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PostPosted: Fri May 23, 2008 1:45 pm 
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He's a bit flip about Owen MC. But an interesting sdelection of poems.


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PostPosted: Fri May 23, 2008 6:20 pm 
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Agreed - and personally I would have selected 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' over 'Dulce et Decorum est' - but maybe that's just me. Still, this guy seems to be a Don Marquis fan, so he can't be all bad.

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PostPosted: Fri May 23, 2008 9:55 pm 
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Agreed, Mike. These lines always make me shiver:
'Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. '

It's been so nice to have some visitors this week.
Nobody going to post a favourite? Or one of their own efforts?Mike - your fave DonMarquis...?


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PostPosted: Fri May 23, 2008 11:23 pm 
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Quote:
Nobody going to post a favourite? Or one of their own efforts?


Ok, just to lower the tone a little here's one of mine I put on The Guardian blog and was surprised they didn't censor it, yeah Guardian!

MY NEIGHBOUR SHAVES HER PUSSY

My neighbour shaves her pussy,
She does it every week.
This information she disclosed,
Then said, "Come take a peek..."

Now I'm a happily married guy
And I thought... 'A man of the world'
But I must admit she made me blush,
As through the door she twirled.

'Oh do come in!' She giggled.
'You can't see it from over there!'
I swallowed rather noisily,
And said a silent prayer.

I stepped shyly over her threshold,
And crossed another (in my mind).
And wondered what my wife would say
If ever she should find...

...that I had gone to visit
My neighbour, all alone.
To view her shaven pussy,
In the privacy of her home.

'You're so shy. Do come closer,'
'It's hygienic. It's here, on the mat'
Can you imagine my astonishment,
When I looked down and saw her cat?

She'd shaved the poor creature,
Right down to its very skin,
I breathed a grateful relieving sigh,
And gave a sickly grin.

Now there's a lesson to be learned here,
On how easy a fertile mind,
Can get you into trouble,

Phew...close encounters...of the feline kind.


They wanted poetry about animals...

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PostPosted: Sat May 24, 2008 12:14 am 
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They wanted poetry about animals...

I see... :lol:


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PostPosted: Sun May 25, 2008 9:20 am 
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A Bedouin's Tale - John Fowles

searching we came to a place
and found ourselves alone
utterly lost in wilderness
in meaningless blank stone

and the words had gone like water
under a desert sun
our mouths had lacked all discipline
and let the goatskins run

no hope in the wordless waste
no camel-pools to aid
no poems thoughts or apophthegms
to give a little shade

no faith could be stated
no certain worth assigned
too many tricks often played
had calcified the mind

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PostPosted: Sun May 25, 2008 9:28 am 
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Lesbos- Lawrence Durrell

The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint,
And earth's huge camber follows out,
Turning in sleep, the oceanic curve.

Defined in concave like a human eye
Or cheek pressed warm on the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve.

This balcony, a moon-anointed shelf
Above a silent garden holds my bed.
I slept. But the dispiriting autumn moon,

In her slow expurgation of the sky
Needs company: is brooding on the dead,
And so am I now, so am I.

The sleeping outside among the dead might be a reference to the Villa Cleobolus, which was sited in a Muslim graveyard. Durrell briefly lived there - as described in Reflections on a Marine Venus - A Companion to the Landscape of Rhodes.

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PostPosted: Sun May 25, 2008 9:55 pm 
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Two very different poems, there. Loved the way Fowles conflated the water imagery with thought and speech. The more I read that last stanza the more chilling it is - a chilling total disorientation. Heart of darkness territory.

I thought the Durrell suffered from too much geometry - my mind was whizzing round curves and cambers and concavity till I was dizzy. It was like 'how many images can you squeeze into a telephione box?'
Last linemhad a punch though.


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PostPosted: Mon May 26, 2008 10:07 am 
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Durrell always tried to squeeze as much as possible into his poems. Unpacking them is a career in itself.

Here's a less serious one...

Piccadilly

At the hub of Empire little Eros stands
Warming his testicles in chilly hands;
They dare not take him down before
They pass the anti-masturbation law.
But when at last the nation's purity
Is one day locked in in firm security,
They'll shift the Roman exile for to be
The patron saint of our psychiatry.

On reflection, it's almost prescient, given the increasingly fascist nature of UK and US society...

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PostPosted: Mon May 26, 2008 11:32 am 
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it's almost prescient
...and worse than that, it doesn't scan :D


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PostPosted: Mon May 26, 2008 11:55 am 
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How so?

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PostPosted: Mon May 26, 2008 4:15 pm 
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I don't think poems should scan.
Or rhyme for that matter.

This is the only thread on the internet where you can read poems by Lawrence Durrell and John Fowles. That can't be bad. :-)

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PostPosted: Mon May 26, 2008 4:24 pm 
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Course it's not bad! Until Ian posted, I didn't even know Fowles wrote poetry!
And it's chillingly good.


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PostPosted: Mon May 26, 2008 4:58 pm 
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Fowles had a book of poetry published in 1973 by the Ecco Press, titled, er, Poems.

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PostPosted: Mon May 26, 2008 5:52 pm 
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I bought a book of poems (Classic FM: One Hundred Favourite Poems) from a charity shop while on a family holiday back home near sunny Doncaster last week. There are a number of poems that I'm really enjoying but, as it's twenty years (and a couple of weeks) since my mother died of cancer, I'm going to share two about death that you probably know very well.

Quote:
Stop All The Clocks
from Twelve Songs
by W H Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the wjhite necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I though that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


Quote:
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see the blinding sight
Blind eyes could blze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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