FabSwingers.com > Forums > The Lounge > A nice night for some poetry....
A nice night for some poetry....
Jump to: Newest in thread
 |
By (user no longer on site) OP
over a year ago
|
We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
(Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy)
And with the beautiful words of the aforementioned poet I bid the forums adieu. |
Reply privately, Reply in forum +quote
or View forums list | |
|
By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago
|
I love poetry but as soon as I see the words Nineveh, or Babel, or Quinquireme or some other such garbled nonentity in a poem that has no earthly place being there I stop and shudder and think: Does this poet understand verse at all, or does he subscribe to modernist ideals (of his time) because it's 'trendy' to do so and thus forsake the art of poetry in return for something that although in the short term can be very rewarding it leaves much less value to those that read it long after the poet has left this world.
|
Reply privately, Reply in forum +quote
or View forums list | |
|
By *emmefataleWoman
over a year ago
dirtybigbadsgirlville |
A crunch: afoot a dead arachnid
Spanning once a serving plate –
Oh! that others be alive
With such as me for spider bait!
I slunk along the silent hall
Of ancient ore attired in grime –
Feculent beyond the nose;
No bearing here, nor feel for time.
I shuddered in appreciation –
The ambience would mortify
A feeble mind, aghast, opined
Of murky thought, and typify
The will of Belial err I brought
Upon myself to loathe and dread
Exquisite retribution: to linger
Oftentimes alive, then dead.
Compulsion saw me edging on
Toward a narrow door of oak.
Behind, I knew, a greater evil
Waiting in her fusty cloak.
A choice of nil upon the table;
Aught of leave, I had to face
Alone the shrew – her flaming aura
Angling me; my deep disgrace
From ugly deeds I dealt in life,
A heinous world I honed in glee…
'Now take a crooked path to death,
For I have come to torture thee! '
Out of eyes of orange flame,
A piercing glare, then here it came –
The cackling cry of chanting song:
'You thought you'd die alone in pain
The once – nay nay! you'll die with me,
And so a catch: you'll die again
Ad infinitum - ever be!
Your soul to curse, my heart we'll gore,
Your liver to draw and quarter;
A sadomasochistic pair,
We'll slither together in slaughter! '
I answered only with a scream, from
Sensing near her craving lust.
My crimes to answer; wrongs annul;
Renounce my soul and turn to dust...
On an evening cool and quiet,
Stretch an ear to listen tight –
Are you lucky of a moment –?
Hark! my clarion call of plight. |
Reply privately, Reply in forum +quote
or View forums list | |
|
By *yrdwomanWoman
over a year ago
Putting the 'cum' in Eboracum |
"Following on Mushrooms line of poetry
Hickory Dickory dock
the mouse ran up the clock
The mouse ran down
his arse was brown
And so was the cuckoo's cock"
Hickory dickory dock
The mice ran up the clock
The clock struck one
But the other got away with minor injuries.  |
Reply privately, Reply in forum +quote
or View forums list | |
Walking today i thought nothing describes Autumn better
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. |
Reply privately, Reply in forum +quote
or View forums list | |
|
By (user no longer on site)
over a year ago
|
Love most potent in ardent embrace,
Usurped within a fiery passion,
Spent - like a match - and then cast aside,
Tossed upon the coals of love's endeavour. |
Reply privately, Reply in forum +quote
or View forums list | |
This was one of my Dad's favs
The boy stood on the burning deck
picking his nose with a pin
he rolled it into little balls
and sold it tuppence a tin
or
The boy stood on the burning deck
eating red hot scallops
he dropped one down his trouser leg
and nearly burnt his bollocks
 |
Reply privately, Reply in forum +quote
or View forums list | |
» Add a new message to this topic
