It's National Poetry Week (and Thu 06 Oct is National Poetry Day).

You may have noticed my current signature is a short poem by the late American poet e e cummings. He had a quirky way of writing poems, as exemplified in the following poem.......


she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)


Whose your favourite poet? Let's celebrate National Poetry Week with some more poems on the forum!

It may well be
national poetry week
but I will still
write crap verse.

Cool, I had no idea it was poetry week.

This is one of my favourite poems, by Alice Walker.

She said:

She said: "When I was with him,
I used to dream of them together.
Making love to me, he was
making love to her.
That image made me come
every time."

A woman lies alone
outside our door.
I know she dreams us
making love;
you inside me,
her lips on my breasts.

Taken from "Horses Make a Landscape Look More Beautiful." 1979

Blimey, redrobbo, that's a bit heavy.

I tell you what though - it's about time there was another Woodeats meet. One you could get to!

Sounds like you could do with a good drink!

Oy redrobbo, this Is a family forum you know.....:hihi:
Enjoyed that, actually :)

I have no idea what you mean Draggletail! It was a poem about a new car after all......er, wasn't it? :blush:

Well, let's try a bit of poetry by Will Shakespeare......

Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

Or what about a sonnet by the late American poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay -

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed...

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Originally posted by redrobbo
[B]I have no idea what you mean Draggletail! It was a poem about a new car after all......er, wasn't it? :blush:


Mmmm, well..... Suppose it could be...... :suspect:

Anyway, I was trying to remember 'poetry' I wrote in the early eighties, to contribute. Sadly I chucked it all out in a very welcome 'new life' start years ago, along with my screen prints and angst type writings......

Mrs Draggle only a few days ago asked if I still had the poems.... I wish I had, and I find I can't remember them in totality. Hope It's just the Staropramen and not just the memory :suspect:

Lesson: DO NOT chuck out the stuff you have kept for years just because you have kept it for years. Hoard it for longer! Buy a shed to keep it in or something! ;)

In the absence of your own poetry Draggletail - I shall return to e e cummings......... enjoy!


nobody loses all the time

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added

my Uncle Sol's farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who'd given my Unde Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scrumptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and

i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol

and started a worm farm)

Hey mr Redrobbo. I like your Cummings fixation :D
Just to widen the authorship (and no doubt quality) of the poems on this thread, I have decided to contribute an original.

Here is a poem from my Aunty Dorothy (God rest her soul):



Poor little fly on the wall
Ain't got no clothes on at all
No little skirt
And no little shirt
Poor little fly on the wall.





I thank you!:D

Camping out near Boggabri, the sun was setting fast
As we sat around a camp fire telling yarns about the past
Jack McHugh an old bush mate had died the previous year
And we reminisced and joked about the times we'd shared a beer
Jacko a gold prospector, had ne'er had a family or home
But he'd sworn one day to settle down "Never more to roam"
Poor Jacko had never struck it rich- he died out in the bush
We found him six weeks later and buried him in a rush
Now, we'd met up for a camp out- what you might call a wake
There were six of us old diggers met up for old times sake
Jock said 'Here's a toast to Jacko may he rest in peace'
'I dunno 'bout that' I said 'he swore one day to lease a small
place hereabouts- so I don't think he'll rest'
'Course he will' said Jumbo who was wearing Jacko's vest
"The Judge" spoke up quite ponderously- his proper name was Russ
'We should build a 'ome for Jacko out 'ere in the bush'
We laughed and said 'You're joking' I'm not ya know' he said
'We should build a bush 'ut out 'ere in honour of the dead'
A few more tinnies later when we'd thrashed the idea out
We all chucked in for wood and nails and tin to make it stout
We all had tools in our utes - that week we worked like mad
To build a home for Jacko (which turned out not too bad)
With shadecloth for the windows and canvas for a door
A wooden bench to rest on and a croc skin on the floor
That night I dreamt of Jacko standing ouside Peter's Gate
He shhok his head smiled and said 'Thanks goodonya mates'
c 1996 M Robinson

rabbit's eye, full of pus,
all the work
of scientific us.

Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.
Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.
As soon as a mist ache is maid It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite Its rare lea ever wrong.
Eye have run this poem threw it I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew

a little poem for the spelling challenged amongst us.

Hey diddle-diddle
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed to see such fun
And the dish ran away with the spoon


a little poem for the age challenged amongst us - how long ago did you memorise this ? ;)

Well, Redrobbo, you have certainly attempted to raise the tone of the Forum.
By the way, the Edna St Vincent Millay is one of my favourite poems of all time.
Another favourite is Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day and the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gulls way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long tricks over.

Not just a poem but a prayer!

The Beer Prayer

Our lager,
Which art in barrels,
Hallowed be thy drink.
For thy will be drunk,
(and I will be drunk),
At home as in the tavern.
Give us this day our foamy head,
And forgive us our spillages,
As we forgive those who spill against us.
And lead us not to incarceration,
But deliver us from hangovers.
For thine is the Pislner, The Lager and The Ale.
Forever and ever,
Barmen.

*burp* *hic*

:hihi:

:clap: :clap: :clap: :clap: :clap: :clap:

We liked that one thanks Sheish!

I'm reposting this:

Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific!
In vain do I ponder thy nature specific--
Precariously poised in the ether capacious,
Closely resembling a gem carbonaceous;
Scintillate, scintillate, globule vivific,
In vain do I ponder thy nature specific!

Sunset Station

Sitting all alone in a station - far away from here...
Only my songs for solace - my friends they dissapear...
Sitting all alone in a station - far away from here...
Only my songs for solace - everything becomes clear...

Waiting for the train - bound for my future...
I don't know the track it's taking - I'm not even sure if it's a mistake I'm making - but I know that I'll get there...

© 2002 MWMS