anybody fancy a bit of poetry

[Eddie]

Seriously though, my favourite poem is William Blake's "London":

I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appalls,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.


As ripped off by The Verve for their awesome track "History"

 

[Eddie]

Another favourite is :

DULCE ET DECORUM EST - Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori

 

[i8therags]

it was a sunny day in may
when games were on a saturday
do you recon a few today mate
a few i said i think a full gate
against charlton your full of shit
we could go up so don;t be a tit

its not a full house thats for sure
he said while his feet couldn;t touch the floor
we;ll loose this game by one or two
at the end we hugged and cried cos thats what blues do.

 

[Tell The King]

Another favourite is :

DULCE ET DECORUM EST - Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori

Brilliant.

 

[Sleeping_Easy]

My dads a poet and a writer and has written or man magazines including united we stand :(. He's always tellin me about his new stuff and now i see poetry when i come on here i just cant escape it

 

[toby]

My dads a poet and a writer and has written or man magazines including united we stand :(. He's always tellin me about his new stuff and now i see poetry when i come on here i just cant escape it

could he write a poem about us bluemoon forum that would be good I could give him a list of names he could included

 

[ctidcarl]

Heres one I made earlier!!

A couple of years back when the Glazers were taking over utd, I wrote this to razz a couple of rag mates off - thought I'd share it here........


There was a man without much money,
Who thought one day it would be funny,
From his home in the U.S.A.,
To buy a team he'd not seen play!!

As he sat on his settee,
He came across MUTV,
"Thats it" he said, "I'll buy Man Yoo,
Though it will cost a buck or two"

Across the water at Old T.
The fans all cried "How can this be??"
"We're the biggest and the best"
"Lets stop this Yank - we must protest"

"Lets make some banners and some flags"
"Get in the papers and some mags"
"Lets show the world how much we care"
"Cos we're yoonited" They despaired!!

But nothing could stop Malc. of course,
Not even two guys with a horse,
And now today he owns it all,
But doesn't care about football....!!

He now owns Fergie and his puppets,
He owns the ground and crowds of muppets,
The rest of us look on with glee
And laugh at M.U.P.L.C.!!!!

The moral to this story, is,
That though yoonited may be his,
He cares more for me and you.....
Cos Malcolm Glazer - IS A BLUE!!!!!!!!!!!

 

[toby]

Heres one I made earlier!!

A couple of years back when the Glazers were taking over utd, I wrote this to razz a couple of rag mates off - thought I'd share it here........


There was a man without much money,
Who thought one day it would be funny,
From his home in the U.S.A.,
To buy a team he'd not seen play!!

As he sat on his settee,
He came across MUTV,
"Thats it" he said, "I'll buy Man Yoo,
Though it will cost a buck or two"

Across the water at Old T.
The fans all cried "How can this be??"
"We're the biggest and the best"
"Lets stop this Yank - we must protset"

"Lets make some banners and some flags"
"Get in the papers and some mags"
"Lets show the world how much we care"
"Cos we're yoonited" They despaired!!

But nothing could stop Malc. of course,
Not even two guys with a horse,
And now today he owns it all,
But doesn't care about football....!!

He now owns Fergie and his puppets,
He owns the ground and crowds of muppets,
The rest of us look on with glee
And laugh at M.U.P.L.C.!!!!

The moral to this story, is,
That though yoonited may be his,
He cares more for me and you.....
Cos Malcolm Glazer - IS A BLUE!!!!!!!!!!!

pmsl that brilliant

 

[der-bomber]

The breach in question is the gap in the wall of the city of Hafleur, which the English army held under siege. Henry was encouraging his troops to attack the city again, even if they have to 'close the wall with English dead'.

KING HENRY V:
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

 

[kronkonite]

Ariel Sylvia Plath
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!--The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

******-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks----

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air----
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel----
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.