Tuesday Poet’s Club
November 18, 2014
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.”
― Philip Larkin
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theguttertrash.com 
Langston Hughes, a US jazz poet of renown, is popular within Marxists circles.
I don’t remember if it was a telecaster or a stradacaster
But I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel
Larkin makes an interesting argument for original sin for on his analysis it all goes back to Adam & Eve.
it all goes back to Adam & Eve.
Yea, but isn’t their “parent” dog?
Not poetry, exactly, but this from my dog-eared copy of Niccolo Machiavelli’s The Prince ..
Chapter 14, A Prince’s Concern In Military Matters..
“A prince must have no other objective, no other thought, nor take up any other profession but that of war, its methods and its discipline, for that is the only art expected of a ruler. And it is of such great value that it not only keeps hereditary princes in power, but often raises men of lowly condition to that rank. It may be noted, on the other hand, that when princes have given more thought to fine living than to arms, they have lost their states. The first cause of losing them is the neglect of this art, just as the first means of gaining them is proficiency in it.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Prince
Coleridges The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner would be my all time favourite poem. (It’s given us the metaphor/idiom of the “albatross around one’s neck,” as well as the saying “water, water, every where, nor any drop to drink”.)
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/151/151-h/151-h.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rime_of_the_Ancient_Mariner
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albatross_(metaphor)
The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner
I was sorely tempted tosy 😉
You might have heard this before, too: ” As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”
“I was sorely tempted tosy ;)”
I knew it, but couldn’t help myself. 😉
” As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”
Yes, it just paints a picture with words doesn’t it.
I commend our very ownErn Malley, an obscure train driver who only after his death gained recognition from the cognoscenti as our greatest poet.
I always like reading this by a pool in an exotic location towards the last few days of a holiday……………..
I think Leonard Teale did a recorded version that had a great impact upon a very young Walrus many years ago.
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won’t say die —
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.”
“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”
So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, “Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.”
So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.”
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
Winston Smith had a mate, Ampleforth was a close colleague at the Ministry of Truth. His job was to “rewrite” old poems in keeping with Party ideology, but he fell out with the Thought Police and disappeared.
Of course, the above is not where I was introduced to William Blake
It came from further afield than that
Thanks Walrus. I’d forgotten how wonderful that story and A.B. Paterson were. 😉
Just on Charlotte Church……………….apparently she’s stone cold broke I read somewhere.
apparently she’s stone cold broke I read somewhere.
Then she’s a TRUE artist 😉
I’d forgotten how wonderful that story and A.B. Paterson were.
They should make a movie.
They should make a movie. Or two … 🙂
Another ripper from ‘Banjo’ …
“There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber’s wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;”
http://www.middlemiss.org/lit/authors/patersonab/poetry/ironbark.html
“There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber’s wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;”
The Young Liberals ❓
LOL!
And another …
“It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn’t ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash –
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.”
http://www.middlemiss.org/lit/authors/patersonab/poetry/geebung.html
This thread has inspired me to get down a Henry Lawson.book handed down by my grandfather.
Our Andy’s gone to battle now
‘Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
Our Andy’s gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.
He’s left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving.
It’s dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.
Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?
Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy cross’d the Darling.
The gates are out of order now,
In storms the `riders’ rattle;
For far across the border now
Our Andy’s gone with cattle.
Poor Aunty’s looking thin and white;
And Uncle’s cross with worry;
And poor old Blucher howls all night
Since Andy left Macquarie.
Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;
And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant ’twill bring us Andy.
“”Our Andy’s gone””
Andy Coulson?
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
‘Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
`Clancy’s gone to Queensland droving, and we don’t know where he are.’
http://www.wallisandmatilda.com.au/clancy-of-the-overflow.shtml
“Then she’s a TRUE artist”
And no doubt converted from a Tory to a Labour voter.
Yep…………I love Henry too as well ToSY
“And no doubt converted from a Tory to a Labour voter.”
That’s the great fallacy of voting conservative, ppl think it instantly makes them rich.
LOL.
William Wordsworth.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
From the Hat come the Rabbit..
The truth in those of evil scorn
Is lies cast for themselves
Blind faith belief betrayed to be
Disguised as something else
Around the truth the liar danced
Amusing to behold
While he fleeced your faith in trust with smear
For promises of gold
He moralised from judgments horse
With one eye on the prize
Then sells his soul in powers lust
With hate faux outrage lies
He made a deal for all or none
To dance on puppet strings
To win a cup he’ll never fill
Destroying everything
Abbott Habit speaks in tongues
Twists truth to suit his ends
Double speak in wilful lie
No conscience no defence
Without a script In freeform thought
The true man is revealed
The only mantra from his lips
Is the idiot concealed
The cult of Tony wakes in fright
Those led by schemes opinion
Dozers sleep in lazy thought
Follow sycophants and minions
So wake the nation Ring the bell
Truth stir from bitter fog
The lowest ebb when unworthy strike
Turns discontent to mob.
From the hat comes the rabbit medicine show
Three word slogans intent concealed
He’ll fix all we hate with evangelical faith
As his masters grease palms and wheels
One term Tony phoney failed of his god
Broken promise No mandate all surprise
Let history’s fury judge the unworthy men
Elected on fancy’s flight and lies
Is this the god ?
Last night I dreamed of spirits wind
To stand of mortal coil
In judgement doubt a life lived full
Of ethics virtues toil
When questions asked of spirit pure
Of moral fibre be
Before I lay my cross to bear
What will be judged of me?
Intentions cast in honesty
No debt repaid to fend
Love given unconditionally
No motives, means to end
Who calls to stand of conscience test?
Blind faith assay decree
Is this the god some stand before?
Or just imperfect, inner me?
“Death To My Hometown”
The Ponz!
Are they yours RP?
I stopped writing lyrics and poems in the late 70’s/early 80’s – I fired up a couple in 2010 …
(my best mate died of cancer @ 33 in the early 80’s – we wrote songs together, I watched him slowly waste away and die over twelve months, until he could no longer hold his guitar)
This was my last in 1983.
BREATH OF DEATH
Oh, sweet, sweet, Breath of Death,
You linger at my door.
And you and I both know,
What you’re waiting for.
Oh, sweet, sweet, Breath of Death
You’re waiting at my side.
Waiting, waiting, patiently,
To take me on that ride.
Oh sweet, sweet, Breath of Death
You’re with me even now.
With deathly scythe you furrow,
The lines upon my brow.
For once a man is born,
Upon his back is death.
Until his children mourn,
A man can find no rest.
Amen
(Looks like we have some poets in the house.)
“Is not the Scotch phrase,” Burns writes to Mrs. Dunlop, “Auld lang syne, exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul: I shall give you the verses on the other sheet. Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment.” “The following song,” says the poet, when he communicated it to George Thomson, “an old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man’s singing, is enough to recommend any air.” These are strong words, but there can be no doubt that, save for a line or two, we owe the song to no other minstrel than “minstrel Burns.”
Auld Lange Syne
I.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
II.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’t the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
III.
We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,
Frae mornin’ sun till dine:
But seas between us braid hae roar’d,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
IV.
And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll take a right guid willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.
V.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!
http://www.thehypertexts.com/Robert%20Burns%20Translations%20Modern%20English.htm
http://lcweb2.loc.gov/diglib/media/loc.natlib.ihas.100010457/0001.tif/3084
Alexander Nasmyth, Robert Burns, 1787
Yeah I written a great deal of poetry. My music publisher wanted me to do a book of my poems but I’m not into it….
When I was really ill, poetry was part of my recovery as was Philosophy memes ( I studied philosophy and was offered a PHD in philosophy a while back..)
.
Life
A life of certain is live not lived
The future holds to turns and twist
On vehement turns we lose, things that fall
On journeys long, to life’s long call
Who knows what’s certain?
What must be done?
If love is strong
We shall overcome.
Talk
If words are lost and fall
How can we talk at all?
If talk is bottled tight
No wrong is to be set right
If no word comes to pass
Then thoughts are camouflaged
The simple things to say
Are hard to give away
Strait simple talk is cheap
The cost of silence steep
If you never speak your mind
Thoughts are lost and hard to find
How can someone ever know?
When no conversation flows
Without the dialogue
The discussion will be lost
So talk and have your voice
Talk above the noise
Ask you shall receive
Talk to be perceived
Talk to save your love
Talk to rise above
Talk to be a friend
Talk it over, then talk again
To talk is only half
One side is not enough
Cast a word but stop to listen
As your ears inform your wisdom
Me at a slam poetry night
The interesting thing about this is after I was in hospital I was on my room alone recovering and started to get depressed (I was on oxycontin and endone for the pain) .
I dragged myself out to a slam poetry nigh with a science theme to snap myself out of it and wrote this on the way in on the bus.
I turned up and sat by myself and someone I didn’t know (one or the organisers) came up and talked to me. They had inadvertently entered me in the competition and when it hit I was first up …on the spot. Now I have done tones of gigs and lectures in my life.. but to stand in front of a room full of strangers doing poetry was a trip indeed…
It really helped me..snapped me out of it… I told me story on stage and it went over a treat..
What I didn’t know is it was being taped for a radio show 😯
Heavy stuff, RP … thanks for sharing …
This should strike a note here … 😉
BOOZE
Wine is good for me!
Unless I’ve had too much and then it makes me see
The wrongs I’ve done to everyone.
Damn you, bottle! Set me free from wanderings every night.
Oh, leave me, leave me, go away, please leave me to my plight!
Without your drug I lived for years,
Oh, yes! I still had fears of failing this or that
But now I’m like a drowning rat, who’s left his ship too late.
Too late to save myself, who knows?
Who cares? Because, I’ll tell you friend, I, enjoy my booze!
Can’t wait for the Random Recipe thread! 🙂
If talk is bottled tight
No wrong is to be set right
btw, thanks reb 😉
Science Rhymes with nothing
A Denier wants to hear
Nice 🙂
“Too late to save myself, who knows?
Who cares? Because, I’ll tell you friend, I, enjoy my booze!”
🙂
Charles Bukowski
(1920 – 1994)
beer
I don’t know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
“what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!”
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there’s beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
Wine is good for me!
Wine is fine but whiskey’s quicker
I wrote this in the mid 70’s when the Vietnam Vets were being so badly treated (I was discharged in 1972 and I’d served with a lot of them) … in many ways I think it’s still appropriate, I believe.
FOREIGN SOLDIERS
They fought away from home, as soldiers often do.
And who was friend and who was foe they never really knew.
With borrowed guns and planes and tanks they helped the people fight.
But in their minds the darkness there, would never see the light.
For freedom is an abstract thing, the people couldn’t see.
For man thinks not of riches, when he lives in poverty.
To watch their children live and grow was all they wanted now.
To fight and die rejected, was just a sacred cow.
And so the soldiers left. For nations minds they change.
And many couldn’t understand. The war they’d fought was strange.
Had warriors died to free a land? They never did know why.
Or had they fought to cover up – a politicians lie?
The people found an end to war with friends no longer foe
And in their hearts were glad to see, the foreign soldiers go.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
T.S.Eliot, The Hollow Men
See more at: http://allpoetry.com/The-Hollow-Men#sthash.a7DU7j8C.dpuf