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Poetry Corner
- Thread starter George Hannah
- Start date
Not exactly poetry but the very poetic beginning of Under Milk Wood.
To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea.
To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea.
Not come across her before - according to the Guardian she's more cheerful now than when she started writing 15 years ago. Under the wing of John Cooper Clark these days apparently and formerly member of a punk band. She greatly admired The Clash whose roadie Johnny Green was also recently on the tour with her.
I saw her in Sheffield supporting John Cooper Clark. She was phenomenal. Some poets just speak your language if you see what I mean. I love to see poets perform their work so you get a better sense of the feelings involved.
Tim of the Oak
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 29 Dec 2012
- Messages
- 18,111
Simon Armitage is quaking in his boots with all these candidates for Poet Laureate!
Millwallawayveteran1988
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 23 Sep 2010
- Messages
- 37,010
There was a young man named frank
Who had a spectacular wank
He came on a pear
And forgot it was there
The smell it gave off was rank.
How about that
Who had a spectacular wank
He came on a pear
And forgot it was there
The smell it gave off was rank.
How about that
Indaparkside
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 28 Dec 2015
- Messages
- 14,542
There was a young man from Calcutta who had a wank in a gutter
Old lady came by
Got spunk in her eye
and thought it was anchors best butter
Old lady came by
Got spunk in her eye
and thought it was anchors best butter
MellowJoe
Well-Known Member
not a poetry type person.. prefer things to be said plainly, i think i get this.. Stevie Smiths
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Nascent Blues
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- 20 Sep 2009
- Messages
- 5,226
Long Distance II
Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
Put hot water bottles her side of the bed
And still went to renew her transport pass.
You couldn’t just drop in. You had to phone.
He’d put you off an hour to give him time
To clear away her things and look alone
As though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn’t risk my blight of disbelief
Though sure that very soon he’d hear her key
Scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she’d just popped out to get the tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven’t both gone shopping; just the same,
In my new black leather phone book there’s your name
And the disconnected number I still call.
TONY HARRISON (b. 1937)
Though my mother was already two years dead
Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas,
Put hot water bottles her side of the bed
And still went to renew her transport pass.
You couldn’t just drop in. You had to phone.
He’d put you off an hour to give him time
To clear away her things and look alone
As though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn’t risk my blight of disbelief
Though sure that very soon he’d hear her key
Scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.
He knew she’d just popped out to get the tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.
You haven’t both gone shopping; just the same,
In my new black leather phone book there’s your name
And the disconnected number I still call.
TONY HARRISON (b. 1937)
George Hannah
Well-Known Member
Not exactly poetry but the very poetic beginning of Under Milk Wood.
To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea.
a few extra lines here