspended for pedaling such filth!

It's art.........innit. 😆

Windmills back into the thread [b]whos callin mi a poof then'?[/b]
Re-reads Anthem for Doomed Youth then sits sobbing..
.
.
.
What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

.
.
.
.
.
....[i]And bugles calling for them from sad shires.[/i]
Thats the evocative line for me

Murray Lachlan Young on Keef and that co**** tree incident of a couple of years ago (speaking for myself though, I hope I'm climbing coconut trees whan I'm that age).

What the hell did you think you were doing?
So blind that you just could not see
Not a thought for your legion of worshipping fans
When you shinned up the trunk of that coconut tree

If you’re gonna go Keith go Keith go
If your gonna go Keith go Keith go
If your gonna go Keith go Keith go
Don’t do it like that Keith no Keith no

Go in the middle of a hard blues riff
Go at the end of a laced up spliff
Speedball death plunge, Lear jet smash
Coked up gunfight, high-speed car crash
Kohl black eyes white rock n roll skin
With your hand on the fret board cigarette grin
Do itlike a king pin Debauchee
But not falling out of a coconut tree

Keith, man, what goaded you on
Was it Ronnie Wood? Who said you should?
Or was it Elton John that you tried to prove wrong?
When he called you King Kong, did you snag your sarong?

C’mon Keith, baby, tell us please what the hell was going on

If you’re gonna go Keith, go Keith go
If you’re gonna go Keith go Keith go
If you’re gonna go Keith go Keith go
Don’t do it like that Keith no Keith no

ourmaninthenorth - Member

Poetry to GF gets me sex.

Better still, try it in another language. She'll love it....

Last time I went to Paris with her I revised as much French as I could (even asked Juan on here a few yrs back) LOL.

Now a poem in French thats a great idea.

[b]To write a poem can still be manly,
Not just fix the shelf and come in handy.

It helps to be in shape and have a brain,
to be independant and not a pain.
Don't worry if you don't have a 12 inch snake,
just be truthful and don't be fake!

Don't worry about the moody Grizzlygus,
One day you'll read he's got hit by a bus.

Love your woman and be a man,
learn to cook and have a plan!
Don't talk too much but keep on listening,
Then she'll realise that there is nothing missing.
[/b]