A rare non-war one that I love:

Deep Sorriness Atonement Song

(for missed appointment, BBC North, Manchester)

The man who sold Manhattan for a halfway decent bangle,
He had talks with Adolf Hitler and could see it from his angle,
And he could have signed the Quarrymen but didn't think they'd make it
So he bought a cake on Pudding Lane and thought "Oh well I'll bake it"

But his chances they were slim
And his brothers they were Grimm,
And he's sorry, very sorry,
But I'm sorrier than him.

And the drunken plastic surgeon who said "I know, let's enlarge 'em!"
And the bloke who told the Light Brigade "Oh what the hell, let's charge 'em",
The magician with an early evening gig on the Titanic
And the Mayor who told the people of Atlantis not to panic,

And the Dong about his nose
And the Pobble re his toes,
They're all sorry very sorry
But I'm sorrier than those.

And don't forget the Bible, with the Sodomites and Judas,
And Onan who discovered something nothing was as rude as,
And anyone who reckoned it was City's year for Wembley.
And the kid who called Napoleon a shortarse in assembly,

And the man who always smiles
Cause he knows I have his files,
They're all sorry, really sorry,
But I'm sorrier by miles.

And Robert Falcon Scott who lost the race to the Norwegian,
And anyone who's ever split a pint with a Glaswegian,
Or told a Finn a joke or spent an hour with a Swiss-German,
Or got a mermaid in the sack and found it was a merman,

Or him who smelt a rat,
And got curious as a cat,
They're all sorry, deeply sorry,
But I'm sorrier than that.

All the people who were rubbish when we needed them to do it,
Whose wires crossed, whose spirit failed, who ballsed it up or blew it,
All notches of nul points and all who have a problem Houston,
At least they weren't in Kensington when they should have been at Euston.

For I didn't build the Wall
And I didn't cause the Fall
But I'm sorry, Lord, I'm sorry,
I'm the sorriest of all.

_________________

Oh James ur GREAT! - Jefner
it's true James. you're very normal - Gemmykins

I just came across this (actually, it was sent to me from http://www.dailylit.com which sends you poems or book excerpts every day) and thought it applied to our frequent discussion as to whether EBD's books or books in general should be updated -- verse 3 in particular.

IN A LIBRARY (Emily Dickinson)

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.

_________________
Arguing from cause to effect

Come lie with me and be my love - Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Come lie with me and be my love
Love lie with me
Lie down with me
Under the cypress tree
In the sweet grasses
Where the wind lieth
Where the wind dieth
As night passes
Come lie with me
All night with me
And have enough of kissing me
And have enough of making love
And let our two selves speak
All night under the cypress tree
Without making love

When I really want to drive SLOC mad, I start reciting the following poem by Lewis Carroll...

I'LL tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate,
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said.
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat;
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread--
A trifle, if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale;
He said, "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar Oil--
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil."

But I was thinking of a way
To feed one's self on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue,
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"

He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs;
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of hansom-cabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth--
And very gladly will I drink
Your honor's noble health."

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know--
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo--
That summer evening long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

_________________
"He called me in and asked what I did, exactly. What sort of question is that? This is a university!"

I found this poem somewhere when I was in school. I liked it so copied it. And now I find it very useful to give to my nieces and nephews when they leave the house for the first time to go out of thier home city to study.
It was written by Anonymous. (As a child I thought that Anonymous was the name of someone)

Have Courage My Child To Say No.
You're starting today on life's journey
alone on the highway of life.
You'll meet with a thousand temptations,
each city with evil is rife.
The world is a stage of excitement,
there's danger wherever you go;
But if you are tempted in weakness,
have courage my child to say no.

The siren's sweet smile may allure you.
beware of her cunning and art.
When ever you see her approaching,
be guarded and haste to depart.
The billiard saloons are inviting,
decked out in their tinsel and show.
Should you be invited to enter,
have courage my child to say no.

In courage my child lies your safety
When you the long journey begin
Your trust in heavenly Father
Will keep you unspotted from sin
Temptations will go on increasing
As streams from a rivulet flow
But if you are true to your girlhood
Have courage my child to say no.

Be careful in choosing companions;
seek only the brave and the true;
And stand by your friends when in trial
ne'er changing the old for the new,
And when by false friends you are tempted
the taste of the wine cup to know,
With firmness, with patience and kindness,
have courage my child to say no.

Here is another good one.
Good Books
Edgar Guest

Good books are friendly things to own.
If you are busy they will wait.
They will not call you on the phone
Or wake you if the hour is late.
They stand together row by row,
Upon the low shelf or the high.
But if you're lonesome this you know:
You have a friend or two nearby.

The fellowship of books is real.
They're never noisy when you're still.
They won't disturb you at your meal.
They'll comfort you when you are ill.
The lonesome hours they'll always share.
When slighted they will not complain.
And though for them you've ceased to care
Your constant friends they'll still remain.

Good books your faults will never see
Or tell about them round the town.
If you would have their company
You merely have to take them down.
They'll help you pass the time away,
They'll counsel give if that you need.
He has true friends for night and day
Who has a few good books to read.

I found this poem on the London Underground more years ago than I care to remember. It was pinned over my desk at work for many years, keeping me focused on how I saw my future. And I am delighted to say that I have achieved it.......:

When all this is over, said the swineherd,
I mean to retire, where
Nobody will have heard about my special skills
And conversation is mainly about the weather.

I intend to learn how to make coffee at least as well
As the Portuguese lay sister in the kitchen
And polish the brass fenders every day.
I want to lie awake at night
Listening to cream crawling to the top of the jug
And the water lying soft in the cistern.

I want to see an orchard where the trees grow in straight lines
And the yellow fox finds shelter between navy blue trunks,
Where it gets dark early in summer
And the apple blossom is allowed to wither on the bough.
Eilean Ni Chuilleanain
b. 1942

_________________
Cestina's dolls houses - From Vanoce to Velikonoce

I posted this on the old board so apologies to anyone who doesn't want to see it again. It makes me laugh out loud EVERY time I read it. And sometimes when I'm on my own and I think of it!

Matilda
Who told Lies and was Burned to Death

Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,
It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;
Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,
Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,
Attempted to Believe Matilda:
The effort very nearly killed her,
And would have done so, had not She
Discovered this Infirmity.
For once, towards the Close of Day,
Matilda, growing tired of play,
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the Telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade.
Within an hour the Gallant Band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,
They galloped, roaring through the Town,
'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'
Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
And took Peculiar Pains to Souse
The Pictures up and down the House,
Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed;
And even then she had to pay
To get the Men to go away!

It happened that a few Weeks later
Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that Interesting Play
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
She had refused to take her Niece
To hear this Entertaining Piece:
A Deprivation Just and Wise
To Punish her for Telling Lies.
That Night a Fire did break out--
You should have heard Matilda Shout!
You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
And throw the window up and call
To People passing in the Street--
(The rapidly increasing Heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidence) -- but all in vain!
For every time she shouted 'Fire!'
They only answered 'Little Liar!'
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

HILAIRE BELLOC

_________________
Matilda told such dreadful lies, it made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes...

Thank you for that, Lolly - one of my all time favourites! I remember my mum reading that, and quite a few others of Hilaire Belloc to me when I was a child. They are probably the only poems I can recite by heart

_________________
They didn't think much to the Ocean: The waves, they was fiddlin' and small,
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded, Fact, nothing to laugh at at all

I came accross this the other day and I quite liked it. It was light and fun and did start to get me into a Christmas frame of mind. I thought I'd post it here for others to enjoy.

It's Christmas Time
by Bob Lazzar-Atwood.

Put your problems on probation
Run your troubles off the track,
Throw your worries out the window
Get the monkeys off your back.
Silence all your inner critics
With your conscience make amends,
And allow yourself some happiness
It's Christmas time again!
Call a truce with those who bother you
Let all the fighting cease,
Give your differences a breather
And declare a time of peace,
Don't let angry feelings taint
The precious time you have to spend,
And allow yourself some happiness
It's Christmas time again!
Like some cool refreshing water
Or a gentle summer breeze,
Like a fresh bouquet of flowers
Or the smell of autumn leaves,
It's a banquet for the spirit
Filled with family, food and friends,
So allow yourself some happiness
It's Christmas time again!

_________________
When someone says you’ve changed, it simply means you’ve stopped living your life their way.

my favourite poems are Funeral Blues by WH Auden ("Stop all the clocks...etc), and "Heavenly Playground" by Adrian Plass:

Oh God, I’m not anxious to snuff it,
but when the Grim Reaper reaps me,
I’ll try to rely on
my vision of Zion,
I know how I want it to be.

As soon as you greet me in Heaven,
and ask what I’d like, I shall say,
“I just want a chance
for my spirit to dance,
I want to be able to play.

Tell the angels to build a soft playground,
designed and equipped just for me,
with a vertical slide
that’s abnormally wide,
and oceans of green PVC.

There’ll be reinforced netting to climb on,
and rubberized floors that will bend,
and no one can die,
so I needn’t be shy
if I’m tempted to land on a friend!

I’m gonna go mad in the soft, squashy mangle,
and balmy with balls in the swamp,
coloured and spherical,
I’ll be hysterical!
I’ll have a heavenly romp!

There’ll be cushions and punch bags and tires
in purple and yellow and red,
and a mushroomy thing
that will suddenly sing
if I kick it or sit on its head.

There’ll be fountains of squash and ribina
to feed my continual thirst,
and none of that stuff
about “You’ve had enough,
surely heavenly bladders won’t burst.

I suppose I might be too tall for the entrance,
but Lord, chuck the rules in the bin.
If I am too large,
tell the angel in charge
to let me bow down and come in.


I also really quite like this one, "Postcards from the Hedgehog" by AF Harrold:

i

Dear Mum,

Beautiful weather.
I saw a fox last night.
Did as you always said
and rolled into a ball.
After a while it went away.
I was a bit scared all the same.
Wish you were here,

love Simon

ii

Dear Mum,

Lovely weather today.
Just saw a really pretty girl.
Not sure how to approach her.
She makes me really shy
but just all warm inside.
I rolled up into a ball.
Wish you were here,

love Simon

iii

Dear Mum,

It’s raining today. I ate a slug.
Wasn’t as good as the ones
you used to give us.
Tomorrow I think I’ll approach the girl.
Perhaps I’ll take her a slug.
She makes me ever so nervous.
I rolled up into a ball.
Wish you were here,

love Simon

iv

Dear Mum,

Sun’s come out again.
This morning I was very brave
and I went to see her.
I edged up very carefully as you suggested,
but when I spoke to her
I discovered she was actually a pine-cone.
I felt very embarrassed.
Rolled up into a ball.
Wish you were here,

love Simon

I love the hedgehog one! Brilliant

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Cestina's dolls houses - From Vanoce to Velikonoce

It is lovely isn't it! You can just imagine a young hedgehog doing those things as well

I found this on a poster on a Jubilee Line train earlier this year, and I loved it so much I posted it on my blog - and now re-post it here.

The Windhover

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1918)

_________________
"The purpose of satire, it has been rightly said, is to strip off the veneer of comforting illusion and cosy half-truth. And our job, as I see it, is to put it back again..." - Michael Flanders
Emma's book blog

Lovely Emma, have forwarded it to my daughter - a brilliant one for her to use with actors....

Talking of finding things on the Underground this is one that I also found there, many years ago, and took as a dream for my future life. And the wonderful thing is that moving for part of each year to the Czech Republic has made that dream come true:

Swineherd
When all this is over, said the swineherd,
I mean to retire, where
Nobody will have heard about my special skills
And conversation is mainly about the weather.

I intend to learn how to make coffee, as least as well
As the Portuguese lay-sister in the kitchen
And polish the brass fenders every day.
I want to lie awake at night
Listening to cream crawling to the top of the jug
And the water lying soft in the cistern.

I want to see an orchard where the trees grow in straight lines
And the yellow fox finds shelter between the navy-blue trunks,
Where it gets dark early in summer
And the apple-blossom is allowed to wither on the bough.
© Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin

ETA Oops I see I posted this in Sept 2009 - ah well, apologies, but maybe it bears reposting

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Cestina's dolls houses - From Vanoce to Velikonoce

Oh, it does bear re-posting as I hadn't read it the first time and I love it, cestina. Thank you.

The Windhover has always been one of my favourite poems, Emma. Or perhaps I should apply that to his whole body of work. Thank you.

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"All books are either drums or swords. You can cut, or you can drug with words." (Amy Lowell)

I missed that the first time you posted it too, Cestina - but I really, really like it - thanks for reposting.

I studied Gerard Manley Hopkins' poetry when I was doing 'A' level English, many, many moons ago. I have to confess I found Hopkins' poetry incomprehensible then and still do now (ducks for cover!) but that doesn't mean I don't like it.

Sometimes we do rather moan about life. Well I do. Then I read something like this and feel ashamed.




Today, upon a bus, I saw a girl with golden hair

I looked at her and sighed and wished I was as fair.

When suddenly she rose to leave,

I saw her hobble down the aisle.

She had one leg and used a crutch

But as she passed, she passed a smile.

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine

I have 2 legs, the world is mine.

~~~

I stopped to buy some candy

The lad who sold it had such charm

I talked with him a while, he seemed so very glad

If I were late, it'd do no harm.

And as I left, he said to me,

"I thank you, you've been so kind.

It's nice to talk with folks like you.

You see," he said, "I'm blind."

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.

I have 2 eyes, the world is mine.

~~~

Later while walking down the street,

I saw a child with eyes of blue

He stood and watched the others play

He did not know what to do.

I stopped a moment and then I said,

"Why don't you join the others, dear?"

He looked ahead without a word.

And then I knew, he couldn't hear.

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.

I have 2 ears, the world is mine.

~~~

With feet to take me where I'd go.

With eyes to see the sunset's glow.

With ears to hear what I would know.

Oh, God, forgive me when I whine.

I've been blessed indeed, The world is mine.

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Be the change you want to see!

I've just been trawling round the site and found this. Am in floods. I have two small autistic grandsons, one with more problems than his brother who is only mildly affected - though geeky. I don't know if I can pass this on to my daughter yet; it's beautiful yet so painfull.

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http://nicolaslade.wordpress.com/

The Patricia Davis poem is beautiful and very moving. This is one by Mary Sheepshanks, written for her grandson, who has special needs. It was writtten when he was a baby (he is now an adult), and very frail,with physical problems as well as developmental.She was on Midweek on Radio 4 some weeks ago and read it out, which had me in tears.

James’s Song

Oh did you volunteer to come
And how long will you stay
And can we learn enough of love
Before you slip away?

We greeted you with fear and grief
You seemed beyond our reach
But now we know a child of light
Who has so much to teach.

Sometimes you look with baffled eyes
Which fills our hearts with pain.
Oh is it that we are obtuse
And you cannot explain?

We march our roads with hustled tread
You step a different pace
But your path may be more direct
To reach your special place.

Oh did you volunteer to come
And how long will you stay
To teach us unconditional love
Before you go away?

From Thinning Grapes
Set to music by Paul Dutton

I found this poem when I taught a child with Foetal Alcohol Syndrome. I'm sorry I can't credit the author as I don't know him/her, but I found it immensely moving.
Don't ask my child to fly,
for he has not wings.

"Don't ask my child to see the glint on the eagle's beak,
for his vision has been diminished.

Don't ask my child to remain calm amid the din,
for her ability to screen out the noises has been taken away.

Don't ask my child to be careful with "strangers",
for he is affectionate with everyone and prey for the unscrupulous.

Don't ask my child to "settle down",
for the clock which works for you and I, does not exist for her.

Don't ask my child to not play with the toys of others,
for he has no concept of property.

Don’t ask my child to remember you tomorrow,
although you met today.

Don't ask my child to heal your wounds,
for her hands cannot hold a scalpel or sutures.

Don't ask my child to meet the challenges set by society,
for you have denied her the tools.

Don't ask my child to forgive you for standing idly by,

while he was in trouble in his mother's womb,

for he will,

but He may not."

This seems relevant at the moment:

September 1918

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.

Amy Lowell

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"All books are either drums or swords. You can cut, or you can drug with words." (Amy Lowell)