RedToo
Senior Member
Joined: Nov 2005
Posts: 3,072
Bolton UK
This is a favourite poem of mine, written by William Butler Yeats and first published in 1889. Does any one else have a favourite to share?
The Stolen Child
Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water rats; There we've hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand. For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car, In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal chest For he comes, the human child To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand From a world more full of weeping than he can understand
It has been set to music many times, here's a couple:
Always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Elie Wiesel. Romanian born Jewish writer, professor, political activist, Nobel Laureate, Holocaust survivor. 1928 - 2016.
Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts. C.S. Lewis, 1898 - 1963.
My own copy is a different translation, but this version is still gorgeous.
The Opening of Book I
Who wrought my studious numbers Smoothly once in happier days, Now perforce in tears and sadness Learn a mournful strain to raise. Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled, Guide my pen and voice my woe; Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops To my sad complainings flow! These alone in danger's hour Faithful found, have dared attend On the footsteps of the exile To his lonely journey's end. These that were the pride and pleasure Of my youth and high estate Still remain the only solace Of the old man's mournful fate. Old? Ah yes; swift, ere I knew it, By these sorrows on me pressed Age hath come; lo, Grief hath bid me Wear the garb that fits her best. O'er my head untimely sprinkled These white hairs my woes proclaim, And the skin hangs loose and shrivelled On this sorrow-shrunken frame. Blest is death that intervenes not In the sweet, sweet years of peace, But unto the broken-hearted, When they call him, brings release! Yet Death passes by the wretched, Shuts his ear and slumbers deep; Will not heed the cry of anguish, Will not close the eyes that weep. For, while yet inconstant Fortune Poured her gifts and all was bright, Death's dark hour had all but whelmed me In the gloom of endless night. Now, because misfortune's shadow Hath o'erclouded that false face, Cruel Life still halts and lingers, Though I loathe his weary race. Friends, why did ye once so lightly Vaunt me happy among men? Surely he who so hath fallen Was not firmly founded then.
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.
" And any man who may be asked in this century what he did to make his life worthwhile, I think can respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction: 'I served in the United States Navy.'"- John F. Kennedy
"NUKE-ular. It's pronounced NUKE-ular."- Homer Simpson
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AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place. Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn: But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind, So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace, Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place, But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch, They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch; They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings; So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace. They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease. But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life (Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife) Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all, By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul; But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man There are only four things certain since Social Progress began. That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins, As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
Keep Calm and Check Canopy
There are no ex-paratroopers, only ones off jump status
Ajay newbie Veteran
Joined: Dec 2002
Posts: 19,381
Brisbane OZ
I think our poetry over here is a bit more laid back than most. Aussie poetry is known for it's 'Bush Poetry' and generally a story based in and around the Aussie bush and outback.
Most famous would be Banjo Pattersons bush poems that as kids we learnt in school..
The Man From Iron Bark
It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town, He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down. He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop, Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop. "'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark, I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark."
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are, He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar; He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be, And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark! Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark."
There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall. Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut, "I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut." And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark: "I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."
A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin, Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in. He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat, Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat: Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark - No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark.
He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear, And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear, He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe: "You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go! I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark! But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."
He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out. He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck; He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck. And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark, And "Murder! Bloody murder!" yelled the man from Ironbark.
A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show; He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go. And when at last the barber spoke, and said "'Twas all in fun— 'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone." "A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark; I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."
And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape, He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape. "Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough, One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough." And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark, That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.
Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.
" And any man who may be asked in this century what he did to make his life worthwhile, I think can respond with a good deal of pride and satisfaction: 'I served in the United States Navy.'"- John F. Kennedy
"NUKE-ular. It's pronounced NUKE-ular."- Homer Simpson
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Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
And a modern Canadian classic, Al Purdy:
The Cariboo Horses
At 100 Mile House the cowboys ride in rolling stagey cigarettes with one hand reining half-tame bronco rebels on a morning grey as stone -so much like riding dangerous women with whiskey coloured eyes- such a women as once fell dead with their lovers with fire in their heads and slippery froth on thighs -Beaver or Carrier women maybe or Blackfoot squaws far past the edge of this valley on the other side of those two toy mountain ranges from the sunfierce plains beyond But only horses waiting in stables hitched at taverns standing at dawn pastured outside the town with jeeps and fords and chevvys and busy muttering stake trucks rushing importantly over roads of man's devising over the safe known roads of the ranchers families and merchants of the town On the high prairie are only horse and rider wind in dry grass clopping in silence under the toy mountains dropping sometimes and lost in the dry grass golden oranges of dung
Only horses no stopwatch memories or palace ancestors not Kiangs hauling undressed stone in the Nile Valley and having stubborn Egyptian tantrums or Onagers racing thru Hither Asia and the last Quagga screaming in African highlands lost relatives of these whose hooves were thunder the ghosts of horses battering thru the wind whose names were the wind's common usage whose life was the sun's arriving here at chilly noon in the gasoline smell of the dust and waiting 15 minutes at the grocer's
've Got Bad News.E J James THEY stitched him up in his canvas shirt As stiff as a frozen board; They sewed pig lead at his feet an' head And they sloshed him overboard. The Old Man hadn't a conscience, Exceptin' his wheel and chart, He pulled on sight, and his aim was right. For he shot him through the heart! His girl she waits in Grosvenor Street ,That's hard by Sydney Quay ,His girl she waits in Grosvenor Street This two long year waits she ,And 'er heart may weep, but he's sleepin' deep In the North Atlantic Sea .He shipped with a Nova-Scotia man Last time that ever he signed; His cash was spent and 'er sails was bent, And he was drunk and blind,— A man must take what he can get, There's plenty of men to spare, With Danes and Swedes and the Dago breeds, And ships go everywhere. He laid his hand to a marlin'spike— Oh, he was a man to know! And the deck ran red where he fell and bled, But he shouldn't 'ave acted so. His blood was up and the threat came free; But the high seas have their ways, And that was the end of a lover and friend, And these are “the better days.” 'T is round and round, as the world goes round, With a civil tongue in your 'ead; 'T is “do as you're told,” though you're starved and cold An' bitterly driven an' led, 'T is to and fro as you sign and go Till Death he crosses your hawse; You're stinted and worn, you're tattered and torn.
The People of the Gates. THE Great God sat in His council On the arch of a rainbow span, With the white Archangel Michael And Peter the Fisherman. In the court of Anointed Martyrs, In the place of the Shining Host, He spake, with the Voice of Voices, A speech of the Holy Ghost:— “I will portion the lands to my peoples, The Earth will I share them anew, To hold with the bowstring and powder, To keep with the marrow and thew; And they that are strong shall be stronger, And they that are weak—let them go! For this is the Word of My Father, And I have uttered it so.” The Great God called to His peoples; The breath of the Spirit's mouth, It shifted them outward and onward, It scattered them north and south. The hail and the frost behind them, With Hunger and Death to fare, They marched in the track of the Eagle, They came in the trail of the Bear. Then the harp of the Angel sounded The song of the Nation's feet, And the battle hymns of the peoples Came up to the Council seat. But out from his place stood Peter: “O Lord, if my speaking please, Thou hast given the lands to the peoples, But what wilt Thou do with the Seas?” But simply the Lord made answer: “It was even the same with thee When thou stood'st in the Hall of Pilate, Three times denying me! Behold how the lands are portioned, To each as he liketh best; But here be a little people Have taken the Isles of the West. “The others have chosen and tarried, And he that is weak let him fall; The others shall take from each other, But these they shall take from them all! For strong in the thew and the marrow, And richer in daring be these; Their neighbours have gotten the places, But they have gotten the Seas! “The others have builded and waited, But these will abide by their keels, To set on the heels of the oceans The empire and sign of their seals. Let theirs be the right of the waters, Let theirs be the keys of the straits, For they are a hardy people Who sit at the Western gates!” Thus spake the Lord in his Council, In the Hall of the shining Host, Who spake with a Voice of Voices The speech of the Holy Ghost, That they who were strong shall be stronger, That they who were little should grow, Still holding the Seas in their keeping: Our Lord He hath written it so EJ James
Wrote this little ditty some time ago. Never thought I'd be posting it on such a 'manly' site as SimHQ (hope that doesn't make me a sissy and my man card gets revoked ).
Men of War
My friend, Opposition is true friendship; For we are never more alive Than when we are Men at war.
And nothing of man is made Until testing makes his mettle A shiny blade between him And the manly art of Men at war. . And this uncaring violence Speaks to the masculine soul: Learn, and learn you must, that If peace were king and queen was war, We’d be men, men no more.
War is the continuation of natural selection by other means.
One that has stuck with me since I first read it many years ago.
Edgar Allan Poe - Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.
I'm not much for poetry, but have always liked this one.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or ever eagle flew — And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
An excerpt from "The Young British Soldier" by Rudyard Kipling. The last verse has been frequently referenced:
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 b!tch; 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!
"For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" -- Mark 8:36
RedToo
Senior Member
Joined: Nov 2005
Posts: 3,072
Bolton UK
A great favourite:
For the Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.
Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21st September 1914.
Always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Elie Wiesel. Romanian born Jewish writer, professor, political activist, Nobel Laureate, Holocaust survivor. 1928 - 2016.
Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts. C.S. Lewis, 1898 - 1963.
Portions Of This Poem Are Inscribed On Placards Throughout Arlington, As Well as On The McClellan Gate There. Portions of it on Placards are at Gettysburg.
The Bivouac of The Dead
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on Life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents to spread, And glory guards, with solemn round The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dreams alarms; No braying horn or screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shriveled swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed, Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past; Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore may feel The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce Northern hurricane That sweeps the great plateau, Flushed with triumph, yet to gain, Come down the serried foe, Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew the watchword of the day Was "Victory or death!"
Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the glory tide; Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their father's gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain -- And long the pitying sky has wept Above its moldered slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil -- The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes sepulcher.
Rest on embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, For honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanquished ago has flown, The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb.
Good people sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.
Someday your life will flash in front of your eyes. Make sure it is worth watching.
Never considered myself much of a poetry fan, but had a teacher in like 5th grade who was really into Robert Frost. Always loved this one and freaked when he read it at JFK's inauguration....yeah I am that old.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Censored
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