Sh Poetry Corner

MikeNorth on Thu Jul 08 2004 wrote:

This was going to be my 400th post, but I got waylaid somewhere, so it's my 406th. In honour of our much-missed friend in here, I thought I would reproduce a couple of poems from his favourite poet, A. E. Housman. Here are two of the poems from his work "A Shropshire Lad":

On Wenlock Edge

On Wenlock Edge, the wood's in trouble
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger,
When Uricon the city stood,
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare,
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high,
The tree of man was never quiet,
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The gale it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone,
Today the Roman and his trouble,
Are ashes under Uricon.

From far, from eve and morning.

From far, from eve and morning,
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me,
Blew thither, here am I.

Now - for a breath I tarry,
Nor yet disperse apart -
Take my hand quick and tell me,
What have you in your heart.

Speak now, and I will answer,
How shall I help you, say,
Ere to the wind's twelve quarters,
I take my endless way.

A.E. Housman (1859 - 1936)

SlydeWHOOSH on Sun Jul 18 2004 wrote:

Teardrops

I'm not someone
But something
I am a feeling
A feeling made by someone
Feeling sad
Or feeling happy

I am born in your eyes
I run down your cheek
When I get wiped away
By the one u love
By the one u hold
That love gets stronger

I am the meaning of life
I am what u drink
I am what u touch
I am always there
It is because of you
That I excist

To the person that gives birth to me
Help this person
Comfort him
Love him
For he will love U for it
I bring two people together

And make a love so strong
That can never be broken
Be there for him
Hold him in your arms
And with these gentle words
Show him u care
Because these teardrops, are for u...

SlydeWHOOSH on Sun Jul 18 2004 wrote:

I like to pretend to be like myself.
It's harder than you would suppose.
I frequently say things that I would say.
I often will wear my own clothes.

I put on my trainers and brush my hair
exactly the way that I'd do,
and sometimes I wear my own underwear
and no one has even a clue.

I walk just exactly the way I'd walk
and go to the places I'd go.
I hang with the people who hang with me
and say things that only I'd know.

I do a remarkable job sometimes
and everyone thinks that I'm me.
They can't tell that really I'm not myself,
but only pretending to be.

So next time you see me I might not be
the person you think that you see.
I often pretend to be like myself.
It's fun to pretend to be me.

Re-Lapse on Thu Jul 22 2004 wrote:

I can't write poem
I can't write verse
I find all this thinking
Very terse.

Putting pen to paper
is such a caper
I whish I could vanish
In a vapour

agricola on Sat Jul 24 2004 wrote:

‘Do you want to be in my gang?’

Be gone and sling your hook
You aren’t welcome any more,
A liberty you took
Now I’m showing you the door.
Don’t whimper bonny lad
Just take what now is due,
You tried to be like me
But I am not like you!

Roll along, out the ways, carry on, walking
Your words may be beautiful
But I’m in charge of talking.

You crashed the gate of coterie
Chose to interlope,
But we are self- appointed:
You haven’t got a hope.
Not only are you different
Outlawed, and a rougue,
You have broken our rules,
Now you are not in vogue.

Roll along, out the ways, carry on, fleeing
You might be friend to some
But I’m in charge of being.

‘Hard done by’, do you cry?
Who do you think will care?
When we are in our huddle, boy,
You, my friend, are spare.
Our right to wield the stick
Is justified because:
Arthur Miller had it right:
For righteousness, read ‘us’.

Roll along, out the ways, carry on, believing
You might well be God himself but
I’m in charge: you’re leaving.

Don’t bother to appeal,
Just keep your silky patter,
We alone know what is real
And which of God’s Laws matter.
So make your exit traitor
Go and save your soul,
I am General Goldfish
(What matter size of bowl?)

Roll along, out the way, carry on, my friend
Does my bum look big in this?
I’m in charge: The End.

sloafer on Sat Jul 24 2004 wrote:

wow Angel Chat
what a great poem i am moved!
havent read all the others yet but i will!

anyhow having felt inspired by your poem heres my attempt lol


im sitting here smiling,and very inspired,
your words were so moving,and sincerely admired,
my mind is now racing,with adverbs and nouns,
so i'll type without thinking,but god knows how it sounds

for once i too was looking,but not for a grape,
just for somekind of freedom...a form of escape,
now its not bars that held me,and made me confined
but a complicated life,in which i was entwined,

breaking out was a pleasure,that ive recently learned,
and now i have freedom...that was truly well earned,
so i hope that you too...can find happiness,
and not in small doses, but hopefully in excess

Jablez on Sun Aug 01 2004 wrote:

Waste Away

Waste away with me
While I use this borrowed light.
Come down with me
I've given up without a fight.
If only you knew
Just how I felt.
I saw you; my heart flew
And I began to melt.
I can't tell you how I feel right now,
There's no way you'd understand.
That I ditched her 'cuz I fancy you.
Oh please won't you take me by the hand
And waste away with me.

MikeNorth on Wed Aug 04 2004 wrote:

Today is the 90th anniversary of the outbreak of the First World War, and I thought it would be an appropriate day to have something on here by the most outstanding poet of that war, Wilfred Owen, who was himself killed in the war, aged 25.


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning...
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.

Wilfred Owen - Dulce et Decorum Est (an extract)

agricola on Wed Aug 04 2004 wrote:



Mike,
This is quite eerie: I was aware of the significance of today and made a 'mini-pilgrimage' to stand, for a while, by Wilfred Owen's memorial at Shrewsbury Abbey. It seems doubly tragic that he was killed a mere week before the end of hostilities. The end of this poem is doubly ironic: for those who may be interested, a rough (contemporary) translation would be-

'It is sweet and right to die for one's country'

Indeed.
Thanks for raising this Mike

Agricola.

bandmaster on Fri Aug 06 2004 wrote:

Ev'ry time I close my eyes - I think of you:

Your lovely, juicy two soft breasts,
I love to kiss touch and caress.
To tongue those nipples oh so hard
Until the pleasure hurts so bad,

And when I thrill you till you moan,
I'll let my hands still further roam:
Between your legs, around your bum,
I'll make you writhe, until you cum,

And then I move my head below,
To taste those juices as they flow.
Then you face North and I face South,
So you can tend to me by hand and mouth,

And when you tilt and cease to suck
Then I'll ride you tigress til I'm not worth a, not worth a...

(repeat ad lib til fade)

onlyme1981 on Sun Aug 08 2004 wrote:

I've only just realised this thread was here..... I wrote this poem a little while ago. It's not great and it's probably not correct poetry wise but it came from the heart. Here goes

Good times were upon us
We'd only just begun
We were happy together
Just having fun

It became more serious
As time went on
Spending each moment together
I thought this feeling would never be gone

The feeling went, from you not me
I bought you gifts to cheer you up
I did everything in my power
But no such luck

We drifted apart
Like couples sometimes do
But in my heart
I always wanted just you

I tried and I tried
To get us back on track
But everything I did
You dissed and turned into crap

Nothing I did
Was ever too much
But you took me for granted
I knew that much

I was desperate to keep you
I knew you were cheating on me
I didn't want to admit it
But it was there, plain to see

I gathered the courage
To end it with you
You didn't seem to care
That we were through

I pretend to be your friend
And help you when I can
But this kind of friendship
Is for no other man

You've left me broken
My heart is torn
It'll never be mended
Forever I'll mourn

xx

Silk and Big G on Mon Aug 09 2004 wrote:

Late at night,
Our engine’s purrs.
The road behind us,
Begins to blur.

We’re slowing down.
We’re turning right,
Our car fades leisurely
Into the night.

To a secret place,
From righteous eyes,
A Country Park,
With hordes of guys.

Gravel’s crunching,
Our head lights low.
Catching faces
That’ll watch our show.

Our engine’s off.
We look around
Approaching footsteps,
Are the only sound.

The silhouettes block
My view outside.
I get my F cups out
With Pride.

I look at ‘G’ fondly,
I love him but
Tonight I need
To be his slut.

To have his hands
Grab me tight
And ride me hard
With all his might.

He caresses my arm,
He touches my cheek.
Lost in his kiss,
I can not speak.

My breathing quickens.
My hands are clenched.
My breasts are swollen,
My knickers, drenched.

I turn to my window
Five sets of hands
Stroke up and down
Their hardened glands.

Their eyes consume
My every curve
With G’s tongue buried
In my pussy nerve.

I arch my back
And spread my thighs
And expose my hole,
To prying eyes.

And as Big G
Pulls out his cock.
One man gives
Our door a knock

He craves a fuck
He pleads to join
He wants my face
Buried in his groin

To me, he’s gone.
Although risqué,
I used him
As my foreplay.

He’s served his purpose,
I’m soaking wet.
The windows steam
Our bodies sweat.

And then we fuck
And squeal and groan
And suck and kiss
And cum and moan.

And now we’re done.
A sexy mess
Big G lovingly
Pulls down my dress.

He pulls me close
And kissed me tight
And the shadows outside
Fuse with the night.

Silk - August 2004

VenusnMars on Sat Aug 21 2004 wrote:

I haven`t written any for years, and destroyed some good stuff because I had a crisis of faith and felt I was being pretentious, but today I found one in my English GCSE work I did when I was 27. I`m chucking out most of my college work because its just creating a mess and I`m brutal like that!

Here it is, no great shakes, I had a `Tiger tiger burning bright` moment with the first verse then struggled with the rest! It does actually say a lot about me as a kid.



Goodness I`m in an introspective mood tonight!

Venusxxx

Wishmaster on Mon Aug 23 2004 wrote:

Great idea for a thread... even us swingers love the Arts!

A simple little love poem for all you romantics out there. Enjoy!

<blockquote>
Serenade For Eternity

To you, my dear, I raise my glass,
And toast the union of our souls,
That brings together the immortal joy,
Of lovers embraced in a cosmic dance.

And, - oh yes, - we have danced before,
I remember you from times long gone,
I seek your aura everytime I'm here,
I can feel the quickening when you are near.

You do not know me, although you will,
Your essence is present as I can feel,
Your love that carries across the years,
We are soul-mates, there are no tears.

We are linked through the ether,
Umbilical to each other,
Time is our Father,
And love - our Mother.

Who bring us back time and again,
To relive our lives and forget all pain,
That wrenches us when we are due,
To return to the Everlasting Blue.

It is so fine to find another,
Who is waiting for me, a familiar lover,
I can reach for her and know I'll find,
Welcoming arms and an open mind.

That knows we are playing the same old tune,
Who has joined with me as we raced the moon,
Around the world, oh, it was fun,
You are my truly, only one.
</blockquote>

Regards,
Wishmaster

TheAnalogKid on Thu Aug 26 2004 wrote:

Time is a thief

My greatest of foes is Father Time
he'll steal away beauty and all that was mine
again he will tick, and chime, his crime

the longer I fight him, more cruel he is
taking away faces of those I shall miss
and no warning he'll give when we place our last kiss

he will take his toll, my treasures will go
still he demands riches, those I love so
and then he shall laugh, at what little I know

i'm defeated already but resist I shall still
he has taken my body, but never my will
to claim his last tax, for that he shall kill

Time, you're a killer, and I'll have my last say
you stole away all, by minute by day
and now you have me, and my loved ones now pay

TheAnalogKid on Thu Aug 26 2004 wrote:

The Swing

Not that I desire more
nor what I have less
not discontent
with relationship's mess

Not imperfect partners
nor unfulfilled ache
not esteem issues
that cause me to partake

but a thirst for learning
a knowledge of more
an extra dimension
through bedroom doors

a sharing that's private
'tween two people's eyes
though many may share us
it's just you and I

TheAnalogKid on Thu Aug 26 2004 wrote:

Sir

out of the blue, the bluest eyes
I saw a hope glimmer and a smile break free
she spoke the softest words that hold such strength
and whispered them to me
stood still in awe, she left me there
bereft of words.. my heart raged for her
and I shed a tear and returned her smile
when she called me Sir

MikeNorth on Thu Sep 02 2004 wrote:

The recent publicity about the falling standards in the first-class post reminded me of the great 1936 documentary "Night Mail", with that wonderful poem W.H Auden wrote especially for the film.
Mike.



Night Mail
This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, the climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

(W H Auden)

MikeNorth on Fri Sep 10 2004 wrote:

Lines written by Andrew Motion in memory of those who were lost on Sept 11, 2001:

The Voices Live, by Andrew Motion

The voices live which are the voices lost:
we hear them and we answer, or we try
but words are nervous when we need them most
and shutter, stop, or dully slide away

so everything they mean to summon up
is always just too far, just out of reach,
unless our memories give time the slip
and learn the lesson that heart-wisdoms teach

of how in grief we find a way to keep
the dead beside us as our time goes on -
invisible and silent but the deep
foundation of ourselves, our cornerstone.