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Thread: Poetry

  1. #76
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    on the western slope of the Urals and the scatter
    of lightning, now out of doors and into
    the eagle span,
    the true condition of bone
    which is no more singular or settled or the
    entitled guardian even, but the land of the
    dead. Why are they lost, why do they
    always wander, as if seeking
    their end and drawing after them
    the trail and fume of burning hemp?
    Or they are not lost but
    Passing: “If thoughtless abandonment
    To the moment were really a blessing, I
    Had actually been in ‘the Land of the
    Blessed’.”
    But it was not blessing, rather a fact so
    hard-won that only the twist in the middle
    air would do it anyway, so even he be wise
    or with any recourse to the darkness of
    his tent. The sequence of issue is no
    more than this,
    Apollo’s price, staff
    leaning into the
    ground and out

    through the smoke-hole.
    It is the spirit which dies
    As the figure of change, which
    Is the myth and fact of extent,
    Which thus does start from
    Marmora, or Aklavik, right
    Out of the air.

    No one harms these people: they
    are sacred and have no
    weapons. They sit or pass, in
    the form of divine song,
    They are free in the apt form of
    displacement. They change
    their shape, being of the essence as
    a figure of extent. Which
    for the power in rhyme
    is gold, in this northern clime
    which the Greeks so held to themselves and
    which in the steppe was no more
    than the royal figment.

    This movement was of
    course cruel beyond belief, as this
    was the risk Aristeas took
    with him. The conquests were for the motive of
    sway, involving massive slaughter as the
    obverse politics of claim. That is, slaves and
    animals, life and not value. “the western Sar-
    matian tribes lived side by side not in a loose
    tribal configuration, but had been welded
    into an organised imperium
    under the leadership of one
    royal tribe.” Royalty
    as plural. Hence the calender as taking of
    life, which left gold as the side-issue, pure
    figure.

    Guarded by the griffins, which lived close to the
    mines, the gold reposed as the divine brilliance,
    petrology of the sea air, so far from the shore
    The beasts dug the metal out with
    their eagle beaks, rending in the
    cruel frost of that earth, and
    yet they were the guardians, the figure of flight
    and heat and the northern twist of the axis.
    His name Aristeas, absent for
    these seven years: we should
    pay them or steal, it is no
    more than the question they ask.


    JH PRYNNE-
    From
    THE WHITE STONES

  2. #77
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    Sonnets from The River Duddon: After-Thought
    By William Wordsworth

    I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
    As being past away.—Vain sympathies!
    For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
    I see what was, and is, and will abide;
    Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;
    The Form remains, the Function never dies;
    While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
    We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
    The elements, must vanish;—be it so!
    Enough, if something from our hands have power
    To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
    And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
    Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
    We feel that we are greater than we know.

  3. #78
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    Apr 2005
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    Aldershot, Ants
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    The Young British Soldier by Rudyard Kipling

    WHEN the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
    'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
    An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
    Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
    Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
    Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
    Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
    So-oldier of the Queen!

    Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
    You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
    An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
    A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
    Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

    First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
    For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -
    Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts -
    An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
    Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

    When the cholera comes - as it will past a doubt -
    Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
    For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
    An' it crumples the young British soldier.
    Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

    But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
    You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
    If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
    An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
    Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

    If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
    Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
    Be handy and civil, and then you will find
    That it's beer for the young British soldier.
    Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

    Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -
    A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
    For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
    Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
    'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

    If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
    To shoot when you catch 'em - you'll swing, on my oath! -
    Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
    An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
    Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

    When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
    Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
    Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
    And march to your front like a soldier.
    Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

    When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
    Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
    She's human as you are - you treat her as sich,
    An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
    Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

    When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
    The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
    Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
    For noise never startles the soldier.
    Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

    If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
    Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
    So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
    And wait for supports like a soldier.
    Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

    When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
    And the women come out to cut up what remains,
    Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
    An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
    Go, go, go like a soldier,
    Go, go, go like a soldier,
    Go, go, go like a soldier,
    So-oldier of the Queen!

  4. #79
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  5. #80
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    Default Night Club (Louis MacNiece)

    After the legshows and the brandies
    And all the pick-me-ups for tired
    Men there is a feeling
    Something more is required.

    The lights go down and eyes
    Look up across the room;
    Salome comes in, bearing
    The head of God knows whom.
    Doin' the Lambeth Warp New: DISSENSUS - THE NOVEL - PM me your email address and I'll add you

  6. #81
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    The inherent decadence of that one actually gave me a sort of cold thrill along the spine as I read it out just now.
    Doin' the Lambeth Warp New: DISSENSUS - THE NOVEL - PM me your email address and I'll add you

  7. #82
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    I don't read the half dozen poems woven between the outpourings of Rod Liddle, James Delingpole et al in my weekly Spectator. Because they're proper shit.

  8. #83
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    Quote Originally Posted by HMGovt View Post
    I don't read the half dozen poems woven between the outpourings of Rod Liddle, James Delingpole et al in my weekly Spectator. Because they're proper shit.
    However I do enjoy Poetry Please on Radio 4 (with Roger McGough) while preparing sprouts on a late Sunday afternoon.
    Last edited by HMGovt; 04-03-2017 at 02:39 PM.

  9. #84
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    Quote Originally Posted by HMGovt View Post
    I don't read the half dozen poems woven between the outpourings of Rod Liddle, James Delingpole et al in my weekly Spectator. Because they're proper shit.
    How do they rate next to E. J. Thribb (age 17 1/2)?
    Doin' the Lambeth Warp New: DISSENSUS - THE NOVEL - PM me your email address and I'll add you

  10. #85
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    very good, and old, friend of mine getting the recognition he deserves
    https://jacket2.org/commentary/human...michael-steven

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