Poems, Rhymes and anecdotes

[art0hur0moh]

Is it entertainment??

One fine day in the middle of the night:
Two dead men got up to fight:
Back to back they faced each other:
Drew their swords and shot each other.

What are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow:
What are brief? today and tomorrow:
What are frail? Spring blossoms and youth:
What are deep? the ocean and truth.

Christina Rosseti

[Guest]

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen

[Text]

A BIRTHDAY




My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a daïs of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me


Christina Rossetti (1830-1894), narrated by Sir John Gielgud.



Pure class.

[Magica]

Suicide in the Trenches
(published in the Cambridge Magazine, 23 February 1918)

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.


In winter trenches, cowed and glum
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.


You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go

[blackdahliaxxx]

In unknown graves lie the dead
Died for their Countries so it's said
But most went to fight for their kids and wives
and for their moms and dads they gave their lives.

Only fools die for politicians
and to make money for those who sell munitions
For families at home men fight and die
leaving those at home to wonder why.

Shrapnel cuts through flesh and bones
from bombs dropped from unseen drones
Bullets and bayonets cut through young guys
who never will grow old or wise.
BD.

[trini]

In unknown graves lie the dead
Died for their Countries so it's said
But most went to fight for their kids and wives
and for their moms and dads they gave their lives.

Only fools die for politicians
and to make money for those who sell munitions
For families at home men fight and die
leaving those at home to wonder why.

Shrapnel cuts through flesh and bones
from bombs dropped from unseen drones
Bullets and bayonets cut through young guys
who never will grow old or wise.
BD.

Have to say blackdahlia, your not really the ass you pretend to be, that was quite striking and to the bone.

[blackdahliaxxx]

In unknown graves lie the dead
Died for their Countries so it's said
But most went to fight for their kids and wives
and for their moms and dads they gave their lives.

Only fools die for politicians
and to make money for those who sell munitions
For families at home men fight and die
leaving those at home to wonder why.

Shrapnel cuts through flesh and bones
from bombs dropped from unseen drones
Bullets and bayonets cut through young guys
who never will grow old or wise.
BD.

Have to say blackdahlia, your not really the ass you pretend to be, that was quite striking and to the bone.

Glad you noticed

[Magica]

In unknown graves lie the dead
Died for their Countries so it's said
But most went to fight for their kids and wives
and for their moms and dads they gave their lives.

Only fools die for politicians
and to make money for those who sell munitions
For families at home men fight and die
leaving those at home to wonder why.

Shrapnel cuts through flesh and bones
from bombs dropped from unseen drones
Bullets and bayonets cut through young guys
who never will grow old or wise.
BD.

BD i love this poem, so true

[Text]

OP, what's the anecdotes bit luv? What do you mean? Anyway here's another poem i like. The young girl at the start of the film (4 weddings & a funeral) died, sadly - IRL. She was a great actress.



Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
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 white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen 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 thought 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.

[Text]

Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674)

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of Heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run.
And nearer he's to setting

[blackdahliaxxx]

Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674)

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles today
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of Heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run.
And nearer he's to setting

Is the painting by Rosetti?

[art0hur0moh]

OP, what's the anecdotes bit luv? What do you mean? Anyway here's another poem i like. The young girl at the start of the film (4 weddings & a funeral) died, sadly - IRL. She was a great actress.



Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
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 white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen 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 thought 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.

Anecdote, i only just found out. A friend posted this on facebook.

When i born, i black;
when i grow up, i black;
when i go in sun, i black;
when i scared, i black;
when i sick, i black;
when i die, i still black;
And you white fellows;
when you born, you pink;
when you grow up, you white;
when you go in sun, you red;
when you cold you, you blue;
when you scared, you yellow;
when you sick, you green;
and when you die, you grey;
And you call me coloured?

[VILS]

A French nursery rhyme...

Un petit d’un petit
S’étonne aux Halles
Un petit d’un petit
Ah! degrés te fallent
Indolent qui ne sort cesse
Indolent qui ne se mène
Qu’importe un petit d’un petit
Tout Gai de Reguennes.

[Claire]

I learned this at Primary school VILS:

Il est né le divin enfant,
Jouez hautbois, résonnez musette.
Il est né le divin enfant,
Chantons tous son avènement.

Pour un dieu quel abaissement.
O Jésus, ô roi tout puissant,
Tout petit enfant que vous êtes,
O Jésus, ô roi tout puissant,
Régnez sur nous entièrement.

[VILS]

Nice Claire!

The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.

And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.

Elie Wiesel