Poem of the day

rekamakovics · In the Long Grass

Poem of the day

Tango · In the Long Grass

http://www.geocities.com/mmemym/bits1/fal0042.htm

http://www.geocities.com/mmemym/bits1/fal0059.htm

they sort of flow into each other

Jules · The biggest Geldof fan in the world, bar none!

A friend sent me this when I was having a bad time a couple of years back. I'm having a bad time again, sadly she's no longer around, she died last year, but I still have the legacy of the poem:

SUCCESS (when we are weak we are strong)

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, scream, if you must but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he/she might have won had she/he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you can never tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

Tango · In the Long Grass

The British

Take some Picts, Celts and Silures
And let them settle,
Then overrun them with Roman conquerors.

Remove the Romans after approximately 400 years
Add lots of Norman French to some
Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Vikings, then stir vigorously.

Mix some hot Chileans, cool Jamaicans, Dominicans,
Trinidadians and Bajans with some Ethiopians, Chinese,
Vietnamese and Sudanese.

Then take a blend of Somalians, Sri Lankans, Nigerians
And Pakistanis,
Combine with some Guyanese
And turn up the heat.

Sprinkle some fresh Indians, Malaysians, Bosnians,
Iraqis and Bangladeshis together with some
Afghans, Spanish, Turkish, Kurdish, Japanese
And Palestinians
Then add to the melting pot.

Leave the ingredients to simmer.

As they mix and blend allow their languages to flourish
Binding them together with English.

Allow time to be cool.

Add some unity, understanding, and respect for the future,
Serve with justice
And enjoy.

Note: All the ingredients are equally important. Treating one ingredient better than another will leave a bitter unpleasant taste.

Warning: An unequal spread of justice will damage the people and cause pain. Give justice and equality to all.

Benjamin Zephaniah

rekamakovics · In the Long Grass

We were learning of it in school today.

Tragic and desribes really well what happened during the Second World War.

'Forced March'

You're crazy. You fall down, stand up and walk again,
your ankles and your knees move
but you start again as if you had wings.
The ditch calls you, but it's no use you're afraid to stay,
and if someone asks why, maybe you turn around and say
that a woman and a sane death a better death wait for you.
But you're crazy. For a long time
only the burned wind spins above the houses at home,
Walls lie on their backs, plum trees are broken
and the angry night is thick with fear.
Oh if I could believe that everything valuble
is not only inside me now that there's still home to go back to.
If only there were! And just as before bees drone peacefully
on the cool veranda, plum preserves turn cold
and over sleepy gardens quietly, the end of summer bathes in the
sun.
Among the leaves the fruit swing naked
and in front of the rust-brown hedge blond Fanny waits for me,
the morning writes slow shadows---
All this could happen The moon is so round today!
Don't walk past me, friend. Yell, and I'll stand up again!

-- Miklos Radnoti

Tango · In the Long Grass

not a poem but a lyric, but i still like it.

Brothers and sisters put this record down
Take my advice ('cause we are bad news)
We will leave you high and dry
It's not worth the hearing you'll lose

It's just past 8 and I'm feeling young and reckless
The ribbon on my wrist says, "Do not open before Christmas."

We're only liars, but we're the best (we're the best)
We're only good for the latest trend
We're only good cause you can have almost famous friends
Besides, we've got such good fashion sense

Brothers and sisters, yeah, put these words down
Into your notebook (spit lines like these)
We're friends when you're on your knees
Make them dance like we were shooting their feet

Jules · The biggest Geldof fan in the world, bar none!

I'm sorry to be morbid. But this was a poem written by my friend who sent the poem in my post above. It's called Friendship and as I've been thinking of her rather a lot recently and missing her I felt it appropriate:

You held my hand,
you allowed me to grow,
you gave me belief in myself,
more than you'll ever know

You were always there
in moments of unrest and trial,
soothing me with sound advice
and picking me up
to go another mile

You listened to me
a sponsor of my joy and wealth
you let me breath
find myself

You never took advantage
by drowning me or nailing me down,
rebuilding my confidence
with a personality so genuine and sound

You gave me something
neglected in me before
A chance to respect me and shine
an open door

I note your array of talents
strong, wised content and self-assured
forward thinking, intelligent
possessed of sharp wit
yet giving, generous, empathetic
and lots more

But, when all's said and done
simply to be yourself will suffice
A compliment, tribute to a worthy friend
and beautiful sister in Christ

To share the joys of eternal friendship
Reaped from the sowing of two little seeds,
both now enjoying cross-pollination
is it a true blessing from above indeed

Tango · In the Long Grass

This has been said so many times that I'm not sure if it matters
But we never stood a chance
And I'm not sure if it matters
If you are the shores, I am the waves begging for big moons
I’m mailing letters to addresses in a ghost town

I used to obsess over living,
Now I only obsess over you
Tell me you'd like boys like me better
In the dark lying on top of you
This has been said so many times that I'm not sure if it matters
I know this hurts, it was meant to

from day one I talked about getting out
But not forgetting about
How my worst fears are letting out
He said why put a new address
On the same old loneliness
When breathing just passes the time
Until we all just get old and die
Now talking's just a waste of breath
And living's just a waste of death
And why put a new address
On the same old loneliness
And this is you and me
And me and you
Until we've got nothing left

yeah depressing i know but i like it

rekamakovics · In the Long Grass

On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer
John Keats
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Tango · In the Long Grass

Missed

The sun in the heavens was beaming,
The breeze bore an odour of hay,
My flannels were spotless and gleaming,
My heart was unclouded and gay;
The ladies, all gaily apparelled,
Sat round looking on at the match,
In the tree-tops the dicky-birds carolled,
All was peace -- till I bungled that catch.

My attention the magic of summer
Had lured from the game -- which was wrong.
The bee (that inveterate hummer)
Was droning its favourite song.
I was tenderly dreaming of Clara
(On her not a girl is a patch),
When, ah, horror! there soared through the air a
Decidedly possible catch.

I heard in a stupor the bowler
Emit a self-satisfied 'Ah!'
The small boys who sat on the roller
Set up an expectant 'Hurrah!'
The batsman with grief from the wicket
Himself had begun to detach --
And I uttered a groan and turned sick. It
Was over. I'd buttered the catch.

O, ne'er, if I live to a million,
Shall I feel such a terrible pang.
From the seats on the far-off pavilion
A loud yell of ecstasy rang.
By the handful my hair (which is auburn)
I tore with a wrench from my thatch,
And my heart was seared deep with a raw burn
At the thought that I'd foozled that catch.

Ah, the bowler's low, querulous mutter
Points loud, unforgettable scoff!
Oh, give me my driver and putter!
Henceforward my game shall be golf.
If I'm asked to play cricket hereafter,
I am wholly determined to scratch.
Life's void of all pleasure and laughter;
I bungled the easiest catch.

-- P.G. Wodehouse

rekamakovics · In the Long Grass

My favorite poem:

Welcome to Thomas Mann

Just as the child, by sleep already possessed,
Drops in his quiet bed, eager to rest,
But begs you: "Don't go yet; tell me a story,"
For night this way will come less suddenly,
And his heart throbs with little anxious beats
Nor wholly understands what he entreats,
The story's sake or that yourself be near,
So we ask you: Sit down with us; make clear
What you are used to saying; the known relate,
That you are here among us, and our state
Is yours, and that we all are here with you,
All whose concerns are worthy of man's due.
You know this well: the poet never lies,
The real is not enough; through its disguise
Tell us the truth which fills the mind with light
Because, without each other, all is night.
Through Madame Chauchat's body Hans Castorp sees,
So train us to be our own witnesses.
Gentle your voice, no discord in that tongue;
Then tell us what is noble, what is wrong,
Lifting our hearts from mourning to desire,
We have buried Kosztolányi; cureless, dire,
The cancer on his mouth grew bitterly,
But growths more monstrous gnaw humanity.
Appalled we ask: More than what went before,
What horror has the future yet in store?
What ravening thoughts will seize us for their prey?
What poison, brewing now, eat us away?
And, if your lecture can put off that doom,
How long may you still count upon a room?
O, do not speak, and we can take heart then.
Being men by birthright, we must remain men,
And women, women, cherished for that reason.
All of us human, though such numbers lessen.
Sit down, please. Let your stirring tale be said.
We are listening to you, glad, like one in bed,
To see to-day, before that sudden night,
A European mid people barbarous, white.

-- Edited by rekamakovics at 22:54, 2006-02-23

musicmania · A Hold of Me

Here is a poem I wrote after friends were in a fatal car crash....

SAD TIMES
AS I SIT I WONDER WHY,
ITS TIMES LIKE THIS I WANT TO CRY.
A WORLD THATS FILLED WITH BADNESS
AND ALL I FEEL IS SADNESS.

ONE DAY ONE SO FULL OF LIFE
THE NEXT WE KNOW IS FULL OF STRIFE
ONCE A FLOWER IN FULL BLOOM
NOW HAS FADED TO ONLY GLOOM

OH I YEARN FOR YESTER YEAR
FOR TIMES WHEN LIFE SEEMED MUCH MORE CLEAR
WHEN WE ONLY DREAMT OF MODERN TIMES
BUT KNEW THEN NOTHING OF ITS CRIMES

WHEN LIFE IS TAKEN AWAY FROM US
ITS ONLY THEN WE MAKE A FUSS
ALL WE HAVE IN LIFE TODAY
IS NOTHING WHEN WE ARE IN THE CLAY

AS I SIT I WONDER WHY
HOW OUR LIVES MAKE ME SIGH
MAYBE SOON WE'LL UNDERSTAND
THAT LIFE ITSELF IS ALL THATS GRAND.

GWEN LANGFORD
FRI 16TH MAY '03

Tango · In the Long Grass

a bit more light hearted fun from mr wodehouse

Caliban at Sunset

I stood with a man
Watching the sun go down.
The air was full of murmurous summer scents
And a brave breeze sang like a bugle
From a sky that smouldered in the west,
A sky of crimson, amethyst, gold and sepia
And blue as blue were the eyes of Helen
When she sat
Gazing from some high tower in Ilium
Upon the Grecian tents darkling below.
And he,
This man who stood beside me,
Gaped like some dull, half-witted animal
And said,
"I say,
Doesn't that sunset remind you
Of a slice
Of underdone roast beef?"

-- P. G. Wodehouse

rekamakovics · In the Long Grass

Ady:

The Magyar Fallow

I walk on meadows run to weed,
on fields of burdock and mallow.
I know this rank and ancient ground -
this is the Magyar fallow.

I bow down to the sacred soil;
this virgin ground is gnawed I fear.
You skyward groping seedy weeds,
are there no flowers here?

While I look at the slumbering earth,
the twisting vines encircle me,
and scent of long dead flowers steep
my senses amorously.

Silence. I am dragged down and roofed
and lulled in burdock and in mallow.
A mocking wind goes whisking by
above the mighty fallow.

MrsRatSinger · Dave

I don't know whether it's a poem or not, but I really like it:

Who am I?
Where do I come from?
I am Antonin Artaud
and I say this
as I know how to say this
immediatly
you will see my present body
burst into fragments
and remake itself
under ten thousand notorious aspects
a new body
where you will
never
forget me.

yeah, Antonin Artuad...

one of the favourites of my favourite writer/poet/essayist/translator/whatever he is: Tandori Dezső

Tango · In the Long Grass

Good Gnus

(A Vignette in Verse)

When cares attack and life seems black,
How sweet it is to pot a yak,
Or puncture hares and grizzly bears,
And others I could mention;
But in my Animals "Who's Who"
No name stands higher than the Gnu;
And each new gnu that comes in view
Receives my prompt attention.

When Afric's sun is sinking low,
And shadows wander to and fro,
And everywhere there's in the air
A hush that's deep and solemn;
Then is the time good men and true
With View Halloo pursue the gnu;
(The safest spot to put your shot
is through the spinal column).

To take the creature by surprise
We must adopt some rude disguise,
Although deceit is never sweet,
And falsehoods don't attract us;
So, as with gun in hand you wait,
Remember to impersonate
A tuft of grass, a mountain-pass,
A kopje or a cactus.

A brief suspense, and then at last
The waiting's o'er, the vigil past;
A careful aim. A spurt of flame.
It's done. You've pulled the trigger,
And one more gnu, so fair and frail,
Has handed in its dinner-pail;
(The females all are rather small,
The males are somewhat bigger).

-- P. G. Wodehouse.

rekamakovics · In the Long Grass

The Bards of Wales
by János Arany

Edward the king, the English king,
Bestrides his tawny steed,
"For I will see if Wales" said he,
"Accepts my rule indeed."

"Are stream and mountain fair to see?
Are meadow grasses good?
Do corn-lands bear a crop more rare
Since wash'd with rebel's blood?"

"And are the wretched people there,
Whose insolence I broke,
As happy as the oxen are
Beneath the driver's yoke?"

"In truth this Wales, Sire, is a gem,
The fairest in thy crown:
The stream and field rich harvest yield,
And fair are dale and down."

"And all the wretched people there
Are calm as man could crave;
Their hovels stand throughout the land
As silent as the grave."

Edward the king, the English king,
Bestrides his tawny steed;
A silence deep his subjects keep
And Wales is mute indeed.

The castle named Montgomery
Ends that day's journeying;
The castle's lord, Montgomery,
Must entertain the king.

Then game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
A hundred hurrying servants bear
To please the appetite.

With all of worth the isle brings forth
In dainty drink and food,
And all the wines of foreign vines
Beyond the distant flood.

"Ye lords, ye lords, will none consent
His glass with mine to ring?
What! Each one fails, ye dogs of Wales,
to toast the English king?"

"Though game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
Your hand supplies, your mood defies
My person with a sight.

"Ye rascal lords, ye dogs of Wales,
Will none for Edward cheer?
To serve my needs and chant my deeds
Then let a bard appear!"

The nobles gaze in fierce amaze,
Their cheeks grow deadly pale;
Not fear but rage their looks engage,
They blench but do not quail.

All voices cease in soundless peace,
All breathe in silent pain;
Then at the door a harper hoar
Comes in with grave disdain:

"Lo, here I stand, at thy command,
To chant thy deeds, O king!"
And weapons clash and hauberks crash
Responsive to his string.

"Harsh weapons clash and hauberks crash,
And sunset sees us bleed,
The crow and wolf our dead engulf
This, Edward, is thy deed!

"A thousand lie beneath the sky,
They rot beneath the sun,
And we who live shall not forgive
This deed thy hand hath done!"

"Now let him perish! I must have"
(The monarch's voice is hard)
"Your softest songs, and not your wrongs!"
In steps a boyish bard:

"The breeze is soft at eve, that oft
From Milford Haven moans;
It whispers maidens' stifled cries,
It breathes of widows' groans."

"Ye maidens bear no captive babes!
Ye mothers rear them not!"
The fierce king nods. The lad is seiz'd
And hurried from the spot.

Unbidden then, among the men,
There comes a dauntless third.
With speech of fire he tunes his lyre,
And bitter is his word:

"Our bravest died to slake thy pride.
Proud Edward hear my lays!
No Welsh bards live who e'er will give
Thy name a song of praise."

"Our harps with dead men's memories weep
Welsh bards to thee will sing
One changeless verse our blackest curse
To blast thy soul, O king!"

"No more! Enough!" cries out the king.
In rage his orders break:
"Seek through these vales all bards of Wales
And burn them at the stake!"

His man ride forth to south and north,
They ride to west and east.
Thus ends in grim Montgomery
The celebrated feast.

Edward the king, the English king
Spurs on his tawny steed;
Across the skies red flames arise
As if Wales burned indeed.

In martyrship, with song on lip,
Five hundred Welsh bards died;
Not one was mov'd to say he lov'd
The tyrant in his pride.

" 'Ods blood! What songs this night resound
Upon our London streets?
The mayor should feel my irate heel
If aught that sound repeats!"

Each voice is hush'd; through silent lanes
To silent homes they creep.
"Now dies the hound that makes a sound;
The sick king cannot sleep."

"Ha! Bring me fife and drum and horn,
And let the trumpet blare!
In ceaseless hum their curses come…
I see their dead eyes glare…"

But high above all drum and fife
And all trumpets' shrill debate,
Five hundred martyr'd voices chant
Their hymn of deathless hate