Read this, from W.H.Auden in 1959 - 1959 FFS!
Out of the air a voice without a face
Proved by statistics that some cause was just
In tones as dry and level as the place:
No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
Column by column in a cloud of dust
They marched away enduring a belief
Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.
(and later, in the same poem)
Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
A crowd of ordinary decent folk
Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale figures were led forth and bound
To three posts driven upright in the ground.
The mass and majesty of this world, all
That carries weight and always weighs the same
Lay in the hands of others; they were small
And could not hope for help and no help came:
What their foes like to do was done, their shame
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
And died as men before their bodies died
If you're interested it's from "The Shield of Achilles", a brilliant polemic against imperialistic, fascistic regimes
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 - MemberN 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...?