Your favourite poem

[BimboBob]

I must go down to the sea again
The lonely sea and sky
I left my shoes and socks there
I do hope they are dry.

There are holes in the sky
Where the rain gets in
But they're ever so small
That's why the rain is thin.

 

[mancity2012_eamo]

all Scots are melancholy bastards.

I actually have another favourite about death. always makes me want to cry. I will post it once I find it.

The few about war in here have been very striking. It reminds me of one of my favourite Al Stewart songs and one I always regarded as poetry, with or without the music.
It’s long but beautiful.

Roads to Moscow.

They crossed over the border, the hour before dawn,
Moving in lines through the day.
Most of our planes were destroyed on the ground where they lay.
Waiting for orders we held in the wood.
Word from the front never came.
By evening the sound of the gunfire was miles away.
Ah, softly we move through the shadows, slip away through the trees.
Crossing their lines in the mists in the fields on our hands and on our knees.
And all that I ever was able to see,
The fire in the air glowing red, silhouetting the smoke on the breeze.

All summer they drove us back through the Ukraine.
Smolensk and Viasma soon fell.
By autumn we stood with our backs to the town of Orel.
Closer and closer to Moscow they come,
Riding the wind like a bell.
General Guderian stands at the crest of the hill.
Winter brought with her the rains, oceans of mud filled the roads.
Gluing the tracks of their tanks to the ground while the sky filled with snow.
And all that I ever was able to see,
The fire in the air glowing red silhouetting the snow on the breeze.

In the footsteps of Napoleon the shadow figures stagger through the winter.
Falling back before the gates of Moscow, standing in the wings like an avenger.
And far away behind their lines the partisans are stirring in the forest.
Coming unexpectedly upon their outposts, growing like a promise.
You'll never know, you'll never know which way to turn, which way to look you'll never see us.
As we're stealing through the blackness of the night,
You'll never know, you'll never hear us.

And the evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.
The morning roads leads to Stalingrad, and the sky is softly humming.

Two broken Tigers on fire in the night
Flicker their souls to the wind.
We wait in the lines for the final approach to begin.
It's been almost four years that I've carried a gun.
At home it will almost be spring.
The flames of the Tigers are lighting the road to Berlin.
Ah, quickly we move through the ruins that bow to the ground.
The old men and children they send out to face us, they can't slow us down.
And all that I ever was able to see,
the eyes of the city are opening
Now it's the end of the dream.

I'm coming home, I'm coming home, now you can taste it in the wind, the war is over.
And I listen to the clicking of the train-wheels as we roll across the border.
And now they ask me of the time that I was caught behind their lines and taken prisoner.
"They only held me for a day, a lucky break, " I say they turn and listen closer.
I'll never know, I'll never know why I was taken from the line and all the others.
To board a special train and journey deep into the heart of holy Russia.

And it's cold and damp in the transit camp, and the air is still and sullen.
And the pale sun of October whispers the snow will soon be coming.
And I wonder when I'll be home again and the morning answers "Never".
And the evening sighs, and the steely Russian skies go on forever.

 

[Manc baggie]

This is quite fun.

My Shadow - by Robert Louis Stevenson​

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow,
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

 

[1.618034]

The Station by Robert Hastings


Tucked away in our subconscious minds is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long, long trip that almost spans the continent. We’re traveling by passenger train, and out the windows we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving at a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hills, of biting winter and blazing summer and cavorting spring and docile fall.
But uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour we will pull into the station. There will be bands playing, and flags waving. And once we get there so many wonderful dreams will come true. So many wishes will be fulfilled and so many pieces of our lives finally will be neatly fitted together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes for loitering … waiting, waiting, waiting, for the station.
However, sooner or later we must realize there is no one station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.
“When we reach the station that will be it!”, we cry. Translated it means, “When I’m 18, that will be it! When I buy a new 450 SL Mercedes Benz, that will be it! When I put the last kid through college, that will be it! When I have paid off the mortgage, that will be it! When I win a promotion, that will be it! When I reach the age of retirement, that will be it! I shall live happily ever after!”
Unfortunately, once we get it, then it disappears. The station somehow hides itself at the end of an endless track.
"Relish the moment” is a good motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118:24: “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.” It isn’t the burdens of today that drive men mad. Rather, it is regret over yesterday or fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are twin thieves who would rob us of today.
So, stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot oftener, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along.
The station will come soon enough.

 

[FogBlueInSanFran]

This is quite fun.​

​

My Shadow - by Robert Louis Stevenson​

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow,
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Oh wow -- my mom used to read that to me when I was very, very young at bedtime. What a lovely little memory.

 

[FogBlueInSanFran]

The few about war in here have been very striking. It reminds me of one of my favourite Al Stewart songs and one I always regarded as poetry, with or without the music.
It’s long but beautiful.

Roads to Moscow.

They crossed over the border, the hour before dawn,
Moving in lines through the day.
Most of our planes were destroyed on the ground where they lay.
Waiting for orders we held in the wood.
Word from the front never came.
By evening the sound of the gunfire was miles away.
Ah, softly we move through the shadows, slip away through the trees.
Crossing their lines in the mists in the fields on our hands and on our knees.
And all that I ever was able to see,
The fire in the air glowing red, silhouetting the smoke on the breeze.

All summer they drove us back through the Ukraine.
Smolensk and Viasma soon fell.
By autumn we stood with our backs to the town of Orel.
Closer and closer to Moscow they come,
Riding the wind like a bell.
General Guderian stands at the crest of the hill.
Winter brought with her the rains, oceans of mud filled the roads.
Gluing the tracks of their tanks to the ground while the sky filled with snow.
And all that I ever was able to see,
The fire in the air glowing red silhouetting the snow on the breeze.

In the footsteps of Napoleon the shadow figures stagger through the winter.
Falling back before the gates of Moscow, standing in the wings like an avenger.
And far away behind their lines the partisans are stirring in the forest.
Coming unexpectedly upon their outposts, growing like a promise.
You'll never know, you'll never know which way to turn, which way to look you'll never see us.
As we're stealing through the blackness of the night,
You'll never know, you'll never hear us.

And the evening sings in a voice of amber, the dawn is surely coming.
The morning roads leads to Stalingrad, and the sky is softly humming.

Two broken Tigers on fire in the night
Flicker their souls to the wind.
We wait in the lines for the final approach to begin.
It's been almost four years that I've carried a gun.
At home it will almost be spring.
The flames of the Tigers are lighting the road to Berlin.
Ah, quickly we move through the ruins that bow to the ground.
The old men and children they send out to face us, they can't slow us down.
And all that I ever was able to see,
the eyes of the city are opening
Now it's the end of the dream.

I'm coming home, I'm coming home, now you can taste it in the wind, the war is over.
And I listen to the clicking of the train-wheels as we roll across the border.
And now they ask me of the time that I was caught behind their lines and taken prisoner.
"They only held me for a day, a lucky break, " I say they turn and listen closer.
I'll never know, I'll never know why I was taken from the line and all the others.
To board a special train and journey deep into the heart of holy Russia.

And it's cold and damp in the transit camp, and the air is still and sullen.
And the pale sun of October whispers the snow will soon be coming.
And I wonder when I'll be home again and the morning answers "Never".
And the evening sighs, and the steely Russian skies go on forever.

That's really very, very good.

Would love to have an Al Stewart record nominated on our albums thread at some point. "Year of the Cat" has been one of my favo(u)rite songs for nearly 50 years, and I know a bit of his other singles, but never had a chance to really listen to a whole record.

 

[mancity2012_eamo]

That's really very, very good.

Would love to have an Al Stewart record nominated on our albums thread at some point. "Year of the Cat" has been one of my favo(u)rite songs for nearly 50 years, and I know a bit of his other singles, but never had a chance to really listen to a whole record.

Leave it with me.
I’ve come close before.
There’s better than Year of the Cat, in my humble opinion, although it is quite good.

 

[PinkFinal]

Man Was Made To Mourn - Robert Burns

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"
Began the rev'rend sage;
"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride; -
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours-
Thy glorious, youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law.
That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then Age and Want - oh! ill-match'd pair -
Shew man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav'n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn, -
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh! a blest relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!"

 

[roman totale]

Dulce et Decorum Est​

BY 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 gas-shells dropping softly 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.

This is the one that sprung immediately to my mind when I saw the thread.

 

[JOGAMIGMOG]

Dulce et Decorum Est​

BY 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 gas-shells dropping softly 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.