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abertawe_ram

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As far as I know there isn't a poetry thread on the forum. Does anyone else have an interest in poetry?
Well if so here's a place to share favourite works by poets you like.
Classics, moderns, performance. Romantic, political, comic, whatever you like...

With it being 
Remembrance Sunday, I thought I'd start with one of Wilfred Owen's incredible poems about the horrors and devastation of war.
 

DULCE ET DECORUM EST(1)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 
Till on the haunting flares(2) we turned our backs 
And towards our distant rest(3) began to trudge. 
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots(4)  
Of tired, outstripped(5) Five-Nines(6) that dropped behind.
Gas!(7) Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, 
Fitting the clumsy helmets(8) just in time; 
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime(9) . . . 
Dim, through the misty panes(10) and thick green light, 
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 
He plunges at me, guttering,(11) choking, drowning. 
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 
Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud(12)  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest(13)  
To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory, 
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 
Pro patria mori.(15)

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 - March, 1918

 

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

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Powerful stuff. 

 

I see your Wilfred Owen and raise you one Rupert Brooke

 

If I should die, think only this of me;  

That there's some corner of a foreign field  

That is for ever England. There shall be   

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;  

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,  

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,  

A body of England's, breathing English air,  

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.  

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,  

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less  

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;  

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;  

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,  

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

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Bob Dylan.

Fits better on this thread than the music threads in my opinion. Writes some excellent stuff lyrically but I just don't enjoy his voice.

 

Powerful stuff. 

 

I see your Wilfred Owen and raise you one Rupert Brooke

 

If I should die, think only this of me;  

That there's some corner of a foreign field  

That is for ever England. There shall be   

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;  

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,  

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,  

A body of England's, breathing English air,  

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.  

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,  

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less  

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;  

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;  

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,  

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Incredible stuff. Makes me wish I could write something more than dirty limericks.

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As far as I know there isn't a poetry thread on the forum. Does anyone else have an interest in poetry?

Well if so here's a place to share favourite works by poets you like.

Classics, moderns, performance. Romantic, political, comic, whatever you like...

With it being Remembrance Sunday, I thought I'd start with one of Wilfred Owen's incredible poems about the horrors and devastation of war.

 

DULCE ET DECORUM EST(1)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares(2) we turned our backs 

And towards our distant rest(3) began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots(4)  

Of tired, outstripped(5) Five-Nines(6) that dropped behind.

Gas!(7) Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, 

Fitting the clumsy helmets(8) just in time; 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime(9) . . . 

Dim, through the misty panes(10) and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering,(11) choking, drowning. 

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud(12)  

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest(13)  

To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 

Pro patria mori.(15)

Wilfred Owen

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

 

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

i was gonna put that as soon as i saw the thread! beautiful poem.

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Daveo's the boss, who make the rules.

It's all self taught, he skipped the schools.

This forums the biggest about the Rams,

I can't think of a rhyme? How about some clams?

Utch thinks he's the best at doing a poem

He comes over as a git to those who don't know em.

I mentioned some clams, but really like scallops,

This poems quite bad, in fact it is..thankyouplease

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Daveo's the boss, who make the rules.

It's all self taught, he skipped the schools.

This forums the biggest about the Rams,

I can't think of a rhyme? How about some clams?

Utch thinks he's the best at doing a poem

He comes over as a git to those who don't know em.

I mentioned some clams, but really like scallops,

This poems quite bad, in fact it is..thankyouplease

 

 

O poetic chums, i truly despair

boycie's a philistine, no rhyming flair

he mocks and jeers while others toil

i hope his arse develops a boil

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Out ot the shimmering haze

A mirage forms

a deception so cruel

yet reality is a crueller mistress

a speck, becomes a form, a man

yet it isnt a man

it is more than a man

It is Bucko

That's what we should write on the Bucko statue that will inevitably be built after he captains us to the Premier League title.

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Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

 

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/he-wishes-for-the-cloths-of-heaven/

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Vitai Lampada


("They Pass On The Torch of Life")

 

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote --
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

 

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

 

This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind --
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'

 

Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)

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