The Forum's Favourite Poems

One man went to Mow
It's a fair Cop

Myfanwy
Kind o’er the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy,
White o’er the playpen the sheen of her dress,
Fresh from the bathroom and soft in the nursery
Soap scented fingers I long to caress.

Were you a prefect and head of your dormit'ry?
Were you a hockey girl, tennis or gym?
Who was your favourite? Who had a crush on you?
Which were the baths where they taught you to swim?

Smooth down the Avenue glitters the bicycle,
Black-stockinged legs under navy blue serge,
Home and Colonial, Star, International,
Balancing bicycle leant on the verge.

Trace me your wheel-tracks, you fortunate bicycle,
Out of the shopping and into the dark,
Back down the avenue, back to the pottingshed,
Back to the house on the fringe of the park.

Golden the light on the locks of Myfanwy,
Golden the light on the book on her knee,
Finger marked pages of Rackham's Hans Anderson,
Time for the children to come down to tea.

Oh! Fullers angel-cake, Robertson’s marmalade,
Liberty lampshade, come shine on us all,
My! what a spread for the friends of Myfanwy,
Some in the alcove and some in the hall.

Then what sardines in half-lighted passages!
Locking of fingers in long hide-and-seek.
You will protect me, my silken Myfanwy,
Ring leader, tom-boy, and chum to the weak.

John Betjeman.
(Also a song by David Essex)

People are Stupid


That's it

Withnail said:

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That was lovely. Thank you. xx

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.

I remember the first time I tried it,
I was only a boy of fifteen,
and though she was so much younger than I,
she was far more composed and serene.

It was out in the barn I remember,
at the close of an autumn day
and the evening was scented with clover in bloom,
and the fragrance of freshly cut hay.

I remember she made no objection,
Showed no evidence of alarm,
For I loved her, and she, I am sure, loved me
Since she first came to live on our farm.

I remember she moved a bit closer,
And the touch of her body was warm,
As my fingers moved awkwardly over her throat,
While she nestled her head on my arm.

For her eyes seemed, I thought, to rebuke me
For waiting — for being afraid,
And even old Nellie, our ancient plow horse,
Looked over her manger and neighed.


Long later, I stood up, uncertain
Of whether to stay or to run,
A-tingle with pride, and yet shaken and awed
As I knew that, at last, it was done.

I remember it seemed hours later,
how my heart hammered under my blouse,
with the joy if a boy who turned in to a man,
as I made my way back to the house.

Many years have gone by since that evening,
but I've never forgotten -- I vow,
the thrill and the joy that I felt as a boy,
on the night that I first milked a cow.

Stefani Millman

Gets dark early
Dunnit

Telegram Sam
Telegram Sam
Etc
Etc