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Off Topic National Poetry Day

Discussion in 'Hull City' started by Chazz Rheinhold, Sep 28, 2017.

  1. Chazz Rheinhold

    Chazz Rheinhold Well-Known Member

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    its today. A classic this one.

    The Charge of the Light Brigade
    BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
    I
    Half a league, half a league,
    Half a league onward,
    All in the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.
    “Forward, the Light Brigade!
    Charge for the guns!” he said.
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    II
    “Forward, the Light Brigade!”
    Was there a man dismayed?
    Not though the soldier knew
    Someone had blundered.
    Theirs not to make reply,
    Theirs not to reason why,
    Theirs but to do and die.
    Into the valley of Death
    Rode the six hundred.

    III
    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon in front of them
    Volleyed and thundered;
    Stormed at with shot and shell,
    Boldly they rode and well,
    Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of hell
    Rode the six hundred.

    IV
    Flashed all their sabres bare,
    Flashed as they turned in air
    Sabring the gunners there,
    Charging an army, while
    All the world wondered.
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
    Right through the line they broke;
    Cossack and Russian
    Reeled from the sabre stroke
    Shattered and sundered.
    Then they rode back, but not
    Not the six hundred.

    V
    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon behind them
    Volleyed and thundered;
    Stormed at with shot and shell,
    While horse and hero fell.
    They that had fought so well
    Came through the jaws of Death,
    Back from the mouth of hell,
    All that was left of them,
    Left of six hundred.

    VI
    When can their glory fade?
    O the wild charge they made!
    All the world wondered.
    Honour the charge they made!
    Honour the Light Brigade,
    Noble six hundred!
     
    #1
  2. Arnold_Lane_HCFC

    Arnold_Lane_HCFC Well-Known Member

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    I once went to York,
    And ate some pork,
    With a knife and fork.
    I came back to Hull,
    But didn't eat anything because I was full.
     
    #2
  3. Steven Toast

    Steven Toast Well-Known Member

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    My favourite, The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe:

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
    Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
    This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
    Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
    Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
    ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
    Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
    Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
    But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
    Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
    Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
    “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
    Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted—nevermore!
     
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  4. Chazz Rheinhold

    Chazz Rheinhold Well-Known Member

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    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 gas-shells dropping softly 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.
     
    #4
  5. Chazz Rheinhold

    Chazz Rheinhold Well-Known Member

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    Wake: the silver dusk returning
    Up the beach of darkness brims,
    And the ship of sunrise burning
    Strands upon the eastern rims.


    Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
    Trampled to the floor it spanned,
    And the tent of night in tatters
    Straws the sky-pavilioned land.


    Up, lad, up, ’tis late for lying:
    Hear the drums of morning play;
    Hark, the empty highways crying
    ‘Who’ll beyond the hills away?’


    Towns and countries woo together,
    Forelands beacon, belfries call;
    Never lad that trod on leather
    Lived to feast his heart with all.


    Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
    Sunlit pallets never thrive;
    Morns abed and daylight slumber
    Were not meant for man alive.


    Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;
    Breath’s a ware that will not keep.
    Up, lad: when the journey’s over
    There’ll be time enough to sleep.
     
    #5
  6. GEvans76

    GEvans76 Well-Known Member

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    WALT WHITMAN TO A STRANGER


    Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
    You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)
    I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
    All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
    You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me, 5
    I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,
    You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
    I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,
    I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
    I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
     
    #6
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  7. FLG

    FLG Well-Known Member

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    There are holes in the sky,
    where the rain gets in.
    But they're ever so small,
    that's why rain is thin.

    Spike Milligan
     
    #7
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  8. GEvans76

    GEvans76 Well-Known Member

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    Charles Bukowski

    Bluebird


    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I'm not going
    to let anybody see
    you.
    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the whores and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    he's
    in there.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    works?
    you want to blow my book sales in
    Europe?
    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody's asleep.
    I say, I know that you're there,
    so don't be
    sad.
    then I put him back,
    but he's singing a little
    in there, I haven't quite let him
    die
    and we sleep together like
    that
    with our
    secret pact
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do
    you?
     
    #8
  9. DMD

    DMD Eh?
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    I woke early one morning,

    The earth lay cool and still

    When suddenly a tiny bird

    Perched on my window sill.

    He sang a song so lovely

    So carefree and so gay,

    That slowly all my troubles

    Began to slip away.

    He sang of far off places

    Of laughter and of fun,

    It seemed his very trilling,

    brought up the morning sun.

    I stirred beneath the covers

    Crept slowly out of bed,

    Then gently shut the window

    And crushed his ****ing head.

    I'm not a morning person.
     
    #9
  10. DMD

    DMD Eh?
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    • Leisure

      What is this life if, full of care,
      We have no time to stand and stare.

      No time to stand beneath the boughs
      And stare as long as sheep or cows.

      No time to see, when woods we pass,
      Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

      No time to see, in broad daylight,
      Streams full of stars like skies at night.

      No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
      And watch her feet, how they can dance.

      No time to wait till her mouth can
      Enrich that smile her eyes began.

      A poor life this if, full of care,
      We have no time to stand and stare.
     
    #10
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  11. Chazz Rheinhold

    Chazz Rheinhold Well-Known Member

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    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.
     
    #11
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  12. Arnold_Lane_HCFC

    Arnold_Lane_HCFC Well-Known Member

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    Spike Milligan helped me with my poem above.

    I originally put spoon instead of fork.

    Damn, he's good.
     
    #12
  13. dennisboothstash

    dennisboothstash Well-Known Member

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  14. Chazz Rheinhold

    Chazz Rheinhold Well-Known Member

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    Try as he will, no man breaks wholly loose
    From his first love, no matter who she be.
    Oh, was there ever sailor free to choose,
    That didn't settle somewhere near the sea?

    Myself, it don't excite me nor amuse
    To watch a pack o' shipping on the sea;
    But I can understand my neighbour's views
    From certain things which have occured to me.

    Men must keep touch with things they used to use
    To earn their living, even when they are free;
    And so come back upon the least excuse --
    Same as the sailor settled near the sea.

    He knows he's never going on no cruise --
    He knows he's done and finished with the sea;
    And yet he likes to feel she's there to use --
    If he should ask her -- as she used to be.

    Even though she cost him all he had to lose,
    Even though she made him sick to hear or see,
    Still, what she left of him will mostly choose
    Her skirts to sit by. How comes such to be?

    Parsons in pulpits, tax-payers in pews,
    Kings on your thrones, you know as well as me,
    We've only one virginity to lose,
    And where we lost it there our hearts will be!
     
    #14
  15. spesupersydera

    spesupersydera Well-Known Member

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    NEVER MIND

    The war was lost
    The treaty signed
    I was not caught
    I crossed the line

    I had to leave
    My life behind
    I had a name
    But never mind

    Your victory
    Was so complete
    That some among you
    Thought to keep

    A record of
    Our little lives
    The clothes we wore
    Our pots our knives

    The games of luck
    Our soldiers played
    The stones we cut
    The songs we made

    Our law of peace
    Which understands
    A husband leads
    A wife commands

    And all of this
    Expressions of
    The High Indifference
    Some call Love

    The High Indifference
    Some call Fate
    But we had Names
    More intimate

    Names so deep
    and Names so true
    They're lost to me
    And dead to you

    There is no need
    That this survive
    There's truth that lives
    And truth that dies

    There's truth that lives
    And truth that dies
    I don't know which
    So never mind

    I could not kill
    The way you kill
    I could not hate
    I tried I failed

    No man can see
    The vast design
    Or who will be
    Last of his kind

    The story's told
    With facts and lies
    You own the world
    So never mind
     
    #15
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  16. Ron Burguvdy

    Ron Burguvdy Well-Known Member

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    The Hull Cityer

    BY BILLIAM W LAKE

    Hull City, 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 water'd heaven with their tears:
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Hull City burning bright,
    In the forests of the night:
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
     
    #16
  17. spesupersydera

    spesupersydera Well-Known Member

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    Remember this from days at Trinity House - even to a 14/15 year old scrote the words were very evocative. Couldn't remember if it was five or six poems he had published before he died, shame on me had to Wiki it to find it was five.
     
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  18. Stan The Man

    Stan The Man Well-Known Member

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    Roses are red
    Violets are blue
    Assem's a ****
    And Ehab is too
     
    #18
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  19. Chazz Rheinhold

    Chazz Rheinhold Well-Known Member

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    They **** you up, your mum and dad.
    They may not mean to, but they do.
    They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

    But they were ****ed up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,
    Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

    Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
    Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.
     
    #19
  20. Skidby Plastic

    Skidby Plastic Well-Known Member

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    BEATTIE IS THREE (Adrian Mitchell, 1975)

    At the top of the stairs
    I ask for her hand. O.K.
    She gives it to me.
    How her fist fits my palm,
    A bunch of consolation.
    We take our time
    Down the steep carpetway
    As I wish silently
    That the stairs were endless.
     
    #20
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