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

For some reason, LJ, your quotation reminds me of the following:

There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act IV Scene III.

Poetry has always held a fascination and of course there are bound to be some writers of poetry that are preferred to others, in my case it is William Wordsworth. Immediately most would think of “Daffodils� which I suppose is Wordsworth’s most famous poem. Nothing wrong with “Daffodils� it is a very beautiful and descriptive piece of poetry enjoyed over the years by so many.

Strange as it may be the poem that always springs to my mind when Wordsworth is mentioned is a poem called “Upon Westminster Bridge� Why you might ask? My answer to that is simply that I have crossed Westminster Bridge so many times and each time Wordsworth’s poem “Upon West Minster Bridge� has sprung to mind.

I wonder what he would make of it all now if he was to stop and stare at the views that are on offer in our present society, would he still be thinking “Earth has not anything to show more fair�: It was over two centuries ago since he was inspired to write that poem, how things have changed.

Few places can have such heavyweight literary associations in relation to their size as Lynmouth on the North coast of Devon. Being a Devonian I find Lynmouth reasonably accessible and once again I find that Wordsworth had found inspiration in what would then have been a very small harbour village. My guess is that quill would have been put to paper in the confines of “The Rising Sun� and of course it would have been long before the funicular railway put in an appearance.

Upon Westminster Bridge

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

A war time poetry written by a Tank Man?

THROUGH THE MUD
THROUGH THE BLOOD
TO THE GREEN FIELDS BEYOND

See the tanks, onward they come.
Clatter clatter, what a hum,
Still the rumble comes more and more,
Like advancing bulls that snort and roar,

Tracks, trunnion wheels, and cranks,
Uproot trees and tear down banks.
On thro waving cornfields, orchards and woods,
Disgracefully turning them into seas of mud.

Mothers solemnly line the street to stand and watch
Is it my husband or my son in the hatch
With a cheery wave from left to right
Could this be the day before the fight

Turrets turn with angry stares
Pointing their guns everywhere
Iron monsters painted to stop the rust
Now make a pincer move and then a thrust

Tanks are not steeds for the knights of old
A carriage only for men so bold
Decorated with shields of mail,
Their fierce some fire power makes men quail

When the tanks begin to move
They have so many things to prove
Driver left, driver right
Straight forward into the fight

Onward, onward through the mud,
Advancing onward to shed their blood
Within the crews there are deep bonds
Alas many lie in the green fields beyond.

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




lol arty
that one makes me giggle

:D

Originally Posted by Angellwiings

lol arty
that one makes me giggle

:D

Giggle? Giggle?? Bloody Weegies have no class or taste.

Originally Posted by _Artemis_

Originally Posted by Angellwiings

lol arty
that one makes me giggle

:D

Giggle? Giggle?? Bloody Weegies have no class or taste.

no cornetto's for you.. cheeky wench lol

For anyone in adversity:

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley, 1875

Found this, it's not mil themed in any way but I think it fits in the class of 'not arty farty bull'!


Your eyes, shining brightly
Your hair, flames across your skin,
Your lips are parted slightly,
Expectant, anticipating.
Your master approaches,
Everything goes still,
Am I pleased or disappointed?
Submit to me all will.
Relief courses through your body,
When I look into your eyes,
With the faintest hint of smile,
I demand your sacrifice.
I feel your breathing quicken,
As I press my mouth to yours,
I feel your desperation,
To satisfy your lord.
Your chest is beating harder,
Beneath my hands and lips,
Your skin begins to glisten,
As I move down to your hips.
You know what I desire,
And part your legs at my command,
Press my face into the fire,
Grasp your buttocks in my hands.
You grind upon my teeth and tongue,
I feel your passion rise,
You know you're not allowed to cum,
The fear is in your eyes.

I grab your wrist, pull you to your feet,
You know it's payment time,
You fcuking whore, you couldn't wait,
Until I was inside.
Couldn't you control yourself?
Until we were as one,
Bitch, now feel my fcuking rage,
You couldn't wait your turn.
I grab you by your trembling throat,
So recently I kissed,
My fingers running through your hair,
Grasps it in my fist.
I pull your hair, your head goes back,
Your body starts to shiver,
You bitch, you've made me do this,
And now you will deliver.
I train you to do better,
And this is how you act?
You disobey your master,
You need me, you know that.
You see the straps of leather,
And struggle to be free,
But you know that you can never,
Be near as strong as me.
Your arms are fastened tightly.
I order you to stand,
My teeth upon your nipple,
I lift you with one hand.
You feel the wall behind you,
Cold upon your skin,
I push you hard against it,
Against me you can't win.
You want me deep inside you,
You slut, I couldn't care,
You feel my c0ck against you,
Against your c1it down there.
Suddenly I enter,
Deep inside, within,
I feel your pussy moisten,
The harder I'm pushing.
Pressed hard against your body,
Fcuking you with all,
Your legs around my waist,
Slammed against the wall.

Your passion sudden changes,
Fury in your eyes,
Your fists striking my body,
My anger swiftly dies.
Falling to my knees,
In supplication stance,
Cowering away from,
The fire in your glance.
You press your foot upon me,
My face into the ground,
"How dare you fcuking touch me, dog"
I tremble at the sound.
"You're scum, you're dirt, not worthy to,
Lick the sh1t from off my boot",
"You think I fcuking want you?"
"Now the boots on the other foot".
"Now you must fcuking worship,
My body, you fcuking sh1t",
"And if you're fcuking worthy",
"I MIGHT forgive your sin".
"Lick my fcuking pussy bitch",
"Until I'm satisfied",
"Don't dare fcuking disappoint me",
"If it takes all fcuking night".
I fall upon your body,
To lick, kiss, stroke, caress,
To worship you my goddess,
I must prove my worthiness.
I lick upon the flower,
I know I don't deserve,
I crave to feel you cumming,
My mistress, you I serve.
I feel you start to shiver,
From fire deep inside,
Your breathing getting harder,
As on my face you ride.
Your passions sweet crescendo,
Your bodies sweet rapturous burst,
I pray I have fulfilled you,
Please release my thirst.

You move on down my body,
Wrap your legs around my hips,
Lower down onto me,
I reach to kiss your lips.
We push onto each other,
Our bodies move in time,
You feel me deep inside you,
Our passions swiftly climb.
And when we cum together,
You fall in my embrace,
I hold you tightly to me,
Soft kisses on your face.
When our breathing softens,
My eyes look into thine,
For truly I'm your master,
And you my mistress, mine.

I assume you or a friend wrote the previous, Mac, since it's not on google? Reminded me a bit of another poem about submission and possession:

John Donne - Elegy XX: To His Mistris Going to Bed

Come, Madame, come, all rest my powers defie,
Until I labour, I in labour lye.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tir'd with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering
But a farre fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled brest-plate which you weare
That th'eyes of busy fooles may be stopt there:
Unlace your selfe, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now 'tis your bed time.
Off with that happy buske, whom I envye
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gownes going off, such beautious state reveales
As when from flow'ry meades th'hills shadow steales.
Off with that wyrie coronet and showe
The hairy dyadem which on you doth growe.
Off with those shoes: and then softly tread
In this loves hallow'd temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heavens Angels us'd to bee
Receiv'd by men; Thou Angel bring'st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we eas'ly know
By this these Angels from an evill sprite:
They set our haires, but these the flesh upright.

Licence my roving hands, and let them goe
Behind, before, above, between, below.
O my America, my new found lande,
My kingdome, safeliest when with one man man'd,
My myne of precious stones, my Empiree,
How blest am I in this discovering thee.
To enter in these bonds is to be free,
Then where my hand is set my seal shall be.

Full nakedness, all joyes are due to thee.
As soules unbodied, bodies uncloth'd must bee,
To taste whole joyes. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in mens viewes,
That when a fooles eye lighteth on a gem
His earthly soule may covet theirs not them.
Like pictures, or like bookes gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus arraid;
Themselves are mystique bookes, which only wee
Whom their imputed grace will dignify
Must see reveal'd. Then since that I may knowe,
As liberally as to a midwife showe
Thy selfe; cast all, yea this white linnen hence.
Here is no pennance, much less innocence.

To teach thee, I am naked first: Why than,
What need'st thou have more covering than a man.

Ok - not that I have anything against porn. It has saved me from many a calamity. However, it's not really in the spirit of the thread. Hey - I started it, it's my ball. So to speak.

From Stephen Crane, 1871 - 1900

Do not weep, maiden for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands towards the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them.
Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom -
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift blazed the flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Its Christmas Day All Is Secure[u]

Twas The Night Before Christmas
He Lived All Alone
In A One Bedroom House Made Of Plaster And Stone
I Had Come Down The Chimney With Presents To Give
And To See Just Who In This Home Did Live

I Looked All About A Strange Sight I Did See
No Tinsel No Presents Not Even A Tree
No Stocking By The Mantle Just Boots Filled With Sand
On The Wall Hung Pictures Of Far Distant Lands
With Medals And Badges Awards Of All Kinds
A Sober Thought Came Through My Mind

For This House Was Different It Was Dark And Dreary
I Found The Home Of A Soldier Once I Could See Clearly
The Soldier Lay Sleeping Silent Alone
Curled Up On The Floor In This One Bedroom Home

The Face Was So Gentle The Room In Such Disorder
Not How I Pictured A Lone British Soldier
Was This The Hero Of Whom I'd Just Read
Curled Up On A Poncho The Floor For A Bed

I Realised The Families That I Saw This Night
Owed Their Lives To These Soldiers Who Were Willing To Fight
Soon Round The World The Children Would Play
And Grownups Would Celebrate A Bright Christmas Day

They All Enjoy Freedom Each Month Of The Year
Because Of The Soldiers Like The One Lying Here
I Couldn't Help Wonder How Many Alone
On A Cold Christmas Eve In A Land Far From Home

The Very Though Brought A Tear To My Eye
I Dropped To My Knees And Started To Cry
The Soldier Awakened And I Heard A Rough Voice
'Santa Don't Cry This Life Is My Choice
I Fight For Freedom I Don't Ask For More
My Life Is My God, My Country. My Corps'

The Soldier Rolled Over And Drifted To Sleep
I Couldn't Control It I Continued To Weep

I Kept Watch For Hours So Silent And Still
And We Both Sat And Shivered From The Cold Nights Chill
I Didn't Want To Leave On That Cold Dark Night
This Guardian Of Honour So Willing To Fight

Then The Soldier Rolled Over With A Voice Soft And Pure
Whispered 'Carry On Santa Its Christmas Day All Is Secure'
One Look At My Watch And I Knew He Was Right
'Merry Christmas My Friend And To All A Good Night'

This Poem Was Written By A Peace Keeping Soldier Stationed Overseas

The street was still, the crowds had gone and the bar was closed for the night.
When out from his hole crept a little grey mouse and sat in the pale moonlight
He supped up the liquor from the bar room floor and back on his haunches he sat
All night long they could hear him roar.....
"BRING ON THE GODDAMMED CAT"

To continue on that lighter note, and in the spirit of Christmas, here's a vaguely Dickensian ditty which will, I'm sure, be familiar to many:

The moon shone on the village pump
It shone on Little Nell
Was she waiting for her true love?
Was she ... who can tell?

She was waiting there to sell her wares
At seven and six a time
And, if you find you're interested,
Pray listen to this rhyme.

From out the night a man appeared
The captain of a lugger
He wasn't fit to shovel ... coal
The dirty rotten ... captain.

He laid poor Nell upon the ground
Which you'll agree's unlawful
He stuck two fingers up her ... nose
She couldn't smell; 'twas awful.

He said to Nell "I'll marry you
And send you letters and parcels"
But did she get her seven and six?
Did she ******* *********

(Have forgotten at least two stanzas, so any additions most welcome.)

Lots of good stuff here. Interestingly, I find Americans not much interested in poetry. Not sure why that is.
Anyway, here is one by a master:

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
~Dylan Thomas

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 their 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.

And another small masterpiece by Yeats:

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.