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Gee
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27 Oct 2012 18:28 |
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!
Source: http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_if.htm
What's your's?
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PiersFromKent
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27 Oct 2012 18:47 |
That's a favourite of mine Gins...... Also.......
Night Mail - W H Auden
This is the night mail crossing the Border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb: The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches, Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course; They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes, But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done. Down towards Glasgow she descends, Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen. All Scotland waits for her: In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs Men long for news.
Letters of thanks, letters from banks, Letters of joy from girl and boy, Receipted bills and invitations To inspect new stock or to visit relations, And applications for situations, And timid lovers' declarations, And gossip, gossip from all the nations, News circumstantial, news financial, Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in, Letters with faces scrawled on the margin, Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts, Letters to Scotland from the South of France, Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands Written on paper of every hue, The pink, the violet, the white and the blue, The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring, The cold and official and the heart's outpouring, Clever, stupid, short and long, The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
Thousands are still asleep, Dreaming of terrifying monsters Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh, Asleep in granite Aberdeen, They continue their dreams, But shall wake soon and hope for letters, And none will hear the postman's knock Without a quickening of the heart, For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
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McB
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27 Oct 2012 18:59 |
One fine day in the middle of the night two dead men got up to fight back to back they faced each other drew there swords and shot each other
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Rambling
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27 Oct 2012 19:04 |
Have to pick two lol
FERN HILL Dylan Thomas
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
and
The Road Not Taken Robert Frost TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
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Gee
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27 Oct 2012 19:35 |
Brilliant...lovely
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Gee
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27 Oct 2012 19:56 |
What do you think about Philip Larkin?
Not a leading or rhetorical question, just interested in your opinions?
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RolloTheRed
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27 Oct 2012 20:19 |
As remembrance day is soon I rather like this understated memory of a soldie by Robert Frost
A Soldier
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled, That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust, But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust. If we who sight along it round the world, See nothing worthy to have been its mark, It is because like men we look too near, Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere, Our missiles always make too short an arc. They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, break their own; They make us cringe for metal-point on stone. But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.
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Neubie
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27 Oct 2012 20:23 |
Strange Meeting
IT seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through caverns which titanic wars had groined, Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in sleep or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by his smile I knew that sullen hall. By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell. With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained, Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, And no guns whooped, or down the flues made moan. "Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause to mourn." "None," said the other, "save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours Was my hope also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. For of my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping something had been left Which must die now. I mean the truth untold: The pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled, Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. They will be swift, with swiftness of the tigress. None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. Courage was mine, and I had mystery; Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled. Then, when much blood had clogged their chariots wheels, I would go up and wash them from sweet wells. Even with truths that lie too deep for taint I would have poured my spirit without stint. But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark--for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried, but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now..."
Wilfred Owen This stuck with me since O level English Lit years ago and for this to strike a chord with a 15 year old prima donna in the 1970's says it all.
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Gee
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27 Oct 2012 20:40 |
Wilfred Owen....I'd forgot about him
Rollo, never heard that poem - thank you
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Neubie
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27 Oct 2012 20:46 |
Gins .. I suffered all the Wordsworth and Keats poems at school , the only Poets I found interesting were Owen and William Blake.. Owen told the truth about war .. Blake was different , no daffodils and birds twittering. :-D
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Gee
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27 Oct 2012 20:58 |
Neubie
I prefer modern literature.....so many things have happened to inspire this
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Neubie
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27 Oct 2012 21:08 |
can you give an example of what you like ? I am trying to expand on the things I read and this would really help. xx
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maggiewinchester
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28 Oct 2012 01:34 |
Another wartime poem\;
Naming of Parts
Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But today, Today we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens likecoral in all the neighboring gardens, And today 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 is easing the Spring.
They call is easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, 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 today we have the naming of parts.
Henry Reed
Another favourite is by Spike Milligan:
She stood on the bridge at midnight Her legs were all a quiver.... she gave a cough her leg fell off..... and floated down the river
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Gee
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28 Oct 2012 07:11 |
Neubie, Im no literary expert! You wont learn much from me, but here another I like, reminds me of todays generation!
I Want It Now
Gooses, geeses I want my geese to lay gold eggs for easter At least a hundred a day And by the way
I want a feast I want a bean feast Cream buns and doughnuts And fruitcake with no nuts So good you could go nuts
No, now
I want a ball I want a party Pink macaroons And a million balloons And performing baboons and Give it to me now
I want the world I want the whole world I want to lock it All up in my pocket It's my bar of chocolate Give it to me now
I want today I want tomorrow I want to wear 'em Like braids in my hair and I don't want to share 'em
I want a party with roomfuls of laughter Ten thousand tons of ice cream And if I don't get the things I am after I'm going to scream
I want the works I want the whole works Presents and prizes And sweets and surprises Of all shapes and sizes
And now
Don't care how, I want it now Don't care how, I want it now
Roald Dahl
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SueMaid
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28 Oct 2012 08:31 |
I have to pick two - this one I love.
I Sit Beside the Fire
I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies In summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.
Tolkien
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SueMaid
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28 Oct 2012 08:34 |
A Robert Frost poem -
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost.
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there's some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
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Gee
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28 Oct 2012 09:02 |
They are lovely......they make you step back and think
I remember seeing that film Stephen and never knew where the poem came from
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RolloTheRed
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29 Oct 2012 07:49 |
One of my modern favorites
"Mercedes Benz"
Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ? My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends. Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends, So Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
Oh Lord, won't you buy me a color TV ? Dialing For Dollars is trying to find me. I wait for delivery each day until three, So oh Lord, won't you buy me a color TV ?
Oh Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town ? I'm counting on you, Lord, please don't let me down. Prove that you love me and buy the next round, Oh Lord, won't you buy me a night on the town ?
Everybody! Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ? My friends all drive Porsches, I must make amends, Worked hard all my lifetime, no help from my friends, So oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz ?
Janis Joplin
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AnninGlos
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29 Oct 2012 08:12 |
I have so many but one of my favourites:
Listen to the Warm By Rod McKuen
I live alone. It hasn't always been that way. It's nice sometimes to open up the heart a little and let some hurt come in. It proves you're still alive.
I'm not sure what it means. Why we cannot shake the old loves from out minds. It must be that we build on memory and make them more that what they were. And is the manufacture just a safe device for closing up the wall?
I do remember. The only fuzzy circumstance is something where-and how. Why, I know. It happens just because we need to want and to be wanted too, when love is here or gone to lie down in the darkness and listen to the warm.
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SueMaid
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29 Oct 2012 09:00 |
Here is one that is sadly all too true in our busy lives.
Around the Corner
Around the corner I have a friend
In this great city that has no end
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on
And before I know it a year has gone
And I never see my old friends face
For life is a swift and terrible race
He knows I like him just as well
As in the days when I rang his bell
And he rang mine but we were younger then
And now we are busy,tired men
Tired of playing a foolish game
Tired of trying to make a name
'Tomorrow' I say ' I will call on Jim
Just to show I 'm thinking of him'
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes
And distance between us grows and grows
Around the corner, yet miles away
'Here is telegram sir' Jim died today
And that's what we get and deserve in the end
Around the corner a vanished friend.
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