The Forum's Favourite Poems

[KencoPlenco]

here another one of my favourite poems

There once was a mouse called Keith, ​

Who circumcised people with his teeth. ​

He didn't do it for leisure, ​

Or even for sexual pleasure. ​

He did it for the cheese underneath​

 

[Gramaisc]

On the Ning Nang Nong Where the Cows go Bong! and the monkeys all say BOO! There's a Nong Nang Ning Where the trees go Ping! And the tea pots jibber jabber joo. On the Nong Ning NangAll the mice go Clang And you just can't catch 'em when they do! So its Ning Nang Nong Cows go Bong!Nong Nang Ning Trees go ping Nong Ning Nang The mice go Clang What a noisy place to belong is the
Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!

Spike Milligan's real name was Terrence....

 

[KencoPlenco]

Spike Milligan's real name was Terrence....

Was it!! wow didn't know that I though it was Spike

 

[Gramaisc]

Was it!! wow didn't know that I though it was Spike

Indeed, Terence Alan Patrick Seán Milligan, to give it in full.

It seems that the single 'r' is correct here, sometimes it is spelt with two..

 

[Withnail]

Antagonish

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away

c. 1899

WILLIAM HUGHES MEARNS

 

[Withnail]

But why isn't it (edit) here?

It's Antigonish, not Antagonish...

 

[Noah]

God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
Amen.

Written for Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897.

 

[Withnail]

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

(continues)

 

[Withnail]

p. 1818

JOHN KEATS

Endymion

(what's with the edit function on forum mk.II?)

 

[Withnail]

Ode to a Goldfish

Oh
Wet
Pet

OGDEN NASH

 

[Nicedave]

The Word of God

Catherine Faber

From desert cliff and mountaintop we trace the wide design,
Strike-slip fault and overthrust and syn and anticline…
We gaze upon creation where erosion makes it known,
And count the countless aeons in the banding of the stone.
Odd, long-vanished creatures and their tracks & shells are found;
Where truth has left its sketches on the slate below the ground.
The patient stone can speak, if we but listen when it talks.
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the rocks.

There are those who name the stars, who watch the sky by night,
Seeking out the darkest place, to better see the light.
Long ago, when torture broke the remnant of his will,
Galileo recanted, but the Earth is moving still
High above the mountaintops, where only distance bars,
The truth has left its footprints in the dust between the stars.
We may watch and study or may shudder and deny,
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the sky.

By stem and root and branch we trace, by feather, fang and fur,
How the living things that are descend from things that were.
The moss, the kelp, the zebrafish, the very mice and flies,
These tiny, humble, wordless things — how shall they tell us lies?
We are kin to beasts; no other answer can we bring.
The truth has left its fingerprints on every living thing.
Remember, should you have to choose between them in the strife,
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote life.

And we who listen to the stars, or walk the dusty grade
Or break the very atoms down to see how they are made,
Or study cells, or living things, seek truth with open hand.
The profoundest act of worship is to try to understand.
Deep in flower and in flesh, in star and soil and seed,
The truth has left its living word for anyone to read.
So turn and look where best you think the story is unfurled.
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the world.

 

[Nicedave]

A Carol for Children

God rest you merry, Innocents,​

Let nothing you dismay,
Let nothing wound an eager heart
Upon this Christmas day.
Yours be the genial holly wreaths,
The stockings and the tree;
An aged world to you bequeaths
Its own forgotten glee.

Soon, soon enough come crueler gifts,​

The anger and the tears;​

Between you now there sparsely drifts​

A handful yet of years.​

Oh, dimly, dimly glows the star​

Through the electric throng;​

The bidding in temple and bazaar​

Drowns out the silver song.​

The ancient altars smoke afresh,​

The ancient idols stir;​

Faint in the reek of burning flesh​

Sink frankincense and myrrh.​

Gaspar, Balthazar, Melchior!​

Where are your offerings now?​

What greetings to the Prince of War,​

His darkly branded brow?​

Two ultimate laws alone we know,​

The ledger and the sword --​

So far away, so long ago,​

We lost the infant Lord.​

Only the children clasp His hand;​

His voice speaks low to them,​

And still for them the shining band​

Wings over Bethlehem.​

God rest you merry, Innocents,​

While innocence endures,​

A sweeter Christmas than we to ours​

May you bequeath to yours.
Ogden Nash

 

[Withnail]

I thought it was going to be Waiving at Trains by Roger McGough...

 

[Withnail]

What will survive of us...

An Arundel Tomb

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

p. 1964

PHILIP LARKIN

 

[Nicedave]

On the death of a soldier

Make no mistake: he is dead. He does not sleep.
There is no whisper in his brain. There is nothing
in his chemistry that can say, “I am cold.”
No part of him is alive now, either here
or in a place of angels. He will decay.
The world has ended. The cosmos has collapsed
into a singularity. Traffic is passing on the road,
a blackbird sings, a frog leaps somewhere, tourists
are visiting the Taj Mahal, but the world has ended.
If God would send his Minister of State, to give us
the co-ordinates of heaven, if we could send
a party of detached observers on a preview tour
(sales pitch and brochures will not do); if then
His Excellency would put a human soul
on public view, explain and demonstrate
the method of its separation from the corpse,
and its means of transportation to eternity,
then we would know for sure: would know a man
whose entrails had been scattered on the earth
would be restored and counseled, and be happy.
Then making garbage of young men would not
be a kinder act, but there would be recompense.
The years they never knew, the loves they never gave,
would matter less. It would matter less that they
could not be engineers, or doctors, or play golf,
or father laughing babies. To put it differently:
until God’s envoy makes his case, and answers
all our questions, do not kill. Work against death.
Watch over life. Assume there is no other.

James Graham

 

[Nicedave]

Alone, you can fight,

You can refuse, you can

Take what revenge you can

But they roll over you.



But two people fighting

Back to back can cut through

A mob, a snake-dancing file

Can break a cordon, an army

Can meet an army.



Two people can keep each other

Sane, can give support, conviction,

Love massage, hope, sex.

Three people are a delegation,

A committee, a wedge. With four

You can play bridge and start

An organisation. With six

You can rent a whole house,

Eat pie for dinner with no

Seconds, and hold a fund-raising party.



A dozen makes a demonstration.

A hundred fill a hall.

A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter;

Ten thousand, power and your own paper;

A hundred thousand, your own media;

Ten million, your own country.



It goes on one at a time.

It starts when you care

To act, it starts when you do

It again after they said no

It starts when you say We

And know who you mean, and each

Day you mean one more.




Marge Piercy

 

[Jonah]

War Poem
Hear the words I sing
War's a horrid thing.
So I sing, sing, sing,
Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

The German guns
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom.

Baldrick.

 

[Withnail]

War Poem
Hear the words I sing
War's a horrid thing.
So I sing, sing, sing,
Ding-a-ling-a-ling.

The German guns
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom.

Baldrick.

http://www.staffordforum.com/xf/index.php?threads/the-forums-favourite-poems.4272/page-5#post-81605

 

[Withnail]

Beware of ice cream - http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-21985948 ...

..particularly raspberry ripple...

The Afterbirth

Huddled on the floor, the afterbirth
Was already offal.
There was the lotus-eater's whole island
Dragged out by its roots, into the light,
And flopped onto blood-soaked newsprint — a tangled
Puddle of dawn reds and evening purples,
To be rubbished. You were laughing and weeping
Into the glare. A tear-splitting dazzle
Like the noon sun finally stared at
Had burst into the bedroom when the Gorgon
Arrived and ripped her face off
And threw it to the floor. Such a shocking
Beauty born. I saw it flash up
That sunburned German with all his strength
Slamming the sea-tripes of the octopus
Hard down onto our honeymoon quay —
In the blue-blackish glare
Of my sunstroke.

You were weeping
Your biggest, purest joy. The placenta
Already meaningless, asphyxiated.
Your eyes dazzling tears as I thought
No other brown eyes could, ever,
As you lifted the dazzler. I eased
The heavy, fallen Eden into a bowl
Of ovenproof glass. A bowl with a meaning
All to itself — a hare crouching
In its claret — the curled-up, chopped-up corpse
That weeks before I had jugged in it. I felt
Like somebody's shadow on a cave wall.
A figure with a dog's head
On a tomb wall in Egypt. You watched me
From your bed, through the window,
As I buried the bowlful of afterbirth
In a motherly hump of ancient Britain,
Under the elms. You would eat no more hare
Jugged in the wine of its own blood
Out of that bowl. The hare nesting in it
Had opened its eye. As if some night,
Maybe with a thick snow falling softly,
It might come hobbling down from under the elms
Into our yard, crying: "Mother! Mother!
They are going to eat me."

Or bob up,
Dodging ahead, a witchy familiar, sent
To lock error beyond repair when it
Died silent, a black jolt,
Under my offside rear wheel
On the dawn A30. You heard nothing.
But it bled out of my pen. And re-formed
On my page, The hieroglyph of the hare.
You picked it up, curious.
And it screamed in your ear like a telephone —
The moon-eyed, ripped-up flower of it screamed.
Disembowelled, a stunned mask,
Unstoppably, like a burst artery,
The hare in the bowl screamed —

p.1998

TED HUGHES

 

[Nicedave]

Common Cold

Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
I'm not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold.

By pounding brow and swollen lip;
By fever's hot and scaly grip;
By those two red redundant eyes
That weep like woeful April skies;
By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;
By handkerchief after handkerchief;
This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

Bacilli swarm within my portals
Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,
But bred by scientists wise and hoary
In some Olympic laboratory;
Bacteria as large as mice,
With feet of fire and heads of ice
Who never interrupt for slumber
Their stamping elephantine rumba.

A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!
Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;
Don Juan was a budding gallant,
And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;
The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,
And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.
Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!
Ogden Nash