Poetry :cool:

[abertawe_ram]

Some great choices there guys keep em coming!

 

Some powerful words for you from Swansea's finest...

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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 with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that 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. 

Dylan Thomas

And, as with everything, it's even better when read by Sir Anthony Hopkins...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1fTlIsUGks

[needles]

Wilfred Owen knocks Rupert Brooke into a sentimental, jingoistic, second rate, cocked hat.

IMO.

[RamDram]

The glory of the beauty of the morning, -
The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew; 
The blackbird that has found it, and the dove
That tempts me on to something sweeter than love; 
White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay; 
The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy
Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: -
The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning
All I can ever do, all I can be, 
Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue, 
The happiness I fancy fit to dwell
In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day
Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell, 
Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start
And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops, 
In hope to find whatever it is I seek, 
Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things
That we know naught of, in the hazel copse? 
Or must I be content with discontent
As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings? 
And shall I ask at the day's end once more
What beauty is, and what I can have meant
By happiness? And shall I let all go, 
Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know
That I was happy oft and oft before, 
Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent, 
How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to, 
Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core. 

Edward Thomas

[David]

A hemorrhoid deep in my ass

Gives fear of even passing gas

An itchiness it has deployed

My comfort now is quite destroyed

A hemorrhoid deep in my void

All spicy foods I must avoid

Oh please sweet lass your lips display

And Kiss my ass to make this pain just go away

[PrivateDerby]

Beautiful.

[RamDram]

Once an honest defender named Jake

Came to Derby, his fortune to make

Through his heroic deeds

Against Forest and Leeds

A claim to a knighthood he'd stake

[RamDram]

A tall Irish striker named Connor

Warmed the sub's bench and looked like a goner

Then at Watford his wish

To once more feed the fish

Means the jury's still out yet, your honour

[RamDram]

Our previous manager Clough

Was tremendously loyal and tough

But his five year hurrah

Ended in coup d'etat

Not surprising he left in a huff!

[RamDram]

So the new dawn continues with Schteve

With much tactical nouse up his sleeve

Play off hopes will be built

And his low countries lilt

And umbrella may earn a reprieve

[uttoxram75]

Beautiful.

Bit anal if you ask me.

[Archie]

I remember singing the following first world war poem at school all those years ago, don't know who wrote it but can still remember it word for word which shows what an impression it had on me.

My clothes are wet, the trenches stink

My boots are worn, I have to limp

When weathers bad, the dug outs flood

And no-mans lands a pool of blood

The mud here's worse than i've ever seen

We lost last Friday a boy of sixteen

We can not advance and we will not retreat

So we'll wait here until next year, when we'll more or less still be here

We sweat

We curse

We survive here

Dont stop to think who's next

To save a friend we'll risk our necks

So you're proud of us

And reward us with this

On our epitath

On the casualty list

So tell your children all some day of our sacrifice

Tell them we died young, our lives unsung

Tell them pride has its price.

[eddie]

The elephant is a pretty bird,

it flits from bough to bough.

It makes its nest in a rhubarb tree

and whistles like a cow.