The Poetry Thread

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

Feel free to post whatever you happen to like here - I'll get the ball rolling with this hauntingly lovely old piece by Walt Whitman :

 

 

Edited 22 June, 2013 by CHAPEL END CHARLIE

[Bearsy]

Fatty and Thinny were in

The bath.

Fatty blew off, and Thinny

Laughed.

------------ William Blake, 1827

 

This has been one of my favourite poems for a long time! I done my dissertation on it. Structurally it is perfect. To paraphrase Salieri, to change but one word would diminish the whole. i.e. if i changed it to "Fatty and Thinny were in the banana," the structure collapses like pack of cards + much of the sense is lost.

 

At heart it is a tragic tale of the modern world, a parable of shame + cynicism like Adam & Eve. Or as Blake would have it, "A song of Innocence + Experience."

 

Fatty in this representation is our Innocent. He is chubby and child-like. He knows not to be shamed by his nakedness nor his bodily functions. We find him enjoying the womb-like safety of a hot bath, happily splashing about and playing with rubber duckies. I envy him in these moments, his sweetness and joy. Then he slips one out. The squelch of wet cheek on porcelain, the stream of bubbles, and hot eggy fart invades the senses. Fatty knows not what he has done.

 

Thinny laughs, callously. Thinny rather neatly comprises all that is wrong with the modern world. He is a withered and cynical old man. He is both the Catholic Church and the Industrial Age. A sexual deviant, it was his suggestion that they bathe nakedly together "to save water." He's quietly tugging one out under the bubbles. His callous laughter reverberates through the bathroom and it hits Fatty like a slap. His eyes widen and his cheeks burn with shame. It is one of the most dramatic moments in English literature.

 

This was Blake's final composition, dictated from his death bed and inscribed on his tomb. The summation of his life's work and in my view, his finest hour. You should all seek it out. I particularly recommend the Latin translations.

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

A Silly Poem by Spike Milligan

 

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,

I'll draw a sketch of thee,

What kind of pencil shall I use?

2B or not 2B?

[Hamilton Saint]

"Church Going" by Philip Larkin

 

 

[Smirking_Saint]

Fatty and Thinny were in

The bath.

Fatty blew off, and Thinny

Laughed.

------------ William Blake, 1827

 

This has been one of my favourite poems for a long time! I done my dissertation on it. Structurally it is perfect. To paraphrase Salieri, to change but one word would diminish the whole. i.e. if i changed it to "Fatty and Thinny were in the banana," the structure collapses like pack of cards + much of the sense is lost.

 

At heart it is a tragic tale of the modern world, a parable of shame + cynicism like Adam & Eve. Or as Blake would have it, "A song of Innocence + Experience."

 

Fatty in this representation is our Innocent. He is chubby and child-like. He knows not to be shamed by his nakedness nor his bodily functions. We find him enjoying the womb-like safety of a hot bath, happily splashing about and playing with rubber duckies. I envy him in these moments, his sweetness and joy. Then he slips one out. The squelch of wet cheek on porcelain, the stream of bubbles, and hot eggy fart invades the senses. Fatty knows not what he has done.

 

Thinny laughs, callously. Thinny rather neatly comprises all that is wrong with the modern world. He is a withered and cynical old man. He is both the Catholic Church and the Industrial Age. A sexual deviant, it was his suggestion that they bathe nakedly together "to save water." He's quietly tugging one out under the bubbles. His callous laughter reverberates through the bathroom and it hits Fatty like a slap. His eyes widen and his cheeks burn with shame. It is one of the most dramatic moments in English literature.

 

This was Blake's final composition, dictated from his death bed and inscribed on his tomb. The summation of his life's work and in my view, his finest hour. You should all seek it out. I particularly recommend the Latin translations.

 

[Hamilton Saint]

"Afterwards" by Thomas Hardy

 

 

[norwaysaint]

Fatty and Thinny were in

The bath.

Fatty blew off, and Thinny

Laughed.

------------ William Blake, 1827

 

This has been one of my favourite poems for a long time! I done my dissertation on it. Structurally it is perfect. To paraphrase Salieri, to change but one word would diminish the whole. i.e. if i changed it to "Fatty and Thinny were in the banana," the structure collapses like pack of cards + much of the sense is lost.

 

At heart it is a tragic tale of the modern world, a parable of shame + cynicism like Adam & Eve. Or as Blake would have it, "A song of Innocence + Experience."

 

Fatty in this representation is our Innocent. He is chubby and child-like. He knows not to be shamed by his nakedness nor his bodily functions. We find him enjoying the womb-like safety of a hot bath, happily splashing about and playing with rubber duckies. I envy him in these moments, his sweetness and joy. Then he slips one out. The squelch of wet cheek on porcelain, the stream of bubbles, and hot eggy fart invades the senses. Fatty knows not what he has done.

 

Thinny laughs, callously. Thinny rather neatly comprises all that is wrong with the modern world. He is a withered and cynical old man. He is both the Catholic Church and the Industrial Age. A sexual deviant, it was his suggestion that they bathe nakedly together "to save water." He's quietly tugging one out under the bubbles. His callous laughter reverberates through the bathroom and it hits Fatty like a slap. His eyes widen and his cheeks burn with shame. It is one of the most dramatic moments in English literature.

 

This was Blake's final composition, dictated from his death bed and inscribed on his tomb. The summation of his life's work and in my view, his finest hour. You should all seek it out. I particularly recommend the Latin translations.

 

You see, your desperate and dull hangers-on may think they're riding your coat tails by writing yo on every other post and copying your style, but none of them have an ounce of your wit. Beautiful.

[View From The Top]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWvcwVWCcnY

[View From The Top]

[Sheaf Saint]

Can't say I have ever been a big fan of poetry, but I came across this girl on a random stage at a festival a couple of years ago and found myself captivated by her presence and her passion.

 

[Sour Mash]

Fatty and Thinny were in

The bath.

Fatty blew off, and Thinny

Laughed.

------------ William Blake, 1827

 

This has been one of my favourite poems for a long time! I done my dissertation on it. Structurally it is perfect. To paraphrase Salieri, to change but one word would diminish the whole. i.e. if i changed it to "Fatty and Thinny were in the banana," the structure collapses like pack of cards + much of the sense is lost.

 

At heart it is a tragic tale of the modern world, a parable of shame + cynicism like Adam & Eve. Or as Blake would have it, "A song of Innocence + Experience."

 

Fatty in this representation is our Innocent. He is chubby and child-like. He knows not to be shamed by his nakedness nor his bodily functions. We find him enjoying the womb-like safety of a hot bath, happily splashing about and playing with rubber duckies. I envy him in these moments, his sweetness and joy. Then he slips one out. The squelch of wet cheek on porcelain, the stream of bubbles, and hot eggy fart invades the senses. Fatty knows not what he has done.

 

Thinny laughs, callously. Thinny rather neatly comprises all that is wrong with the modern world. He is a withered and cynical old man. He is both the Catholic Church and the Industrial Age. A sexual deviant, it was his suggestion that they bathe nakedly together "to save water." He's quietly tugging one out under the bubbles. His callous laughter reverberates through the bathroom and it hits Fatty like a slap. His eyes widen and his cheeks burn with shame. It is one of the most dramatic moments in English literature.

 

This was Blake's final composition, dictated from his death bed and inscribed on his tomb. The summation of his life's work and in my view, his finest hour. You should all seek it out. I particularly recommend the Latin translations.

Ha that is too f*****g good, you must have copied and paste that from somewhere.

[Bearsy]

all my own words sour mash! I'm a very literature bear! One time I heard W.H.Audens done sex poems so i sought them out and it was all about the time he put finger up rent boy's bum + took a load in his mouth

 

I will try and find the book laters + post the poem in full on here!

[JoeShmoe]

You see, your desperate and dull hangers-on may think they're riding your coat tails by writing yo on every other post and copying your style, but none of them have an ounce of your wit. Beautiful.

 

This, many dull followers but only one Bearsy

 

Brilliant

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

I first started to understand the raw emotional power of poetry when I heard (as a ten year old child) Sir Laurence Olivier recite the following poem during the World at War episode entitled 'Red Star' - a hour of Television devoted to the suffering of the Soviet people during the Second World War. It moved my young self profoundly back then, and forty years later its grip on me has, if anything, grown even stronger. An impossible conversation between a slain Russian soldier and his heartbroken father:

 

Do Not Call Me Father (Anonymous, Soviet Union 1942)

 

 

Do not call me, father. Do not seek me.

Do not call me. Do not wish me back.

We’re on a route uncharted, fire and blood erase our track.

On we fly on wings of thunder, never more to sheath our swords.

All of us in battle fallen – not to be brought back by words

 

We are sand grains in infinity, never to meet, nevermore to know light.

...................................

 

Farewell then my son. Farewell then my conscience.

Farewell my youth, my solace, my one and my only.

 

Let this farewell be the end of a story

Of solitude past which now is more lonely.

In which you remained barred forever from light,

From air, with your death pains untold.

Untold and unsoothed, never to be resurrected.

Forever and ever my 18 year old.

 

Farewell then my son,

For no miracles happen, as in this world dreams do not come true.

 

Farewell.

I will dream of you still as a baby,

Treading the earth with little strong toes,

The earth where already so many lie buried.

This song to my son then must come to its close.

 

 

.

Edited 24 June, 2013 by CHAPEL END CHARLIE

[badgerx16]

A chicken is a noble beast,

The cow is much forlorner;

Standing in the pouring rain,

With a leg at every corner.

 

( William McGonagall )

[badgerx16]

Allegedly the shortest poem in English, ( would be hard to get a shorter one ), entitled "Fleas" - but apparently originally named "Lines on the antiquity of microbes" ;

 

Adam

had 'em

[badgerx16]

At the risk of monopolising the thread, from one of my favourite English poets :

 

Slough

 

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.

 

( Sir John Betjeman )

[RonManager]

[RonManager]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zmciuKsBOi0

[pap]

Fatty and skinny went to bed

Fatty blew off and Skinny was dead

80s mashup of William Blake's celebrated poem, as constructed by 9 year olds at Bassett Green Middle School

 

Not enough is done to celebrate street poetry. After seeing Bearsy drop some "classic Blake" on the thread, I wanted to ensure that this version of the classic was not lost to the pages of history. Yes, it's raw; rough around the edges - some might even detect the garish hue of fluorescent shoelaces illuminating the words, but that doesn't make it any less valid.

 

The collected "Fatty and Skinny" works resonate as one matures, especially in relationships where one partner chooses to eat a f*ckton of cake and/or confection. If there's a criticism I'd lay on Blake, it's that he didn't foresee our modern age of processed foods and communally maintained illusions (e.g. fatty lying to fatty when asked "does my bum look big in this?"). There are no "Fatty and Fatty" delicacies on Blake's menu. In his defence, he was perhaps a product of his time. Excessive girth was seen as a sign of prosperity in those times; perhaps Blake could never reconcile that with the grim poverty of the Victorian age. Maybe he could never imagine a world with two fatties operating in the same household at the same time. Don't get me wrong, I still love Blake's work, but as you can see from these words, I really am a massive apologist.

[pap]

Humour aside, here's a poem I liked as a kid. It was in a compendium of school-related poems I had. I suspect many my age will have read it. You'd never get away with this now, either.

 

The Lesson

 

Chaos ruled OK in the classroom

as bravely the teacher walked in

the nooligans ignored him

hid voice was lost in the din

 

"The theme for today is violence

and homework will be set

I'm going to teach you a lesson

one that you'll never forget"

 

He picked on a boy who was shouting

and throttled him then and there

then garrotted the girl behind him

(the one with grotty hair)

 

Then sword in hand he hacked his way

between the chattering rows

"First come, first severed" he declared

"fingers, feet or toes"

 

He threw the sword at a latecomer

it struck with deadly aim

then pulling out a shotgun

he continued with his game

 

The first blast cleared the backrow

(where those who skive hang out)

they collapsed like rubber dinghies

when the plug's pulled out

 

"Please may I leave the room sir?"

a trembling vandal enquired

"Of course you may" said teacher

put the gun to his temple and fired

 

The Head popped a head round the doorway

to see why a din was being made

nodded understandingly

then tossed in a grenade

 

And when the ammo was well spent

with blood on every chair

Silence shuffled forward

with its hands up in the air

 

The teacher surveyed the carnage

the dying and the dead

He waggled a finger severely

"Now let that be a lesson" he said

 

Roger McGough

[RonManager]

[Whitey Grandad]

The Rich Fool

 

Go, silly worm, drudge, trudge and travel*,

Despising pain,

So thou may'st gain

Some honour, or some golden gravel;

But death the while, to fill his number,

With sudden call

Takes thee from all,

To prove thy days but dreams and slumber.

 

Joshua Sylvester 1563-1618

 

(*travel = travail, work)

 

I came across this many years ago and as I get older its significance grows day by day.

[RonManager]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHYkTt_ZlsY&list=RD025WvsoqoGiL4

 

Not poetry in the strictest sense, but sheer poetry to me.

[View From The Top]

I first started to understand the raw emotional power of poetry when I heard (as a ten year old child) Sir Laurence Olivier recite the following poem during the World at War episode entitled 'Red Star' - a hour of Television devoted to the suffering of the Soviet people during the Second World War. It moved my young self profoundly back then, and forty years later its grip on me has, if anything, grown even stronger. An impossible conversation between a slain Russian soldier and his heartbroken father:

 

Do Not Call Me Father (Anonymous, Soviet Union 1942)

 

 

Do not call me, father. Do not seek me.

Do not call me. Do not wish me back.

We’re on a route uncharted, fire and blood erase our track.

On we fly on wings of thunder, never more to sheath our swords.

All of us in battle fallen – not to be brought back by words

 

We are sand grains in infinity, never to meet, nevermore to know light.

...................................

 

Farewell then my son. Farewell then my conscience.

Farewell my youth, my solace, my one and my only.

 

Let this farewell be the end of a story

Of solitude past which now is more lonely.

In which you remained barred forever from light,

From air, with your death pains untold.

Untold and unsoothed, never to be resurrected.

Forever and ever my 18 year old.

 

Farewell then my son,

For no miracles happen, as in this world dreams do not come true.

 

Farewell.

I will dream of you still as a baby,

Treading the earth with little strong toes,

The earth where already so many lie buried.

This song to my son then must come to its close.

 

 

.

 

It was from the classic World at War. I remember it well and like you, it had a profound impact on me and drove my desire to understand more about the war in the East.

[View From The Top]

Kipling isn't everyone's cuppa but this change of direction and sense of loss when his son was killed in WW1 brought me to tears when I watched the stage production of My Boy Jack. This may partly be due to being a dad myself and having left for war, wondering if I'd ever see my loved ones again.

 

[Bearsy]

Fatty and skinny went to bed

Fatty blew off and Skinny was dead

 

was he Skinny at ur school pap? I think i prefer Thinny cos of aliterations!

[pap]

was he Skinny at ur school pap? I think i prefer Thinny cos of aliterations!

 

Surely to get the alliteration, you need to have two "f" sounds, "Fatty" and "Finny". Sorry mate. I've never rolled like that.

[Bearsy]

point taken pap! I will try and work out some Fatty + Fitty drafts!

[pap]

point taken pap! I will try and work out some Fatty + Fitty drafts!

 

Don't forget the oft-neglected Fatty and Fatty market. e.g.

 

Fatty said to fatty "my food never lingers"

"I scoop it all up with my sausage-sized fingers."

[Bearsy]

[Hamilton Saint]

Humour aside, here's a poem I liked as a kid. It was in a compendium of school-related poems I had. I suspect many my age will have read it. You'd never get away with this now, either.

 

The Lesson

 

Chaos ruled OK in the classroom

as bravely the teacher walked in

the nooligans ignored him

hid voice was lost in the din

 

"The theme for today is violence

and homework will be set

I'm going to teach you a lesson

one that you'll never forget"

 

He picked on a boy who was shouting

and throttled him then and there

then garrotted the girl behind him

(the one with grotty hair)

 

Then sword in hand he hacked his way

between the chattering rows

"First come, first severed" he declared

"fingers, feet or toes"

 

He threw the sword at a latecomer

it struck with deadly aim

then pulling out a shotgun

he continued with his game

 

The first blast cleared the backrow

(where those who skive hang out)

they collapsed like rubber dinghies

when the plug's pulled out

 

"Please may I leave the room sir?"

a trembling vandal enquired

"Of course you may" said teacher

put the gun to his temple and fired

 

The Head popped a head round the doorway

to see why a din was being made

nodded understandingly

then tossed in a grenade

 

And when the ammo was well spent

with blood on every chair

Silence shuffled forward

with its hands up in the air

 

The teacher surveyed the carnage

the dying and the dead

He waggled a finger severely

"Now let that be a lesson" he said

 

Roger McGough

 

 

Roger McGough - as many of you probably know, but some may not - was a member of the 60s/70s band The Scaffold , along with John Gorman and Paul McCartney's brother (known then as Mike McGear).

[Hamilton Saint]

Here is a poetic piece excerpted from Leonard Cohen's second novel Beautiful Losers read by the author himself in 1967.

 

The Canadian folk-singer Buffy Ste. Marie later turned it into a song.

 

 

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

One of the many things I tend to keep quite about on here is that, although I was born in Dorset, there is actually plenty of Welsh blood flowing through my veins. Perhaps this genetic inheritance explains why the works of Dylan Thomas have long appealed to me ... or maybe it's just because the man was a bloody genius.

 

In any case whether you hail from Swansea or Swindon, Dylan's wonderful prose style combined with Richard Burton's oh-so-perfect delivery results in something that is really rather special methinks:

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuPO2Kvqlms

[Polaroid Saint]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHYkTt_ZlsY&list=RD025WvsoqoGiL4

 

Not poetry in the strictest sense, but sheer poetry to me.

 

I love Ivor Cutler. Perfection.

 

With this, and the discourse on Blake that is both surprising and enlightening, I am starting the day in a bright and positive mood.

 

Have this in return, from Scroobius Pip (IMHO one of this country's greatest living wordsmiths). Tis short, sweet and football related;

 

[Hamilton Saint]

Chapel End Charlie wrote: "One of the many things I tend to keep quite about on here is that, although I was born in Dorset, there is actually plenty of Welsh blood flowing through my veins. Perhaps this genetic inheritance explains why the works of Dylan Thomas have long appealed to me ... or maybe it's just because the man was a bloody genius.

In any case whether you hail from Swansea or Swindon, Dylan's wonderful prose style combined with Richard Burton's oh-so-perfect delivery results in something that is really rather special methinks"

 

 

I love Dylan Thomas's work, too. Every Christmas season I listen to the great man himself reading "A Child's Christmas in Wales". Absolutely brilliant.

 

My favourite poem of his is Fern Hill - another mesmerising depiction of his childhood. It is chockfull of references to the natural world. It's a portrait of a child enveloped by an almost holy awe for nature.

 

Here's a YouTube video of Dylan Thomas reading the poem. His style of reading is completely idiosyncratic - sounding weird, at first, but then carrying you along with its perfect delivery. As close to singing as reading a poem can get, I reckon.

 

 

Edited 27 June, 2013 by Hamilton Saint

[Fowllyd]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHYkTt_ZlsY&list=RD025WvsoqoGiL4

 

Not poetry in the strictest sense, but sheer poetry to me.

 

Likewise. Those fathers of heavily-built daughters from Troon to Aberfeldy will be forever shaking in their shoes...

[Fowllyd]

A favourite of mine, by Shelley:

 

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away".

 

Top thread by the way

[RonManager]

Benjamin Zephaniah

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=buqCNHn3xbw

Edited 27 June, 2013 by RonManager

[RonManager]

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

Enjoy:

 

[mack rill]

there's flees upon my doggy

there's flees upon my cat

they lay egg's in our carpet

and on the kitchen mat

i spray them with a killer spray

but i know it will not last

you know your doggy's got them back

when he Trie's to scratch his arse,

[Whitey Grandad]

Enjoy:

 

 

I'll see yours and raise you:

 

[RonManager]

Apparently the world's shortest poem -

 

FLEAS:

 

Adam

Had 'Em!

 

-Author Unknown

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

[Hamilton Saint]

The Hollow Men by T S Eliot

 

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

^ Thanks Hamilton

 

I've long known this poem's famous ending and I'm also familiar with the expression 'On the Beach' as Nevile Shute employed it in a novel of his that I much admire, but somehow I've never read 'The Hollow Man' in its entirety before.

 

A remorselessly bleak, but somehow hauntingly beautiful, poem.

[CHAPEL END CHARLIE]

I first came across this sublime recording of Edgar Allan Poe's ''The Raven'' many months ago and such is its power it keeps drawing me back somehow. On each visit I think I understand a little better what Poe was trying to say - although being such a remarkably poor student the end of my journey is not yet in sight.

 

[Hamilton Saint]

Another gem by T.S. Eliot. This is 'Little Gidding', taken from "Four Quartets"

 

[Snopper]

Apparently the world's shortest poem -

 

FLEAS:

 

Adam

Had 'Em!

 

-Author Unknown

 

Or it could be ee cummings:-

 

The Inca

 

Were stinkers