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ASF Poetry Thread


extra verse....

Ye Jacobites by name, don yer kilt, don yer kilt;
Ye Jacobites by name, don yer kilt;
Ye Jacobites by name,
if fornication's your game :casanova:
or when your ass is on flame, don your kilt.

PS read somewhere that the kilt is the ideally practical choice for a highland man - perfectly adapted for fornication and diarrhoea
 



A BURIAL SITE TO GO WITH THE MEDAL

Five Anzacs have been found in Flanders, two have been ID’ed
their 90 year old photographs look on as they are freed
there’s healing for that stumpy branch that constitutes that tree
their family’s, and the nation's – for they died for you and me

they’ve been granted just a little luck to have a look around
it beats a nigh-on-century of lying in the ground
I wonder what they’d think of things a second time around
I wonder if they’d think the things they fought for have been found.

no longer just a medal stuck behind some aging glass
no longer unknown soldiers pushing up some foreign grass
no longer just some “metal stuff” ignored each time I pass.
no longer an unanswered and unanchored piece of brass

your future died a week before this medal’s die was cast
since then you’ve lain a vassal in a battlefield so vast
a bullet holed your uniform the day you breathed your last
a hurried service buried by some road the years have passed.

does it matter that that medal isn’t cast in solid gold
does it matter that their feet were facing forward brave and bold
heck yes! for if we paid them what their sacrifice was worth
we’d have long since had to sacrifice our corner of the earth

for us they put their fears aside, for us they tempted fate
for us their kissed their photo-ed bride, then charged some gun with mates
at least they’re found, a grave at last, and named albeit late
Jack Hunter and George Calder – at last you lie in state.

what matters in this story is - this story ISN’T closed
what matters? – what has happened to the world as those five dozed
have things they fought for happened? or just hypocrites exposed
or now (as then) is it just the just men, die with justice juxtaposed.
 

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Inspiration for this poem ? - it is intended as a response to Leonard Cohen "Take this Waltz"
I can honesty tell you I have no idea what he is talking about in that poem lol
https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=210186&highlight=waltz#post210186



FROM BUSH BAND TO ORCHESTRA, ACCORDING TO A PLAN

I used to go to dances in a bushwacked bygone day
a clumsy mix of prances while some 3 man band would play
my hair was bushy, wild yet bland, but bushy was ok
but bushiest of all ? the band!! it sounded like pure hay

the pianist he sounded pissed, but still he kept a tune
it sounded like a blend of Liszt and a sex starved wild baboon
I never quite could comprehend how he got the whole damned room
to resonate around the bend and the seats would “hertz” with each boom

the drummer then accomp’nied him - not sure if he followed or lead
he sounded like a reject from that group the Grateful Dead
he’d often lead the singing, and “elope with the words as if wed”
though it sounded more like an antelope that had fallen out of bed

the saxophone took out top billing (according to his rating)
a sexy moan that could be quite chilling – or sound like elephants mating
was mainly Beatle mania – as they crawled from behind some grating -
he’d blast a tune, the girls would swoon, (cos they’d had a whole week waiting)

the MC used to join in with a song to thrill us all
was something like an episode of “all creatures great and small”
but he’d mix up all the square dance steps with such a confusing call
now I know why it’s called ‘ballroom’ – sheesh - we’d be tied up in a ball !

I must have spent a fortune on those dance admission fees
the mem-ories worth twice as much – they gave me “dancing knees”
I must have heard a million times “select your partner please”
for gypsy tap or barn dance, - or just share half cultured fleas.

we’d trip the light fantastic, though fantastic it was not
a few of us were hopeless, and the rest had lost the plot
but slowly of so slowly we learned that damned gavotte
(we pretended we were goalies ‘bout to face an eight yard shot)

……………….

the moral of this story is I then became a man
and all these clumsy three-steps had been fashioned to a plan
swap jeans for fancy cummerbund, read orchestra for band
I whirled a ballgowned princess, and her name (I recall) was … forget.

Sting - Until
Now there's a great poem / song / waltz / concept lyrics here :-
https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=187750&highlight=waltz#post187750
 
Frederico García Lorca ...
Amazing what you can discover with google and wiki ...
Cohen has described Lorca as being his idol in his youth, and named his daughter Lorca Cohen for that reason

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federico_García_Lorca

Federico Garcia Lorca asesinado por el fascismo (his assassination)

Federico Garcia Lorca - a song / poem

One thing's for sure - Leonard Cohen would have had a few more joints than this bloke (even if those two poems, Take this Waltz etc, are similar at the end of day)
 

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I post this purely for completion of this checkout of this sidetrack..
Joan Baez apparently recited this poem - one of Frederico's
(still pretty weird if you ask me )
Introduction with the poem 'Ghazal of Dark Death' by Federico Garcia Lorca.
 
Apologies to Shirley Bassey's "GOOD BAD BEAUTIFUL"...

THOUGHTS AFTER WATCHING THE NEWS

I've seen good
but bleeding Buddhists
- mankind's "better side"

I've seen right
and Gods of might
and Western law

I've seen need
and Gods of greed
and thin-veiled genocide

I've seen spin
(coalition's kin)
and Gods of War

Since your reign
the number slain
has truly multiplied

I've seen gods
of love replaced
by warlike Mars

your spaceship gents
contains some tents
and even food supplied

good luck on Mars
(amongst the stars)
and "bon voyage"
 
should Burmese generals rule? a valid question!
legitimate as valid questions come,
but here's an illegitimate suggestion....
those bastards killed those monks and then played dumb!
 
Charles Kingsley "Young and Old" Poem movie animation


 
If anyone saw "Adventures in English" tonight
the following is an extract...

Background :- Wickliffe wrote the first English Bible (see lollards). For his sins he died, was dug up by the priests of the day - bones removed, burned, and his ashes scattered in the Avon..

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wycliffe
http://www.bartleby.com/100/pages/page483.html


After Wickliffe came Tyndale - who also had to hide overseas whilst he dared to translate the bible into English, "the language of the ploughboys"
killed for doing so.

 
Further to last post
http://www.ukstudentlife.com/Ideas/Fun/Wordplay.htm#Plurals
 
..
http://www.ukstudentlife.com/Ideas/Fun/Wordplay.htm#Pronunciation
 
QUESTIONS OF OUR LEADERS SHOULD THERE BE A TELEVISED DEBATE

First question noble leaders
since you're obviously adored
the apples that you feed us
from which promises are cored
are they more like hot air heaters
in some big balloon unmoored?
.. are you hot air, yet you need us?
are you all we can afford?

Next question noble statemen
post election are you bored?
once you've fooled electoral gatesmen
are your promises ignored?
are we now the best of mates then
with some madman wielding sword?
is a "stuff-up" understatement?
is calamity assured ?

Last question noble minister
should you become "first lord",
are you hatching something sinister
in liberal or labour ward?
are the ethics you administer
where darts land on some board?
praps your clever speech-write spin(i)sters
should be the ones we drag aboard?
 
A couple of alternatives - I'm probably of the second school


btw, even Edgar Albert Guest saw the humourous side of all this ....
 
A Psalm of Life
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.)

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,”” act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
 
Thieves seize skis.
------------------------------------------
A bloke's back bike brake-block broke.

sheesh, I have enough problems with "red leather, yellow leather" (repeated say 10 times fairly fast of course)
 
When you ride your motorbike,
wear tough strong leathers, alright,
if you don't, you'll not be hiking
and be sure, certainly not biking.
 

IN THIS ONE YOU LINE UP WITH THE PELLS OR THE GORES

they say the world is changing, and it’s getting extra warm,
a bit like (praps) late onset menopause?
a whisky lead recovery? - no ice will be the norm ?
we ask quite rightly, “hey are men a cause”?
to strike a blow for earthly life, pre-emptively inform,
you line up with the Pells or with the Gores,
the worst that it can pan out, it’s the lull before the storm,
at best? - just add the first and second wars.

no man should take another by his soul or suit la-pells,
no man should preach against a sense of caution,
you silly man, the deaths you share by your “non-action yells”
by 15 million times out-rank abortion.
don’t preach against this logic as we’re heading into hells
don’t change the subject with divine contortion,
cos hell is where we’re heading, and denial sorta smells,
they’re earthly facts, they don’t need your distortion.

no “choral” in the chorus and no polar in the bear
some flowers mark their last and final breath
some spin doctored thesaurus, and some yarns denial-shared
accompany deniers unto death,
if someone knows the chorus - why we shouldn’t act (and now),
not guessed, not jest, not blessed – give it your best.
so what if facts are porous, there’s no water anyhow
cos man has been one deadly earthly guest.

Sir George the rogue approached the rock, and made a holy wish
ignored the storm, ignored the warning bell,
“that rock’s a lot of poppycock”, he cried, to man and fish
“the swells just small, and further, all is swell”,
but then it all got wishy washy, “maybe I was wrong,
perhaps the rest were right to hear that knell”;
well just to keep it mutual in the way they hear your song
you might as well insist – ignore No-bel.

there’s no-one has the right to preach that everything is fine
there’s no-one has the right to preach “ignore”
my grandkids want to know why we ignored the warning sign
and why we charged on foot flat to the floor,
as stewards of this earthly dome, there’s morals to combine,
to fight against an ever rising shore,
don’t make this home a hell on earth, a smoking charcoal shrine
don’t listen to George Pell – believe Al Gore.

............

we ought to give it our best shot on where we want to steer
we ought to try to get ourselves on track
hey sure the sun is massive, and its hotter there than here
but still we need defending AND attack
till better then to curse the light - than curse the dark and fear,
"a candle lit" might be too many mac!
be careful of that candle for it's all now so severe
it might perhaps just break the camel's back
 
The Inchcape Rock
by Robert Southey, Bristol, 1802

An older writer mentions a curious tradition which may be worth quoting. ‘By east the Isle of May’, says he, ‘twelve miles from all land in the German seas, lyes a great hidden rock, called Inchcape, very dangerous for navigators, because it is overflowed everie tide. It is reported in old times, upon the saide rock there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, which rang continually, being moved by the sea, giving notice to the saylers of the danger. This bell or clocke was put there and maintained by the Abbott of Aberbrothok, and being taken down by a sea pirate, a yeare thereafter he perished upon the same rocke, with ship and goodes, in the righteous judgement of God.’ – STODDART’S Remarks on Scotland.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round,
And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck,
And he fix’d his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made his whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, ‘My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.’

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘The next who comes to the Rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away,
He scour’d the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder’d store,
He steers his course for Scotland’s shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky
They cannot see the Sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.’

‘Canst hear,’ said one, ‘the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore.’
‘Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.’

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,―
‘Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!’

Sit Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.
 
(I notice Kennas on the car thread suggested he was going on "two feet and a heartbeat" - so you can blame him for this extra contribution to cyber-pollution - at least there are no pulp-and/or-paper-pages involved lol)

TWO FEET AND A HEARTBEAT

I think Forrest Gump’s my hero
cos he never drove a car,
with his impact next to zero
yet he came to get this far,
he just babbled on at bustops
with well travelled expertise,
I think Forrest Gump's my hero
- for the wishbones in his knees.

When we’re born we’re all on P plates
till we learn which knee goes first -
Forrest kicked his extra knee plates
(and the rest was unrehearsed),
and he took off bipeds flying,
on these mad gyrating legs,
it was all so breath-defying,
on those death-defying pegs.

Well he frowned at a Ferrari
and he never owned a Fiat,
he just walked on to “where are we”
with a V1 not a V8,
with his motor never missin'
(that he didn’t have to start),
just a biped on a mission,
and a bivale in his heart.

Man has always had this motor
since young Adam was a boy,
now his heartbeat’s a Toyota
or some other four wheel toy,
but I now suspect some quota
says the brand new custom fleet
are two kneecaps on a rotor
and a heartbeat and two feet.

..........
We can all make this decision
and it ain't too late to start
we're all bipeds on a mission,
with a bivale in our heart.
 
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