Post A Poem.

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Mr Radish

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I'm not the most well read person in the world, but do believe that there is a poem out there for everyone.

I thought it would be cool to share your favourite poem or poems. They can be happy or sad .. . .just as long as they mean something to you. I will start.

Ae Fond Kiss

by Robert Burns

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted—
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace. enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
 
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Shooms

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Jul 18, 2001
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Everywhere & nowhere baby, that's where I'm at...
www.piraterevival.co.uk
Well she wore big knickers and she worked at the sewage farm.
Got my hands down her jeans and I nearly lost half my arm.
But after ten pints, she looked quite fit,
Couldn't wait to get my hands on her flabby tits.
So I said, Slap that and ride the ripples,
I just got to get my gob round her greasy nipples.
Flabby arse, sweaty breasts, thirty eight chins,
she was a mound of flesh.
Sweaty Betty, she eats a lot of pies,
Sweaty Betty, she's got enormous thighs,
Sweaty Betty, have you smelled her breath?
Sweaty Betty, she'd crush a man to death.

I knew that she wanted me to shag her,
so I stabbed her gunt with my mutton dagger.
I couldn't believe the size of her bum,
She used to play for Wigan at the back of the scrum.
I've seen nowt like it since the day I was born,
But you know me, I'll shag owt that's warm.

Sweaty Betty, she eats a lot of chips,
Sweaty Betty, she's got massive tits,
Sweaty Betty, she's got a huge vagina,
Sweaty Betty, you'd fit a bus inside her,
She's so obscene, three tons of margarine,
She's like a lump of lard
But Sweaty Betty makes my willy hard.
 
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Shooms

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Everywhere & nowhere baby, that's where I'm at...
www.piraterevival.co.uk
Mr Radish said:
I knew I could count on you Shooms.

Burns to Macc Lads.

And your real offering?
Click to expand...

hahaha - sorry - to tempting to resist... for me this is one of the most inspiring pieces ever penned...

IF…..

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!
 
M

Mr Radish

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Another favourite. The whole thing is set to the nosie of the steam train.
YouTube - "This is the night mail" - WH Auden

Night Mail

This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, the climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

-- W H Auden
 
elvisontour

elvisontour

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IN A HOUSE
The Man From Harrow.

I know an old man from harrow,
Who tried to shag a sparrow.

The sparrow said no
you can't have a go
because the whole in me arse
is to narrow.;)
 
T

T.C

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Dysfunction Junction
Mr Radish said:
Yes I agree a nice choice. If by Kipling.:thumbsup:
Click to expand...

Mr Radish said:
Another favourite. YouTube - "This is the night mail" - WH Auden
Click to expand...

Whats wrong with Kipling? :confused: :|
I really like 'The Thousandth Man' by him :love:


One man in a thousand, Solomon says.
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.

'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for 'ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world don't matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men's sight
With that for your only reason! Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot - and after!

and as for Auden, cant help but like the 'Funeral Blues' / 'Stop all the clocks' one. Moving sentiment, especially the NSEW stanza (imo), simple but sad. :|

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
 
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Sheikh Yerbouti

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Jan 4, 2008
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Some**** Somewhere in Summertime
But seriously...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
I

ilovepiano

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Jul 9, 2002
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There was a young man called Dale,
Whose limericks would always fail.
When asked why,
He said with a cry,
It's because I try and fit too many syllables in the last line.
 
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Deleted member 6141

Guest
there was a young lady from ealing
who had a peculiar feeling
she lay on her back and opened her crack
and pissed all over the ceiling
 
M

Mr Radish

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Mar 27, 2007
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Movin' on up.
Sheikh Yerbouti said:
But seriously...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Click to expand...

Beautiful choice mate! Dylan Thomas at his best.
 
M

Mr Radish

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Mar 27, 2007
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Movin' on up.
Some good funnies there.

But a few more in the spirit of what the thread intended would be cool.

I thought it would be an interesting way of seeing what makes people tick or strikes a chord with them.

It's not supposed to be high brow or poncy, just real to you.:thumbsup:
 


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