Thread: Poetry? Maybe it isn't all arty farty bull?

Originally Posted by Micawber

Not quite sure what the 'State' is, but the rythm of that last line is just stunning.

I always assumed it meant "becoming a tool of the government"?

When one faces death and lives,
you react in a way as never before,
your brain races at super speed,
time seems to slow like an Ang Lee film,
but after when you have beateb the Reaper,
the rush of euphoriais more addictive than dope andbetter than sex,
and all your comrads treat you with a new respect,
wich you almost certanly do not derserve

Originally Posted by _Artemis_

Originally Posted by Micawber

Not quite sure what the 'State' is, but the rythm of that last line is just stunning.

I always assumed it meant "becoming a tool of the government"?

I thought it was more a state of consciousness, animated suspension perhaps, that the gunner fell into until the battle started and everything came crashing back to reality again?

Hoe not to enter a helicopter.

The stupid B****** went the wrong way,

our tail rotor took his head away,

through a cloud of scarlet froth,

as he no longer had a head,

I wonder whar told him he was realy dead,

his headlees corps then tried to stand.

this was all to mach for me i egressed right and ran away,

Originally Posted by Micawber

Death Of A Ball Turret Gunner, Randall Jarrett
---------------------------------------------

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,

I woke to black flack and the nightmare fighters.

And when I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

---------------------------------------------------

Not quite sure what the 'State' is, but the rythm of that last line is just stunning.

I think CaptainCalamity has it right. The 'State' is some kind of semi-conscious mode, possibly through being so cold, or the monotony of being an isolated ball gunner (on a bomber I assume, not being RAF) on a long flight. The last two lines are a brilliant piece of writing.

You might want to look at this if you have not already:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/sys...the_frontline/

http://timesonline.typepad.com/times...ers-poets.html

Also, from the Times Literary Supplement an interesting take on the Ist World War with mention of the classic war poets:

http://entertainment.timesonline.co....cle5087161.ece

Originally Posted by Tyke

Pop and me

My dad had come along to watch me
the day I came last in the cub scout sack race;
the day my glasses fell off on to the running track
and somebody behind me
deliberately hopped on top of them
and damaged them really badly.
I was that
struggling runt at the back
laughed at by everyone,
everyone, except my dad.
And not because he had
a beating in mind
but because he felt for me.
And when he came to find me
and I was melting with tears
he said 'You're the one
they'll remember in the years to come, son,
you were very funny.'
And he took me to the shop
and ordered me some pop
and we halved the humiliation
when he didn't have the money.

John Hegley

That one cut through the bombast, and better than the silly limericks did!

Originally Posted by captaincalamity

Originally Posted by _Artemis_

Originally Posted by Micawber

Not quite sure what the 'State' is, but the rythm of that last line is just stunning.

I always assumed it meant "becoming a tool of the government"?

I thought it was more a state of consciousness, animated suspension perhaps, that the gunner fell into until the battle started and everything came crashing back to reality again?

Could well be, although the capitalised "S" mitigates against that slightly - the last line in particular makes the speaker seem like an object, a thing to be used then thrown away. But like all the best poetry, it probably admits of multiple valid interpretations.

It is the Soldier,
not the reporter who has given us freedom of press

It is the Soldier,
not the poet who has given us freedom of speech

It is the Soldier,
not the campus organizer who gives us freedom to demonstrate

It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
who serves beneath the flag,
and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
who allows the protester to burn the flag.

Father Dennis Edward O'Brien

Vitae Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight -
Ten to make and the match to win -
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of the ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

The sand of the Desert is sodden red -
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel's dead,
And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

This is the world that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind -
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

Sir Henry Newbolt



EVERYONE suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away ... O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

Siegfried Sassoon




Epitaph For the Unknown Soldier

To save your world, you asked this man to die:
Would this man, could he see you now, ask Why?

W.H. Auden

Just a boy, you shout - he'd hide
Neither man nor beast were on his side
He'd thieved and robbed, he's in for a ride
He'd have his will and conscience tried

First month was hard, he hurt, he cried
Then strength and courage rose inside
Six months on and his fear has died
He's ready to fight the biggest tide

Now a soldier, friends at side
You shout but won't make this one hide
His creed won't run, their hearts abide
They stand their ground, with faith and pride

But those who sent us, where to find?
They're in Westminster, those who lied
Yet we're the ones, the left behind
Who fought for the opressed, and for our kind.

thats great...
well written
thanks for adding it

to both of you ..............

Here's one a friend of mine wrote for a Burns night dinner with the Scots DG:

The hare it ran
Towards the burn,
It ran sae fast
It couldnae turn...

Splash!

Got him a few extras from the Badge.

Scottish Fiction - Edwin Morgan.

It isn't in the mirror
It isn't on the page
It's a red-hearted vibration
Pushing through the walls
Of dark imagination
Finding no equation
There's a Red Road rage
But it's not road rage
It's asylum seekers engulfed by a grudge
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction

It isn't in the castle
It isn't in the mist
It's a calling of the waters
As they break to show
The new Black Death
With reactors aglow
Do you think your security
Can keep you in purity
You will not shake us off above or below
Scottish friction
Scottish fiction

'Pass then, pass all! "Baghdad!" ye cry, and down the billows of blue sky

Ye beat the bell that beats to hell, and who shall thrust ye back? Not I.

The Sun who flashes through the head and paints the shadows green and red, -

The Sun shall eat thy fleshless dead, O Caravan, O Caravan!'


"The Golden Journey to Samarkand" by James Elroy Flecker