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  • Poetry Corner

    I did a search because i thought that someone must have done this befor me, but since its all war and no poems in TG i will try to bring some culture here.

    The point of this topic is to spread the better poetry around. If you hear, read or get affected by some poems post them here.

    I don't know if this thread will be popular but i would like it to be serious, so no limericks please.

    I will start with a great poem i heard first in the Movie: Bounce: Behind the Velvet Rope
    where it comes in the end read by a bouncer.

    "The Men That Donít Fit In" a poem by Robert Service

    ĒThereís a race of men that donít fit in,
    A race that canít stay still;
    So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
    And they roam the world at will.
    They range the field and they rove the flood,
    And they climb the mountainís crest;
    Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
    And they donít know how to rest.

    If they just went straight they might go far;
    They are strong and brave and true;
    But theyíre always tired of the things that are,
    And they want the strange and new.
    They say: ĒCould I find my proper groove,
    What a deep mark I would make!Ē
    So they chop and change, and each fresh move
    Is only a fresh mistake.

    And each forgets, as he strips and runs
    With a brilliant, fitful pace,
    Itís the steady, quiet, plodding ones
    Who win in the lifelong race.
    And each forgets that his youth has fled,
    Forgets that his prime is past,
    Till he stands one day, with a hope thatís dead,
    In the glare of the truth at last.

    He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
    He has just done things by half.
    Lifeís been a jolly good joke on him,
    And now is the time to laugh.
    Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
    He was never meant to win;
    Heís a rolling stone, and itís bred in the bone;
    Heís a man who wonít fit in.Ē

    "I'm gonna shove the lawbook somewhere where the sun don't shine on him.
    Then he can truly say that he knows how it feels when the laws are used effectively"

  • #2
    Re: Poetry Corner

    "Flowers" by WENDY COPE

    Some men never think of it.
    You did. You'd come along
    And say you'd nearly brought me flowers
    But something had gone wrong.

    The shop was closed. Or you had doubts -
    The sort that minds like ours
    Dream up incessantly. You thought
    I might not want your flowers.

    It made me smile and hug you then.
    Now I can only smile.
    But, Look, the flowers you nearly brought
    Have lasted all this while.


    • #3
      Re: Poetry Corner

      can we post ones we wrote ourselves?

      -F- Concr3te: "Brutus, goddammit, shut up!"


      • #4
        Re: Poetry Corner

        When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
        'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
        An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
        Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
        Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
        Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
        Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
        So-oldier _of_ the Queen!

        Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
        You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
        An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
        A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
        Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

        First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
        For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
        Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
        An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
        Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

        When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
        Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
        For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
        A' it crumples the young British soldier.
        Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

        But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
        You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
        If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
        An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
        Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

        If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
        Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
        Be handy and civil, and then you will find
        That it's beer for the young British soldier.
        Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

        Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
        A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
        For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
        Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
        'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

        If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
        To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
        Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
        An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
        Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

        When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
        Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
        Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
        And march to your front like a soldier.
        Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

        When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
        Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
        She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
        An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
        Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

        When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
        The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
        Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
        For noise never startles the soldier.
        Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

        If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
        Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
        So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
        And wait for supports like a soldier.
        Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

        When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
        And the women come out to cut up what remains,
        Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
        An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
        Go, go, go like a soldier,
        Go, go, go like a soldier,
        Go, go, go like a soldier,
        So-oldier _of_ the Queen!

        -- Rudyard Kipling
        or this one-

        The soldier stood and faced God,

        Which must always come to pass,

        He hoped his shoes were shining,

        Just as brightly as his brass.

        "Step forward now, you soldier,

        How shall I deal with you?

        Have you always turned the other cheek?

        To My Church have you been true?"

        The soldier squared his shoulders and

        said, "No, Lord, I guess I ain't,

        Because those of us who carry guns,

        Can't always be a saint.

        I've had to work most Sundays,

        And at times my talk was tough,

        And sometimes I've been violent,

        Because the world is awfully rough.

        But, I never took a penny

        That wasn't mine to keep...

        Though I worked a lot of overtime

        When the bills got just too steep,

        And I never passed a cry for help,

        Though at times I shook with fear,

        And sometimes, God forgive me,

        I've wept unmanly tears.

        I know I don't deserve a place

        Among the people here,

        They never wanted me around,

        Except to calm their fears.

        If you've a place for me here, Lord,

        It needn't be so grand,

        I've never expected, or had much,

        But if you don't, I'll understand."

        There was a silence all around the throne,

        Where the saints had often trod,

        As the soldier waited quietly,

        For the judgment of his God.

        "Step forward now, you soldier,

        You've borne your burdens well,

        Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,

        You've done your time in hell.


        • #5
          Re: Poetry Corner

          A poem I like:

          Poetry, by Kit Wright

          When they say
          that every day
          men die miserably without it:
          I doubt it.

          I have known several men and women
          replete with the stuff
          who died quite miserably

          And to hear of the human race's antennae!
          Then I
          Wonder what the human race
          They have in mind.
          One of the poets I most admire
          Is blind,
          For instance, you wouldn't trust him
          To lead you to the gents;
          Let alone through the future tense!

          And unacknowledged legislators!
          How's that for insane afflatus?
          Not oe I've met
          is the sort of bore
          to wish to draft a law.

          No, I like what ramped me
          in my youth:
          Tune, argument,
          Colour, Truth

          Poems I wrote:

          Peace out, man!

          Come over here,man,
          have a seat on this grass here.
          Oh man, look at the grass, man,
          it's so beautiful, man. It's so
          Oh, well, man, I'm all for it,
          peace, that is.
          Two fingers fly by.
          A world where everyone is equal.
          No matter their
          hair cut,
          Regardless of
          We shall all be grey,
          with no black or white.

          Gun. (this one was published :D)

          Stacked neatly in a crate,
          We await our purpose:
          To kill- it's not so bad.

          The light from above
          Falls upon us
          As you release us from our shackles.

          The bonds are broken
          Into noises of chaos
          And slaughter, we go.

          We are fed with
          Searing powder and
          Unthinking Metal.

          They growl to us,
          "Kill, kill, kill!"
          They cry to be set loose.

          We watch these death bringers
          With unseeing eyes
          Cold, calculating.

          You raise us up,
          Adjust our sites
          check us over.

          You wouldn't want to hurt us now,
          Would you?
          For we hold back the tide.

          We are your life,
          Protection, your pride,
          Your soul.

          You raise us up,
          Cushion us against
          Your breast.

          And pull...

          -F- Concr3te: "Brutus, goddammit, shut up!"


          • #6
            Re: Poetry Corner

            Originally posted by HBrutusH View Post
            can we post ones we wrote ourselves?
            I dont see why not.

            "I'm gonna shove the lawbook somewhere where the sun don't shine on him.
            Then he can truly say that he knows how it feels when the laws are used effectively"


            • #7
              Re: Poetry Corner

              It would be too long to post, but the only poem that's really ever struck me, hard, was Eliot's "The Waste Land". I highly, highly recommend it.


              • #8
                Re: Poetry Corner


                -F- Concr3te: "Brutus, goddammit, shut up!"


                • #9
                  Re: Poetry Corner

                  Cap of drooping snow
                  Skin of ice in gorge below
                  Old Man Pine, bent low.

                  -Fukinagashi ;)

                  Living proof that "Teamplay ensmartens the idiotest of us!"


                  | | | | |


                  • #10
                    Re: Poetry Corner

                    This is one I know by heart because I once did an illustrated version of it for a sixth grade project. Yeah, my teacher loved me for it :)

                    The Company One Keeps

                    One night in late October,
                    When I was far from sober,
                    Returning with my load with manly pride,
                    My poor feet began to stutter,
                    So I lay down in the gutter,
                    And a pig came near and lay down by my side;
                    Then we sang "It's all fair weather when good fellows get together",
                    Till a lady passing by was heard to say:
                    "You can tell a man who boozes,
                    By the company he chooses",
                    And the pig got up and slowly walked away.

                    I like this one as well. My father read it to me when I was little.

                    The Touch of the Master's Hand
                    Myra Brooks Welch

                    'Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
                    Thought it sacredly worth his while
                    To waste much time on the old violin,
                    But held it up with a smile:
                    "What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
                    "Who'll start the bidding for me?"
                    "A dollar, a dollar"; then "Two!" "Only two?
                    Two dollars, and who'll make it three?

                    Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
                    Going for three....." But no,
                    From the back of the room, a gray-haired man
                    Came forward and picked up the bow;
                    Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
                    And tightening the loose string
                    He played a melody pure and sweet
                    As a caroling angel sings.

                    The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
                    With a voice that was quiet and low,
                    Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?"
                    And he held it up with the bow.
                    "A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
                    Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
                    Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
                    And going, and going," said he.
                    The people cheered, but some of the cried,
                    We do not quite understand
                    What changed its worth." Swift came the reply:
                    "The touch of a master's hand."

                    And many a man with life out of tune,
                    And battered and scarred with sin,
                    Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
                    Much like the old violin.
                    A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine;
                    A game--and he travels on.
                    He is "going once, and "going" twice,
                    He's "going" and almost "gone."
                    But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
                    Never can quite understand
                    The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
                    By the touch of the Master's hand.
                    ~~ Veritas simplex oratio est ~~
                    No matter how far a wizard goes, he will always come back for his hat. --T. Pratchett

                    <---- You know you're getting old when you rely on your forum meta-data to remind you how old you are.


                    • #11
                      Re: Poetry Corner

                      I like so many poets it's hard to pick a depends on my mood and the mood of the day I suppose. I profess a favoritism to American poets. Here are 3 of my favorites. --

                      by Carl Sandburg

                      HOG Butcher for the World,
                      Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
                      Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
                      Stormy, husky, brawling,
                      City of the Big Shoulders:

                      They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
                      have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
                      luring the farm boys.
                      And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
                      is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
                      kill again.
                      And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
                      faces of women and children I have seen the marks
                      of wanton hunger.
                      And having answered so I turn once more to those who
                      sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
                      and say to them:
                      Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
                      so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
                      Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
                      job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
                      little soft cities;

                      Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
                      as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
                      Building, breaking, rebuilding,
                      Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
                      white teeth,
                      Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
                      man laughs,
                      Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
                      never lost a battle,
                      Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
                      and under his ribs the heart of the people,
                      Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
                      Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
                      Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
                      Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

                      I, Too, Sing America
                      by Langston Hughes

                      I, too, sing America.

                      I am the darker brother.

                      They send me to eat in the kitchen

                      When company comes,

                      But I laugh,

                      And eat well,

                      And grow strong.


                      I'll be at the table

                      When company comes.

                      Nobody'll dare

                      Say to me,

                      "Eat in the kitchen,"



                      They'll see how beautiful I am

                      And be ashamed--

                      I, too, am America.
                      by Robert Frost

                      When I see birches bend to left and right
                      Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
                      I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
                      But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
                      Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
                      Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
                      After a rain. They click upon themselves
                      As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
                      As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
                      Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
                      Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
                      Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
                      You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
                      They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
                      And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
                      So low for long, they never right themselves:
                      You may see their trunks arching in the woods
                      Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
                      Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
                      Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
                      But I was going to say when Truth broke in
                      With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
                      I should prefer to have some boy bend them
                      As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
                      Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
                      Whose only play was what he found himself,
                      Summer or winter, and could play alone.
                      One by one he subdued his father's trees
                      By riding them down over and over again
                      Until he took the stiffness out of them,
                      And not one but hung limp, not one was left
                      For him to conquer. He learned all there was
                      To learn about not launching out too soon
                      And so not carrying the tree away
                      Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
                      To the top branches, climbing carefully
                      With the same pains you use to fill a cup
                      Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
                      Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
                      Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
                      So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
                      And so I dream of going back to be.
                      It's when I'm weary of considerations,
                      And life is too much like a pathless wood
                      Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
                      Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
                      From a twig's having lashed across it open.
                      I'd like to get away from earth awhile
                      And then come back to it and begin over.
                      May no fate wilfully misunderstand me
                      And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
                      Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
                      I don't know where it's likely to go better.
                      I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~
                      And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
                      Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
                      But dipped its top and set me down again.
                      That would be good both going and coming back.
                      One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
                      ARMA Admin (retired)
                      Pathfinder-Spartan 5


                      • #12
                        Re: Poetry Corner


                        "I'm gonna shove the lawbook somewhere where the sun don't shine on him.
                        Then he can truly say that he knows how it feels when the laws are used effectively"


                        • #13
                          Re: Poetry Corner

                          by Edgar Allan Poe

                          Gaily bedight,
                          A gallant knight,
                          In sunshine and in shadow,
                          Had journeyed long,
                          Singing a song,
                          In search of Eldorado.
                          But he grew old-
                          This knight so bold-
                          And o'er his heart a shadow
                          Fell as he found
                          No spot of ground
                          That looked like Eldorado.
                          And, as his strength
                          Failed him at length,
                          He met a pilgrim shadow-
                          "Shadow," said he,
                          "Where can it be-
                          This land of Eldorado?"
                          "Over the Mountains
                          Of the Moon,
                          Down the Valley of the Shadow,
                          Ride, boldly ride,"
                          The shade replied-
                          "If you seek for Eldorado!"
                          Retired 6th DB


                          • #14
                            Re: Poetry Corner

                            it floats and falls around us
                            like all the innocence and wasted time
                            we steer into the unknown
                            silently and slowly

                            peering through the windows of memories
                            i find that i have risen
                            like the sun in your sky
                            just like you needed me to

                            every fiber resonates the chord
                            our congruence and conjunction
                            an orchestra in our souls
                            an exigent love like flames in the dark

                            listening to echoes of breathing
                            i wonder if you've risen
                            to meet me in the morning
                            so i can hold you again

                            the distance shows everywhere
                            like lines on an old womans face
                            feeling weathered and worn
                            mapping the passage of our time

                            walking alone in the fog
                            i know that we've risen
                            above and beyond the trials
                            that would have rather seen us fail
                            Yeah, I wrote it. I've written a lot of them, got over 30 published. I'm a nerd and a romantic, you all know this already. Shut up.


                            • #15
                              Re: Poetry Corner

                              Nothing Found

                              Heard but

                              The oceans




                              Of shells



                              Them in

                              Like sand



                              Rock to

                              By foam



                              And like




                              Etched in

                              Here, I




                              Written today

                              Living proof that "Teamplay ensmartens the idiotest of us!"


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