*Poem of the day thread

Discussion in 'books, films, TV, radio & writing' started by RubyToogood, Aug 4, 2002.

  1. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model Every man and every woman is a star

    huddersfield daily chronicle, 30/08/1899
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  2. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    On the Beach at Night Alone by Walt Whitman

    On the beach at night alone,
    As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song,
    As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future.

    A vast similitude interlocks all,
    All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets,
    All distances of place however wide,
    All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
    All souls, all living bodies though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
    All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
    All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
    All identities that have existed or may exist on this globe, or any globe,
    All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
    This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d,
    And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
  3. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    On Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

    The sea is calm to-night,
    The tide is full, the moon lies fair
    Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
    Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
    Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
    Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
    Only, from the long line of spray
    Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
    Listen! you hear the grating roar
    Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
    At their return, up the high strand,
    Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
    With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
    The eternal note of sadness in.

    Sophocles long ago
    Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
    Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
    Of human misery; we
    Find also in the sound a thought,
    Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

    The sea of faith
    Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
    Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
    But now I only hear
    Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
    Retreating, to the breath
    Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
    And naked shingles of the world.

    Ah, love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
    Where ignorant armies clash by night.
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  4. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    In Warsaw by Czeslaw Milosz

    What are you doing here, poet, on the ruins
    Of St. John's Cathedral this sunny
    Day in spring?

    What are you thinking here, where the wind
    Blowing from the Vistula scatters
    The red dust of the rubble?

    You swore never to be
    A ritual mourner.
    You swore never to touch
    The deep wounds of your nation
    So you would not make them holy
    With the accursed holiness that pursues
    Descendants for many centuries.

    But the lament of Antigone
    Searching for her brother
    Is indeed beyond the power
    Of endurance. And the heart
    Is a stone in which is enclosed,
    Like an insect, the dark love
    Of a most unhappy land.

    I did not want to love so.
    That was not my design.
    I did not want to pity so.
    That was not my design.
    My pen is lighter
    Than a hummingbird's feather. This burden
    Is too much for it to bear.
    How can I live in this country
    Where the foot knocks against
    The unburied bones of kin?

    I hear voices, see smiles. I cannot
    Write anything; five hands
    Seize my pen and order me to write
    The story of their lives and deaths.
    Was I born to become
    a ritual mourner?
    I want to sing of festivities,
    The greenwood into which Shakespeare
    Often took me. Leave
    To poets a moment of happiness,
    Otherwise your world will perish.

    It's madness to live without joy
    And to repeat to the dead
    Whose part was to be gladness
    Of action in thought and in the
    Only two salvaged words:
    Truth and justice.
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  5. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    before you read this book by Peter Dale Scott

    take a morning walk outside
    and imagine over your head
    the white stars

    you are quite confident are there
    because you have seen them
    though only at night

    and then when your mind has expanded
    think of the earth’s surface you tread on
    curving away to maybe Paris

    the next takes a little doing
    but when you have the stars and curve in mind
    imagine how the space over your head

    is mirrored darkly
    with all last evening’s stars
    deep down under your feet

    until you feel our planet
    smaller even than a bit of dust

    Bless the Huge Unknown
    within us
    that can do this

    and ask compassion
    for those on this crowded soil
    who are suffering

    Now you can read
    but begin with something great
    perhaps a Song of Innocence by Blake.
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  6. butchersapron

    butchersapron blood on the walls

    It was the first wound of Jesus that spoke out loud and bold
    ‘Oh I who nestle by his heart know it is nearly cold’.

    It was the second wound of Jesus that spoke from his right
    ‘Oh I who gauge his failing breath know it has nearly ceased.’

    It was the third wound of Jesus that spoke from his left palm
    ‘Oh I who feel his racing pulse know it will soon be calm’.

    It was the fourth wound of Jesus that was so pale and wan
    ‘Oh I who am in his right hand know how death draws on’.

    It was the fifth wound of Jesus that cried from his left foot
    ‘Oh I who mark his falling blood know it is nearly out’.

    It was the sixth wound of Jesus that answered in great pain
    ‘Oh I can vouch that I have seen almost the last drop drain’.

    It was the seventh wound of Jesus that spoke out ‘Seven, seven
    ‘Seven are the deadly wounds that call out against heaven’.

    R.A.K Mason
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  7. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The Poor Poet by Czselaw Milosz

    The first movement is singing,
    A free voice, filling mountains and valleys.
    The first movement is joy,
    But it is taken away.

    And now that the years have transformed my blood
    And thousands of planetary systems have been born and died in my flesh.

    I sit, a sly and angry poet
    With malevolently squinted eyes,
    And, weighing a pen in my hand,
    I plot revenge.

    I poise the pen and it puts forth twigs and leaves, it is covered with blossoms
    And the scent of that tree is impudent, for there, on the real earth,
    Such trees do not grow, and like an insult
    To suffering humanity is the scent of that tree.

    Some take refuge in despair, which is sweet
    Like strong tobacco, like a glass of vodka drunk in the hour of annihilation.
    Others have the hope of fools, rosy as erotic dreams.

    Still others find peace in the idolatry of country,
    Which can last for a long time,
    Although little longer than the nineteenth century lasts.

    But to me a cynical hope is given,
    For since I opened my eyes I have seen only the glow of fires, massacres,
    Only injustice, humiliation, and the laughable shame of braggarts.
    To me is given the hope of revenge on others and on myself,
    For I was he who knew
    And took from it no profit for myself.
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  8. Yossarian

    Yossarian free shrugs

    Industrial Poem
    Peter Trower (1930-2017)

    That night, Slim Abernathy
    pushed the wrong button and wrapped his friend
    three times around a drive-shaft
    in directions the bones won’t bend.

    They shut her down and eased him out
    broken most ways a man can break
    yet he clung to his ruin for twenty-four hours
    like a man to a life-raft for his death’s sake.

    But they’d hardly hurried him away from there
    as we stood around shockdrunk, incapable of help
    when they cranked those expensive wheels up again
    and started rolling more goddamn pulp.

    “Hamburger for lunch tonight, boys!”
    joked a foreman to the crew.
    I wished he’d smelled our hate but he never even flinched
    as the red-flecked sheets came through.
  9. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Airport Poem: Ethics of Survival by JH Prynne

    The century roar is a desert carrying
    too much away, the plane skids off
    with an easy hopeless departure.

    The music, that it should
    leave, is far down
    in the mind

    just as if the years were part of the
    same sound, prolonged into the latent

    action of the heart.
    That is more: there

    affection will shoot it up
    like a crazed pilot. The desert

    is a social and undedicated expanse, since
    what else there is counts as merest propaganda.

    The heart is a changed
    petromorph, making
    pressure a social

    intelligence: essential news
    or present fact
    over the whole distance back
    and further, away.

    Or could be thus, as water
    is the first social fluency
    in any desert: the cistern

    comes later and is an inducement of false power.
    Which makes the thinning sorrow of flight
    the last disjunction, of the heart: that

    news is the person, and love
    the shape of his compulsion

    in the musical phrase,
    nearly but not

    yet back, into
    the remotest

    Of which the heart is capable and will journey
    over any desert and through the air, making
    the turn and stop undreamed of:

    love is, always, the
    flight back
    to where
    we are.
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  10. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Moon by JH Prynne

    The night is already quiet and I am
    bound in the rise and fall: learning
    to wish always for more. This is the
    means, the extension to keep very steady

    so that the culmination
    will be silent too and flow
    with no trace of devoutness.

    Since I must hold to the gradual in
    this, as no revolution but a slow change
    like the image of snow. The challenge is
    not a moral excitement, but the expanse,

    the continuing patience
    dilating into forms so
    much more than compact.

    I would probably not even choose to inhabit the
    wish as delay: it really is dark and the knowledge
    of the unseen is a warmth which spreads into
    the level ceremony of diffusion. The quiet

    suggests that the act taken
    extends so much further, there
    is this insurgence of form:

    we are more pliant than the mercantile notion
    of choice will determine-we go in this way
    on and on and the unceasing image of hope
    is our place in the world. We live there and now

    at night I recognise the signs
    of this, the calm is a
    modesty about conduct in

    the most ethical sense. We disperse into the ether
    as waves, we slant down into a precluded notion
    of choice which becomes the unlearned habit of
    wish: where we live, as we more often are than

    we know. If we expand
    into this wide personal vacancy
    we could become the extent

    of all the wishes that are now too far beyond
    us. A community of wish, as the steppe
    on which the extension would sprinkle out
    the ethic density, the compact modern home.

    The consequence of this
    pastoral desire is prolonged
    as our condition, but

    I know there is more than the mere wish to
    wander at large, since the wish itself diffuses
    beyond this and will never end: these are songs
    to the night under no affliction, knowing that

    the wish is gift to the
    spirit, is where we may
    dwell as we would

    go over and over within the life of the heart
    and the grace which is open to both east and west.
    These are psalms for the harp and the shining
    stone: the negligence and still passion of night.
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  11. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 106

    Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
    The flying cloud, the frosty light:
    The year is dying in the night;
    Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

    Ring out the old, ring in the new,
    Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
    The year is going, let him go;
    Ring out the false, ring in the true.

    Ring out the grief that saps the mind
    For those that here we see no more;
    Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
    Ring in redress to all mankind.

    Ring out a slowly dying cause,
    And ancient forms of party strife;
    Ring in the nobler modes of life,
    With sweeter manners, purer laws.

    Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
    The faithless coldness of the times;
    Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
    But ring the fuller minstrel in.

    Ring out false pride in place and blood,
    The civic slander and the spite;
    Ring in the love of truth and right,
    Ring in the common love of good.

    Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
    Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
    Ring out the thousand wars of old,
    Ring in the thousand years of peace.

    Ring in the valiant man and free,
    The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
    Ring out the darkness of the land,
    Ring in the Christ that is to be.
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  12. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The Magi by W. B. Yeats

    Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye,
    In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
    Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
    With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
    And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,
    And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
    Being by Calvary’s turbulence unsatisfied,
    The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
  13. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Calm by Charles Baudelaire

    Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still.
    You asked for night: it falls: it is here.
    A shadowy atmosphere enshrouds the hill,
    to some men bringing peace, to others care.
    While the vile human multitude
    goes to earn remorse, in servile pleasure’s play,
    under the lash of joy, the torturer, who
    is pitiless, Sadness, come, far away:
    Give me your hand. See, where the lost years
    lean from the balcony in their outdated gear,
    where regret, smiling, surges from the watery deeps.
    Underneath some archway, the dying light
    sleeps, and, like a long shroud trailing from the East,
    listen, dear one, listen to the soft onset of night.
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  14. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    The Hurricane
    “We are the birds of the coming storm.” — August Spies

    The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore;
    Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun;
    The sea complains, but its great voice is low.

    Bitter thy woes, O People,
    And the burden
    Hardly to be borne!
    Wearily grows, O People,
    All the aching
    Of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn!
    But yet thy time is not,
    And low thy moaning.
    Desert thy sands!
    Not yeat is thy breath hot, Vengefully blowing;
    It wafts o’er lifted hands.

    The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round;
    Slow clouds are sweeping o’er the blinding light;
    White crests curl on the sea — its voice grows deep.

    Angry thy heart, O People!
    And its bleeding
    Fire-tipped with rising hate!
    Thy clasped hands part, O People,
    For thy praying Warmed not the desolate!
    God did not hear thy moan:
    Now it is swelling
    To a great drowning cry;
    A dark wind-cloud, a groan, Now backward veering
    From that deaf sky!

    The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths,
    The whirled-White sand heaps with the foam-white waves;
    Thundering the sea rolls o’er its shell-crunched wall!

    Strong is thy rage, O People,
    In its fury
    Hurling thy tyrants down!
    Thow metest wage, O People.
    Very swiftly,
    Now that thy hate is grown:
    Thy time at last is come;
    Thou heapest anguish,
    Where thou thyself wert bare!
    No longer to thy dumb.
    God clasped and kneeling.
    Thou answerest thine own prayer.
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  15. 8115

    8115 sitting down is bad for you

    The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me
    by Delmore Schwarz

    "the withness of the body”

    The heavy bear who goes with me,
    A manifold honey to smear his face,
    Clumsy and lumbering here and there,
    The central ton of every place,
    The hungry beating brutish one
    In love with candy, anger, and sleep,
    Crazy factotum, dishevelling all,
    Climbs the building, kicks the football,
    Boxes his brother in the hate-ridden city.

    Breathing at my side, that heavy animal,
    That heavy bear who sleeps with me,
    Howls in his sleep for a world of sugar,
    A sweetness intimate as the water’s clasp,
    Howls in his sleep because the tight-rope
    Trembles and shows the darkness beneath.
    —The strutting show-off is terrified,
    Dressed in his dress-suit, bulging his pants,
    Trembles to think that his quivering meat
    Must finally wince to nothing at all.

    That inescapable animal walks with me,
    Has followed me since the black womb held,
    Moves where I move, distorting my gesture,
    A caricature, a swollen shadow,
    A stupid clown of the spirit’s motive,
    Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness,
    The secret life of belly and bone,
    Opaque, too near, my private, yet unknown,
    Stretches to embrace the very dear
    With whom I would walk without him near,
    Touches her grossly, although a word
    Would bare my heart and make me clear,
    Stumbles, flounders, and strives to be fed
    Dragging me with him in his mouthing care,
    Amid the hundred million of his kind,
    The scrimmage of appetite everywhere.
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  16. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    From East Coker by TS Eliot

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
    The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
    Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
    Isolated, with no before and after,
    But a lifetime burning in every moment
    And not the lifetime of one man only
    But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
    There is a time for the evening under starlight,
    A time for the evening under lamplight
    (The evening with the photograph album).
    Love is most nearly itself
    When here and now cease to matter.
    Old men ought to be explorers
    Here or there does not matter
    We must be still and still moving
    Into another intensity
    For a further union, a deeper communion
    Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
    The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
    Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
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  17. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model Every man and every woman is a star


    aberdeen times 12/1/1939
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  18. Beats & Pieces

    Beats & Pieces 24601 / 9430 Banned

    They fle from me that sometyme did me seke
    with naked fote stalking in my chambre
    I have sene theim gentill tame and meke
    that nowe are wyld and do not remembre
    that sometyme they put theimself in daunger
    to take bred at my hand and now raunge
    besely seking with a continuell chaunge
    Thancked be fortune it hath ben othrewise
    twenty tymes better but ons in speciall
    in thyn arraye after a pleasaunt gyse
    When her lose gowne from her shoulders did fall
    and she me caught in her armes long and small
    therewithall swetely did me kysse
    and softely said dere hert howe like you this
    It was no dreme I brode waking
    but all is torned thorough my gentilnes
    into a straunge fasshion of forsaking
    and I have leve to go of her goodenes
    and she also to use new fangilness
    but syns that I so kyndely ame served
    I would fain knowe what she hath deserved

  19. Pickman's model

    Pickman's model Every man and every woman is a star

  20. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Spring Snow by WILLIAM MATTHEWS

    Here comes the powdered milk I drank
    as a child, and the money it saved.
    Here come the papers I delivered,
    the spotted dog in heat that followed me home

    and the dogs that followed her.
    Here comes a load of white laundry
    from basketball practice, and sheets
    with their watermarks of semen.

    And here comes snow, a language
    in which no word is ever repeated,
    love is impossible, and remorse. . . .
    Yet childhood doesn’t end,

    but accumulates, each memory
    knit to the next, and the fields
    become one field. If to die is to lose
    all detail, then death is not

    so distinguished, but a profusion
    of detail, a last gossip, character
    passed wholly into fate and fate
    in flecks, like dust, like flour, like snow.
  21. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Spring Snow by Arthur Sze

    A spring snow coincides with plum blossoms.
    In a month, you will forget, then remember
    when nine ravens perched in the elm sway in wind.

    I will remember when I brake to a stop,
    and a hubcap rolls through the intersection.
    An angry man grinds pepper onto his salad;

    it is how you nail a tin amulet ear
    into the lintel. If, in deep emotion, we are
    possessed by the idea of possession,

    we can never lose to recover what is ours.
    Sounds of an abacus are amplified and condensed
    to resemble sounds of hail on a tin roof,

    but mind opens to the smell of lightening.
    Bodies were vaporized to shadows by intense heat;
    in memory people outline bodies on walls.
  22. Beats & Pieces

    Beats & Pieces 24601 / 9430 Banned

    In life like a flood, in deeds like a storm
    I surge to and fro,
    Up and down I flow!
    Birth and the grave
    An eternal wave,
    Turning, returning,
    A life ever burning:
    At Time's whirring loom I work and I play,
    God's living garment I weave and display.

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  23. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Snow Drifts by Horace

    Look how the snow drifts
    flare on the Soracte’s slopes
    —there, straining branches
    barely sustain their white
    load. Locked in ice, streams
    buckle, send cracks
    stuttering over the winter’s sharp still.

    Unclasp this cold, stir
    flame in the embers, pile
    the hearth with fat logs.
    Bring out a bottle warm
    with a summer four years
    gone, wine that grapes
    pressed from the sunlight on Sabine hillsides.
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  24. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Adams Curse by WB Yeats

    We sat together at one summer's end,
    That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
    And you and I, and talked of poetry.
    I said, "A line will take us hours maybe;
    Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
    Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
    Better go down upon your marrow-bones
    And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
    Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
    For to articulate sweet sounds together
    Is to work harder than all these, and yet
    Be thought an idler by the noisy set
    Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
    The martyrs call the world."
    And thereupon
    That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
    There's many a one shall find out all heartache
    On finding that her voice is sweet and low
    Replied, "To be born woman is to know—
    Although they do not talk of it at school—
    That we must labour to be beautiful."
    I said, "It's certain there is no fine thing
    Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
    There have been lovers who thought love should be
    So much compounded of high courtesy
    That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
    precedents out of beautiful old books;
    Yet now it seems an idle trade enough."

    We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
    We saw the last embers of daylight die,
    And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
    A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
    Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
    About the stars and broke in days and years.
    I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
    That you were beautiful, and that I strove
    To love you in the old high way of love;
    That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
    As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
  25. PippinTook

    PippinTook Some are born to sweet delight

    I love that poem..... x
  26. Beats & Pieces

    Beats & Pieces 24601 / 9430 Banned

    We know who the killers are,
    We have watched them strut before us
    As proud as sick Mussolinis’,
    We have watched them strut before us
    Compassionless and arrogant,
    They paraded before us,
    Like angels of death
    Protected by the law.

    It is now an open secret
    Black people do not have
    Chips on their shoulders,
    They just have injustice on their backs
    And justice on their minds,
    And now we know that the road to liberty
    Is as long as the road from slavery.

    The death of Stephen Lawrence
    Has taught us to love each other
    And never to take the tedious task
    Of waiting for a bus for granted.
    Watching his parents watching the cover-up
    Begs the question
    What are the trading standards here?
    Why are we paying for a police force
    That will not work for us?
    The death of Stephen Lawrence
    Has taught us
    That we cannot let the illusion of freedom
    Endow us with a false sense of security as we walk the streets,
    The whole world can now watch
    The academics and the super cops
    Struggling to define institutionalised racism
    As we continue to die in custody
    As we continue emptying our pockets on the pavements,
    And we continue to ask ourselves
    Why is it so official
    That black people are so often killed
    Without killers?
    We are not talking about war or revenge
    We are not talking about hypothetics or possibilities,
    We are talking about where we are now
    We are talking about how we live now
    In dis state
    Under dis flag, (God Save the Queen),
    And God save all those black children who want to grow up
    And God save all the brothers and sisters
    Who like raving,
    Because the death of Stephen Lawrence
    Has taught us that racism is easy when
    You have friends in high places.
    And friends in high places
    Have no use whatsoever
    When they are not your friends.
    Dear Mr Condon,
    Pop out of Teletubby land,
    And visit reality,
    Come to an honest place
    And get some advice from your neighbours,
    Be enlightened by our community,
    Neglect your well-paid ignorance
    We know who the killers are.

    This is on display at the moment in the British Library. Powerful. Moving.
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  27. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Period by RS Thomas

    It was a time when wise men
    Were not silent, but stifled
    By vast noise. They took refuge
    In books that were not read.

    Two counsellors had the ear
    Of the public. One cried ‘Buy’
    Day and night, and the other,
    More plausibly, ‘Sell your repose.’
    PippinTook and Pickman's model like this.
  28. Dillinger4

    Dillinger4 Es gibt Zeit

    Your gift of life was idleness,
    As you would set day’s task aside
    To marvel at an opening bud,
    Quivering leaf, or spider’s veil
    On dewy grass in morning spread.
    These were your wandering thoughts, that strayed
    Across the ever-changing mind
    Of airy sky and travelling cloud,
    The harebell and the heather hill,
    World without end, where you could lose
    Memory, identity and name
    And all that you beheld, became,
    Insect wing and net of stars
    Or silver-glistering wind-borne seed
    For ever drifting free from time.
    What has unbounded life to do
    With body’s grave and body’s womb,
    Span of life and little room?
    chainsawjob and PippinTook like this.
  29. PippinTook

    PippinTook Some are born to sweet delight

    The Mother
    I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
    My two strong sons that I have seen go out
    To break their strength and die, they and a few,
    In bloody protest for a glorious thing,
    They shall be spoken of among their people,
    The generations shall remember them,
    And call them blessed;
    But I will speak their names to my own heart
    In the long nights;
    The little names that were familiar once
    Round my dead hearth.
    Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
    We suffer in their coming and their going;
    And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary
    Of the long sorrow - And yet I have my joy:
    My sons were faithful, and they fought.

    Padraig Pearse
  30. ShiftyBagLady

    ShiftyBagLady Thinks she is a flower to be looked at

    To what purpose, April, do you return again?
    Beauty is not enough.
    You can no longer quiet me with the redness
    Of little leaves opening stickily.
    I know what I know.
    The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
    The spikes of the crocus.
    The smell of the earth is good.
    It is apparent that there is no death.
    But what does that signify?
    Not only under ground are the brains of men
    Eaten by maggots.
    Life in itself
    Is nothing,
    An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
    It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
    Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

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