RubyToogood
RubyTwobikes
Aah, I like both those last two. The idea that you can adequately translate poetry always seems bizarre to me, but that Rilke is great (whether that's down to the originator or the translator!).
*Poem of the day thread
- Thread starter RubyToogood
- Start date
Mrs Magpie
On a bit of break...
Both I think Ruby...that poem is one of Blind Lemons faves....he won a German poem reading competition for Devon reading that...well on the way to being a linguist even then.....I looked at a few translations first and that seemed the best.....
Some brilliant poems on this thread so far, I especially like the Vernon Scannell one.
NACHTWACHE
'Watchman, what of the night?'
'I've heard the owl repeat
Its hollow prescient note,
The bat shriek at its hunting,
The water-snake rustle
Under the pond's soaked leaves.
I have heard vinous voices,
Stammering, angry, as I drowsed
In the tavern near the chapel.
I have heard lovers' whispers, laughter,
And the labored breathing of absolved longings,
Adolescents murmuring in their dreams,
Others tossing, sleepless from desire.
I've seen silent heat-lightning,
The terror every night
Of the girl who lost her way
And doesn't know bed from coffin.
I've heard the hoarse panting
Of a lonely old man struggling with death,
A woman torn in labor,
The cry of a just-born child.
Stretch out and sleep, citizen.
Everything is in order; this night is half over."
-Primo Levi
NACHTWACHE
'Watchman, what of the night?'
'I've heard the owl repeat
Its hollow prescient note,
The bat shriek at its hunting,
The water-snake rustle
Under the pond's soaked leaves.
I have heard vinous voices,
Stammering, angry, as I drowsed
In the tavern near the chapel.
I have heard lovers' whispers, laughter,
And the labored breathing of absolved longings,
Adolescents murmuring in their dreams,
Others tossing, sleepless from desire.
I've seen silent heat-lightning,
The terror every night
Of the girl who lost her way
And doesn't know bed from coffin.
I've heard the hoarse panting
Of a lonely old man struggling with death,
A woman torn in labor,
The cry of a just-born child.
Stretch out and sleep, citizen.
Everything is in order; this night is half over."
-Primo Levi
onemonkey
winmonkey
Quando era criança
Vivi, sem saber,
So para hoje ter
Aquela lembranca.
E hole que sinto
Aquilo que fui.
Minha vida flui,
Feita do que minto.
Mas nesta prisão,
Livro unico, leio
O sorriso alheio
De quem fui então.
When I was a child
I lived unknowing
In order now to own
This memory of then.
Today I sense
What then I was.
Now my life goes on,
Made of my pretences.
But in this prison,
My only book, I read
The smile of someone else,
Of who I was then.
(1933)
Fernando Pessoa
edited to say:
I know you say it's one per day, but the ninth had none so this is one for then, or for tomorrow if you prefer. Either way I am choosing to eschew the rules.
Vivi, sem saber,
So para hoje ter
Aquela lembranca.
E hole que sinto
Aquilo que fui.
Minha vida flui,
Feita do que minto.
Mas nesta prisão,
Livro unico, leio
O sorriso alheio
De quem fui então.
When I was a child
I lived unknowing
In order now to own
This memory of then.
Today I sense
What then I was.
Now my life goes on,
Made of my pretences.
But in this prison,
My only book, I read
The smile of someone else,
Of who I was then.
(1933)
Fernando Pessoa
edited to say:
I know you say it's one per day, but the ninth had none so this is one for then, or for tomorrow if you prefer. Either way I am choosing to eschew the rules.
Now look what you done, you eschewed the rules and killed the thread....
One of my favourites from the late Spike Milligan:
On the Ning Nang Nong
On the Ning Nang Nong
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So it's Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!
What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
One of my favourites from the late Spike Milligan:
On the Ning Nang Nong
On the Ning Nang Nong
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So it's Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!
What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
vanityvehicle
larrikin
Yay! I was just thinking of resurrecting this thread...
When you wake tomorrow
I will give you a poem when you wake tomorrow.
It will be a peaceful poem.
It won't make you sad.
It won't make you miserable.
It will simply be a poem to give you
When you wake tomorrow.
It was not written by myself alone.
I cannot lay claim to it.
I found it in your body.
In your smile I found it.
Will you recognise it?
You will find it under your pillow.
When you open the cupboard it will be there.
You will blink in astonishment,
Shout out, how it trembles!
Its nakedness is startling! How fresh it tastes!
We will have it for breakfast;
On a table lit by loving,
At a place reserved for wonder.
We will give the world a kissing open
When we wake tomorrow.
We will offer it to the sad landlord out on the balcony.
To the dreamers at the window.
To the hand waving for no particular reason
We will offer it.
An amazing and most remarkable thing,
We will offer it to the whole human race
Which walks in us
When we wake tomorrow.
Brian Patten
I will give you a poem when you wake tomorrow.
It will be a peaceful poem.
It won't make you sad.
It won't make you miserable.
It will simply be a poem to give you
When you wake tomorrow.
It was not written by myself alone.
I cannot lay claim to it.
I found it in your body.
In your smile I found it.
Will you recognise it?
You will find it under your pillow.
When you open the cupboard it will be there.
You will blink in astonishment,
Shout out, how it trembles!
Its nakedness is startling! How fresh it tastes!
We will have it for breakfast;
On a table lit by loving,
At a place reserved for wonder.
We will give the world a kissing open
When we wake tomorrow.
We will offer it to the sad landlord out on the balcony.
To the dreamers at the window.
To the hand waving for no particular reason
We will offer it.
An amazing and most remarkable thing,
We will offer it to the whole human race
Which walks in us
When we wake tomorrow.
Brian Patten
inflatable jesus
I used to be carried in the arms of cheerleaders
I am a fugitive,
once I was born
They locked me up inside of me
But I left.
My soul searches for me
Through hills and valleys,
I hope my soul
Never finds me
-Fernando Pessoa
once I was born
They locked me up inside of me
But I left.
My soul searches for me
Through hills and valleys,
I hope my soul
Never finds me
-Fernando Pessoa
RubyToogood
RubyTwobikes
That's a lovely one, twinklev. Very romantic! So where IS this poem then, eh?
onemonkey
winmonkey
Oops, out too late, drinking too much to recall my previous promises, I returned home and made straight for rap music of ye olde school; dream warriors, public enemy, grandmaster flash and even - eek!- mc hammer (did i say i was drunk?) This morning a drowsy numbness pains my sense. Thumping bass is better left alone and headache pills are best washed down with a soothing poem..
FP writing under an assumed name.
If, After I Die - Alberto Caeiro
If, after I die, they should want to write my biography,
There's nothing simpler.
I've just two dates - of my birth, and of my death.
In between the one thing and the other all the days are
mine.
I am easy to describe.
I lived like mad.
I loved things without any sentimentality.
I never had a desire I could not fulfil, because
I never went blind.
Even hearing was to me never more than an
accompaniment of seeing.
I understood that things are real and all different from
each other;
I understood it with the eyes, never with thinking.
To understand it with thinking would be to find them
all equal.
One day I felt sleepy like a child.
I closed my eyes and slept.
And by the way, I was only Nature poet.
onemonkey
winmonkey
The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
A Vast Confusion
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Long long I lay in the sands
Sounds of trains in the surf
in subways of the sea
And an even greater undersound
of a vast confusion in the universe
a rumbling and a roaring
as of some enormous creature turning
under sea and earth
a billion sotto voices murmuring
a vast muttering
a swelling stuttering
in ocean's speakers
world's voice-box heard with ear to sand
a shocked echoing
a shocking shouting
of all life's voices lost in night
And the tape of it
someow running backwards now
through the Moog Synthesizer of time
Chaos unscrambled
back to the first
harmonies
And the first light
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Long long I lay in the sands
Sounds of trains in the surf
in subways of the sea
And an even greater undersound
of a vast confusion in the universe
a rumbling and a roaring
as of some enormous creature turning
under sea and earth
a billion sotto voices murmuring
a vast muttering
a swelling stuttering
in ocean's speakers
world's voice-box heard with ear to sand
a shocked echoing
a shocking shouting
of all life's voices lost in night
And the tape of it
someow running backwards now
through the Moog Synthesizer of time
Chaos unscrambled
back to the first
harmonies
And the first light
Donna Ferentes
jubliado
The Charge of the Light Brigade
In my view this is one of the most appalling poems ever written - both in form and in sentiment.
In my view this is one of the most appalling poems ever written - both in form and in sentiment.
To be sung in a Luton Accent:
colin
colin was a vandal
and when certain things were said
he'd fly off the andle and 'e'd bang you in the ead
'e went dahn the ospital
to get it sor'ed aht
the doctor said good morning
and colin knocked im out
colin said I'm sorry doctor,
can you make me sane?
the doctor said I'll ave a go
and heeee took colins brain (cell)
When colin left the ospital
e was miserable
what was he to do instead of
banging people in the ead
and then one day he walked into
a lampost in the street,
and discovered self expression:
Aggravating Concrete!
Now Colin he's as right as rain
and he couldnt complain at all,
he got imself a little job
as a dem-o-lition baaall
Now Colin does a hard days work,
comes home at half past five,
says mum it's me I'm home and,
I'm still alive
Then he runs into the living room
Gets stuck into the wall
and his mum says show some consideration colin!
do it in the 'all!
and by the way your dinners in the safe
John Hegley
(nutcase)
colin
colin was a vandal
and when certain things were said
he'd fly off the andle and 'e'd bang you in the ead
'e went dahn the ospital
to get it sor'ed aht
the doctor said good morning
and colin knocked im out
colin said I'm sorry doctor,
can you make me sane?
the doctor said I'll ave a go
and heeee took colins brain (cell)
When colin left the ospital
e was miserable
what was he to do instead of
banging people in the ead
and then one day he walked into
a lampost in the street,
and discovered self expression:
Aggravating Concrete!
Now Colin he's as right as rain
and he couldnt complain at all,
he got imself a little job
as a dem-o-lition baaall
Now Colin does a hard days work,
comes home at half past five,
says mum it's me I'm home and,
I'm still alive
Then he runs into the living room
Gets stuck into the wall
and his mum says show some consideration colin!
do it in the 'all!
and by the way your dinners in the safe
John Hegley
(nutcase)
Mrs Magpie
On a bit of break...
Visits To St. Elizabeths
by Elizabeth Bishop
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
by Elizabeth Bishop
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
The Fly
Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life,
And strength & breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
or if I die.
William Blake
Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life,
And strength & breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
or if I die.
William Blake
Stobart Stopper
Well-Known Member
Gray's Elegy In A Country Churchyard, I dare not post it though!
Have enjoyed reading all the poems on this thread. It was great to be introduced to Pessoa - will definitely get the book (or one of them)! Ruby - I have always loved Yeats and Cloth of Heaven is a particular favourite.
Here is a poem which will always remind me of my first love. It is powerful and sad, encompassing the knowledge of both the beauty and pain of love.
it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which I have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
if this should be, i say if this should be -
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me,
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
e e cummins
(punctuation is author"s own)
There are still times, after so many years , that i still hear that bird singing in the lost lands.
Here is a poem which will always remind me of my first love. It is powerful and sad, encompassing the knowledge of both the beauty and pain of love.
it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which I have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;
if this should be, i say if this should be -
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me,
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
e e cummins
(punctuation is author"s own)
There are still times, after so many years , that i still hear that bird singing in the lost lands.
Pull My Daisy
Pull my daisy
tip my cup
all my doors are open
Cut my thoughts
for coconuts
all my eggs are broken
Jack my Arden
gate my shades
woe my road is spoken
Silk my garden
rose my days
now my prayers awaken
Bone my shadow
dove my dream
start my halo bleeding
Milk my mind &
make me cream
drink me when you're ready
Hop my heart on
harp my height
seraphs hold me steady
Hip my angel
hype my light
lay it on the needy
Heal the raindrop
sow the eye
bust my dust again
Woe the worm
work the wise
dig my spade the same
Stop the hoax
whats the hex
where's the wake
how's the hicks
take my golden beam
say my oops
ope my shell
Bite my naked nut
Roll my bones
ring my bell
call my worm to sup
Pope my parts
pop my pot
raise my daisy up
Poke my pap
pit my plum
let my gap be shut
- Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady
Pull my daisy
tip my cup
all my doors are open
Cut my thoughts
for coconuts
all my eggs are broken
Jack my Arden
gate my shades
woe my road is spoken
Silk my garden
rose my days
now my prayers awaken
Bone my shadow
dove my dream
start my halo bleeding
Milk my mind &
make me cream
drink me when you're ready
Hop my heart on
harp my height
seraphs hold me steady
Hip my angel
hype my light
lay it on the needy
Heal the raindrop
sow the eye
bust my dust again
Woe the worm
work the wise
dig my spade the same
Stop the hoax
whats the hex
where's the wake
how's the hicks
take my golden beam
say my oops
ope my shell
Bite my naked nut
Roll my bones
ring my bell
call my worm to sup
Pope my parts
pop my pot
raise my daisy up
Poke my pap
pit my plum
let my gap be shut
- Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady
History Of The Night
Throughout the course of the generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhaustible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.
And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.
Jorge Luis Borges
Throughout the course of the generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhaustible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.
And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.
Jorge Luis Borges
Vixiha
Naughty Nurse
Love Not Me
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face;
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart:
For those may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why;
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face;
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for my constant heart:
For those may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why;
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.
Here's another Scannell, also on the theme of first love, but with a twist.
Growing Pain
The boy was barely five years old.
We sent him to the little school
And left him there to learn the names
Of flowers in jam jars on the sill
And learn to do as he was told.
He seemed quite happy there until
Three weeks afterwards, at night,
The darkness whimpered in his room.
I went upstairs, switched on his light,
And found him wide awake, distraught,
Sheets mangled and his eiderdown
Untidy carpet on the floor.
I said, 'Why can't you sleep? A pain?'
He snuffled, gave a little moan,
And then he spoke a single word:
'Jessica.' The sound was blurred.
'Jessica? What do you mean?'
'A girl at school called Jessica.
She hurts --' He touched himself between
The heart and stomach '-- she has been
Aching here and I can see her.'
Nothing I had read or heard
Instructed me in what to do.
I covered him and stroked his head.
'The pain will go, in time,' I said.
Vernon Scannell
Growing Pain
The boy was barely five years old.
We sent him to the little school
And left him there to learn the names
Of flowers in jam jars on the sill
And learn to do as he was told.
He seemed quite happy there until
Three weeks afterwards, at night,
The darkness whimpered in his room.
I went upstairs, switched on his light,
And found him wide awake, distraught,
Sheets mangled and his eiderdown
Untidy carpet on the floor.
I said, 'Why can't you sleep? A pain?'
He snuffled, gave a little moan,
And then he spoke a single word:
'Jessica.' The sound was blurred.
'Jessica? What do you mean?'
'A girl at school called Jessica.
She hurts --' He touched himself between
The heart and stomach '-- she has been
Aching here and I can see her.'
Nothing I had read or heard
Instructed me in what to do.
I covered him and stroked his head.
'The pain will go, in time,' I said.
Vernon Scannell
Ah. Bump.
work of genius
I really like this poem.
I don't know why?
HURRY UP HARRY
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
Now listen here Harry
If we're going down the pub
You'd better tell your mum and dad
And finish up your grub
I wish you'd listen to me
No, I don't want a cup of tea
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
You're telling me to grow up
But Harry don't you see
If I tried to act my age
I wouldn't be me
We never do anything
So now's the time to begin
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
You don't have to tell me
That the thing's I do are wrong
But everything I do in life
Is with us right or wrong
Now I think I understand
How to have some fun
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
Pursey: James: 1977
I really like this poem.
I don't know why?
HURRY UP HARRY
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
Now listen here Harry
If we're going down the pub
You'd better tell your mum and dad
And finish up your grub
I wish you'd listen to me
No, I don't want a cup of tea
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
You're telling me to grow up
But Harry don't you see
If I tried to act my age
I wouldn't be me
We never do anything
So now's the time to begin
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
You don't have to tell me
That the thing's I do are wrong
But everything I do in life
Is with us right or wrong
Now I think I understand
How to have some fun
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
Come on come on
Hurry up Harry come on
We're going down the pub
We're going down the pub
Pursey: James: 1977
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