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the poetry thread


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don't know if it'll catch on, but thought I'd try a little poetry

nice easy one to start, a bit of Larkin

Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

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 **** 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.

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Genius. OK, here's one of my own. It's better read out loud, but I'll share anyway....

When you speak my name you turn,

Winter into spring,

The shadow lifts, the curtain draws on every precious thing,

That procured me once before which turns to dust and pallid light,

Angels then might sing.

Yet as I behold the beauty viced by your within,

I gaze upon thine eyes and wonder where they do begin.

I'm humbled by your charm,

Your grace,

Till slowly, death sets in.

As the serpent weaves its tail,

Around my nubile horn,

We begin to scream and wail,

The curtains have been torn!

An eerie silence falls as we prance upon the dark,

Torrid waves break and shatter as the ripping leaves its mark,

Stolen from your charm,

Your grace,

My hidden hound begins to bark.

Hobbled by your silence as I drift on your exhale,

Yet fevered words should not protect against the bruising hail.

A heartless venture does begin,

Thoughts enslaved,

I construct my sturdy gaol.

In which I sleep for one thousand years,

All at once I am awake,

Moments defaced by un-muted tears,

Haunted by the river,

Scorched earth begins to quake and rattle as the demon rides to the fore,

So I punch and scream and RIP until your beauty shines no more,

I destroy the very foundation on which my heart had come to explore.

And all at once I am alone,

Silence reigns as I withdraw.

I think my love I found my low,

Behind my prison door.

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Kung Fu International - John Cooper Clarke

Outside the take-away, Saturday night

a bald adolescent, asks me out for a fight

He was no bigger than a two-penny fart

he was a deft exponent of the martial art

He gave me three warnings:

Trod on me toes, stuck his fingers in my eyes

and kicked me in the nose

A rabbit punch made me eyes explode

My head went dead, I fell in the road

I pleaded for mercy

I wriggled on the ground

he kicked me in the balls

and said something profound

Gave my face the millimetre tread

Stole me chop suey and left me for dead

Through rivers of blood and splintered bones

I crawled half a mile to the public telephone

pulled the corpse out the call box, held back the bile

and with a broken index finger, I proceeded to dial

I couldn’t get an ambulance

the phone was screwed

The receiver fell in half

it had been kung fu’d

A black belt karate cop opened up the door

demanding information about the stiff on the floor

he looked like an extra from Yang Shang Po

he said “What’s all this then

ah so, ah so, ah so.”

he wore a bamboo mask

he was gen’ned on zen

He finished his devotions and he beat me up again

Thanks to that embryonic Bruce Lee

I’m a shadow of the person that I used to be

I can’t go back to Salford

the cops have got me marked

Enter the Dragon

Exit Johnny Clarke

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poetry 'ftw'.

i like that, mr doug. for someone who listens to mika, i'm impressed ;).

Cheers!

Latest one....

Raging for security of a twisted metal bond,

One that won't be rusted in my vile putrid pond

That which I fall in to when I'm taken from this perch

By cruelest fate bestowed upon as demons start their lurch

They're after this soul I've sold along by chance a million times

The very same I scream out for once I've blurred the lines

Behind my beaten curtain I wail towards repent

Realise I can't recover that which I have lent

Then when I arise to find it never went away

Only hidden by a heart so riddled with decay

Talk becomes so cheap for one now so self assured

That in my low I lie in wait with a soul I can't afford

(Chicks dig poetry)

:winkold:

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great stuff, truly impressive self penned stuff. I think I'll keep working on mine having seen that!

I did read it out loud, and yes, that does work really well.

As for Mr Cooper Clarke, is he making something of a comeback? He's been on a couple of radio stations lately and seems to be on good form.

I can't believe I'm alone in a hotel room and reading poetry! I should be half blind with a strained wrist by now.

Slough by John Betjeman

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!

It isn't fit for humans now,

There isn't grass to graze a cow.

Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens

Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,

Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,

Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town—

A house for ninety-seven down

And once a week a half a crown

For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin

Who'll always cheat and always win,

Who washes his repulsive skin

In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak

And smash his hands so used to stroke

And stop his boring dirty joke

And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add

The profits of the stinking cad;

It's not their fault that they are mad,

They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know

The birdsong from the radio,

It's not their fault they often go

To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars

In various bogus-Tudor bars

And daren't look up and see the stars

But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care

Their wives frizz out peroxide hair

And dry it in synthetic air

And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough

To get it ready for the plough.

The cabbages are coming now;

The earth exhales.

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great stuff, truly impressive self penned stuff. I think I'll keep working on mine having seen that!

I did read it out loud, and yes, that does work really well.

Thank you. I've only recently ventured into "classical" writing. Here's one of my early, more light (or dark depending on how you look at it) poems for shits and giggles and I'm off. I'll certainly keep reading though. Thanks for this.

In my cave

The animals all dance

To the sight of me

in my pink underpants

The giraffe does a jig

To the sound of The Smith's

We've got rum and coca cola

And all kinds of crisps

The cat and the beaver

Swapping dirty jokes

In the corner by the fire

The Elephant tokes

Fits of laughter

Dancing in rows

I hope nobody falls

On the pussy cats toes

I've just been sick

On a disgruntled fox

When the Toad arrives

With more jack in a box

Taking lines from a stripper

Happens to be a mouse

I don't really know her

How did she get in my house?

Monkey on the mic

Otter body pops

Sheep skanking around

In woolen fitted tops

The Universal's on

Near the end of the night

Hopefully this one

Won't end in a fight

In my cave

The animals collapse

To the sight of me

out of my pink underpants.

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Cheers. I find my style goes from desperately trying not to be Ted Hughes, to desperately trying not to be any number of post-70s poets from my neck of the woods. After a while, though, you come to realise everyone owes something to their predecessors.

Pretentiousness aside, poetry is great to write, and even better to read.

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That's not pretentious. Unless you're showing off just for the hell of it ;-)

On a slightly less serious note when I say chicks dig it that's a **** understatement. Since I started writing I've slept with 3 women. All within an hour of hearing one of my works. I read them "When you speak my name...." and BAM, covered in lady jizz before The Bard turns in his grave. Brilliant.

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**** YOU, I WAS JUST ABOUT TO POST THAT GARETH!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!

It's the only poetry I know :cry:

I wouldn't say "only"; you've also got an angry, contextual doggerel-vibe going on in the above. :thumb:

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If moths had eyes, would they be happier?

How do they know they're not dead?

Cavemen hunting for food, but not before they style the hair on their head

What would last longer in dinosaur times?

A blind man didn't stand a chance, not with all them rocks about

I'd rather be a blind moth

Karl Pilkington

Poetry genius

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I wont post it as im sure youve all heard it a thousand times or at least the final lines, but currently im analysing 'IF' by Rudyard Kipling with my 12 year old korean kids. They love it and no matter how many times I hear it, it always moves me.

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