How are you pronouncing 'forte'?
Post a fucking pome then
- Thread starter DotCommunist
- Start date
How are you pronouncing 'forte'?
Barking_Mad
Non sibi sed omnibus
Floodlit in the orange glow
Of neon streetlights
And exploding in the burnt out embers
Of wished upon stars
Dreams that didn’t make it
Beyond a passing thought
Are scattered across the skyline
And lost forever
In the background noise
Of broken lives
That stream between the gaps
Where the flickering light
Bleeds into the night
And passes over this idle earth
Of neon streetlights
And exploding in the burnt out embers
Of wished upon stars
Dreams that didn’t make it
Beyond a passing thought
Are scattered across the skyline
And lost forever
In the background noise
Of broken lives
That stream between the gaps
Where the flickering light
Bleeds into the night
And passes over this idle earth
i-am-your-idea
pretty vacant
Ted Hughes - Tractor
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.
It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.
The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.
I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.
And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?
Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-shit.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -
Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron
Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform
And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
Reality T.V, 2-D me
Imbecile
that's me
half-wit
I aspire to be
worthless advice
given free
reality T.V.
2-D me
a hairline fracture
a broken shirt
down the supermarket aisle
with a ring of dirt
around the bath
2 bottles free
reality T.V.
2-D me
locked in a prison
of revamped homes
property ladders
and mobile phones
find yr ideal haircut
by the sea
reality T.V.
2-D me
.
Imbecile
that's me
half-wit
I aspire to be
worthless advice
given free
reality T.V.
2-D me
a hairline fracture
a broken shirt
down the supermarket aisle
with a ring of dirt
around the bath
2 bottles free
reality T.V.
2-D me
locked in a prison
of revamped homes
property ladders
and mobile phones
find yr ideal haircut
by the sea
reality T.V.
2-D me
.
bhamgeezer
Dogs bark
She glances down when his name is spoken,
and that soft look upon her face,
the rapture in her eyes,
is not for me.
But in that moment I love him too
his brutish strength, his mindless courage,
and I am sickened
and that soft look upon her face,
the rapture in her eyes,
is not for me.
But in that moment I love him too
his brutish strength, his mindless courage,
and I am sickened
Steel Icarus
an attempt was made
Unlucky
The soft, disappointed yellow
of old streetlamps
twinkles from every imperfection
on this frozen road.
Stars on the ground.
All those pennies
I never picked up.
The soft, disappointed yellow
of old streetlamps
twinkles from every imperfection
on this frozen road.
Stars on the ground.
All those pennies
I never picked up.
The expression "Wee Free" refers to the Free Church of Scotland, a particularly virulent form of Calvinism.
The Ballad of Mick McGarr
Wee Mick McGarr, from Ireland far,
a fiddler all his life,
though Dublin bred to Scotland fled,
leaving his child and wife.
With his scraggy dog he crossed the bog,
a bottle against each hip,
but by Cushendal he’d drunk it all
and missed the Glasgow ship.
Mick sat on the pier, clutched his can of beer,
his fiddle and dog beside,
through the afternoon he gazed with gloom
at the flow and the fleeing tide.
His head bent low, the whisky glow
had faded from his soul
when a puffer boat, just half afloat
steamed in with a hold of coal.
John Neil MacLean was the proud captain
of the “Lady Skerryvore”;
it was his boast he could drink the most
and then still drink some more.
But as a staunch Wee Free, from the isle, Tiree,
his salvation he had found,
and the captain’s ship on every trip
very seldom ran aground.
With Mick McGarr he found a bar
and together they drank well;
John Neil MacLean, in his usual vein
blasted brimstone fire and hell.
Though he spoke of the pit as one who’d bit
from the Apple of the Tree,
he knew for sure that his soul was pure;
all his life he’d been Wee Free.
With whisky blood Mick grew absurd,
he rose and slowly said,
“By me dog’s grey hair I have no fear
of the Deil be I live or dead.
By me dog’s grey mane, I’d say again
were Satan standing here,
by me dog’s grey knees, his fleece and fleas,
of Hell I have no fear!”
John Neil MacLean spoke not again,
Mick also now was still;
a dozen stares said silent prayers
and the barman’s eyes looked ill.
The dog of grey, without a say
on the question of its fur,
below the rail it dropped its tail
and, bewildered, tried to purr.
Yet, in a time the flow of wine
restored the company’s nerve,
and very soon, with a fiddle tune
Mick made them dance and swerve.
With the break of dawn as the barman yawned
and said, “God bless my soul!”
they had just enough loot for a wee carry-oot
to drink on the puffer of coal.
Links clinking on chains roused the rumpled remains
of the Captain and Mick McGarr;
the engine growled, the boatswain scowled
and they sailed by the mid-day star.
As they steamed from the bay Mick was carried away,
he stared at the sea in awe;
but recalling Mick’s boast, MacLean stared at the coast
and a hardness crept into his jaw.
The whispering breeze stirred the crew’s unease
on the “Lady Skerryvore”.
They feared that Mick by some evil trick
was Jonah come once more.
When the breeze rose and storm clouds closed
one of the men, Peg Leg,
said, “Give him a log for himself and his dog
and a floating whisky keg”
Thrown over the side in the heaving tide
Mick grabbed at the keg and log.
As the storm raged round and MacLean ran aground
Mick floated with fiddle and dog;
when the wind died away there lay Scarnish Bay
for he’d drifted right up to Tiree.
(Though, when later ashore, he claimed that for sure
he’d swum over the Irish Sea)
Mick drank the dreg of the whisky keg
and wondered where there was more;
it was sad that she’d sank as there’d been a full tank
on the “Lady Skerryvore”.
Having found Scarnish Bar there wee Mick McGarr
drank whisky, beer and sherry
his fiddle he played and all night he stayed,
keeping the locals merry.
In Scarnish Bar stood Mick McGarr
with his whisky in his hand.
While Mick was drunk t’was his dog that stunk,
on its feet could hardly stand.
The night passed fine till closing time
for the fiddler’s tunes were gay,
but when the bar shut there was no hut
for Mick to sleep till day.
As the night grew old Mick grew more cold,
He drank from his whisky jar;
And across the dunes played sadder tunes
From the fiddle of Mick McGarr.
As he slowly walked to his dog he talked
Of his home and his child and wife,
And his songs, once gay, now seemed to say,
“Oh for the Dublin life”.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Far beneath Tiree the primeval sea
has burrowed an endless cave;
there toil the trolls in honeycomb holes
each one the Devil’s slave.
Guarding the tombs, the crypts and rooms
of the corridors leading to Hades,
their favourite treat, boiled babies feet,
gnawed crouching in spidery shades.
Below the soil the dark trolls toiled
at the tasks of their king, the Deil,
and through the ground they heard the sound
of the fiddler’s mournful reel.
The goblins and trolls climbed from their holes,
they seized Mick and his dog;
they dragged them down below the ground
to face their leader, Trog.
Trog was a gnome as black as doom,
his eyes shone bright as fire;
second in command at the Deil’s right hand
never did his malice tire.
His twisted mouth was quite enough
to send a shiver up Mick’s spine;
for Trog was evil, but for the Devil,
the foulest in the mine.
But as Mick stood, and before Trog could
condemn him to the Hell,
a rush of flame from the cavern came
and the trolls on their faces fell.
The Devil appeared to see who dared
to enter his domain;
“Why have you come into this tomb
before you have been slain?”
As Mick grew faint his dog’s restraint
was broken by this final fear;
it growled and barked till the Deil’s fire sparked
to clear it’s back of hair.
With a whimpering yelp and a scalded scalp
it fled to the tunnel’s end
and Mick alone, in the Devil’s tomb
had lost his only friend.
After a pause the Devil’s claws
clutched at the fiddle’s strings
“Who’s is this?” Then Trog said, “His”.
“How well can you play this thing?”
So the Irishman a tune began,
a song from Galway bay;
and the Devil’s smile grew all the while
that Mick his fiddle played.
The music’s flow, both soft and slow
made Satan bow his head,
and when it stopped the Devil hopped
with joy among the dead.
“This must not end, you’ll be my friend,
to play for me each day.
I’ll give you food and whisky good
if you will with me stay.”
And so Mick stayed and forever played
his reels and fiddle tunes;
and more whisky far than in Scarnish Bar
he drinks beneath the dunes.
His dog’s still there, without its hair
sniffling near the bar;
and in its dreams it sometimes seems
it’s there with Mick McGarr.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Ballad of Mick McGarr
Wee Mick McGarr, from Ireland far,
a fiddler all his life,
though Dublin bred to Scotland fled,
leaving his child and wife.
With his scraggy dog he crossed the bog,
a bottle against each hip,
but by Cushendal he’d drunk it all
and missed the Glasgow ship.
Mick sat on the pier, clutched his can of beer,
his fiddle and dog beside,
through the afternoon he gazed with gloom
at the flow and the fleeing tide.
His head bent low, the whisky glow
had faded from his soul
when a puffer boat, just half afloat
steamed in with a hold of coal.
John Neil MacLean was the proud captain
of the “Lady Skerryvore”;
it was his boast he could drink the most
and then still drink some more.
But as a staunch Wee Free, from the isle, Tiree,
his salvation he had found,
and the captain’s ship on every trip
very seldom ran aground.
With Mick McGarr he found a bar
and together they drank well;
John Neil MacLean, in his usual vein
blasted brimstone fire and hell.
Though he spoke of the pit as one who’d bit
from the Apple of the Tree,
he knew for sure that his soul was pure;
all his life he’d been Wee Free.
With whisky blood Mick grew absurd,
he rose and slowly said,
“By me dog’s grey hair I have no fear
of the Deil be I live or dead.
By me dog’s grey mane, I’d say again
were Satan standing here,
by me dog’s grey knees, his fleece and fleas,
of Hell I have no fear!”
John Neil MacLean spoke not again,
Mick also now was still;
a dozen stares said silent prayers
and the barman’s eyes looked ill.
The dog of grey, without a say
on the question of its fur,
below the rail it dropped its tail
and, bewildered, tried to purr.
Yet, in a time the flow of wine
restored the company’s nerve,
and very soon, with a fiddle tune
Mick made them dance and swerve.
With the break of dawn as the barman yawned
and said, “God bless my soul!”
they had just enough loot for a wee carry-oot
to drink on the puffer of coal.
Links clinking on chains roused the rumpled remains
of the Captain and Mick McGarr;
the engine growled, the boatswain scowled
and they sailed by the mid-day star.
As they steamed from the bay Mick was carried away,
he stared at the sea in awe;
but recalling Mick’s boast, MacLean stared at the coast
and a hardness crept into his jaw.
The whispering breeze stirred the crew’s unease
on the “Lady Skerryvore”.
They feared that Mick by some evil trick
was Jonah come once more.
When the breeze rose and storm clouds closed
one of the men, Peg Leg,
said, “Give him a log for himself and his dog
and a floating whisky keg”
Thrown over the side in the heaving tide
Mick grabbed at the keg and log.
As the storm raged round and MacLean ran aground
Mick floated with fiddle and dog;
when the wind died away there lay Scarnish Bay
for he’d drifted right up to Tiree.
(Though, when later ashore, he claimed that for sure
he’d swum over the Irish Sea)
Mick drank the dreg of the whisky keg
and wondered where there was more;
it was sad that she’d sank as there’d been a full tank
on the “Lady Skerryvore”.
Having found Scarnish Bar there wee Mick McGarr
drank whisky, beer and sherry
his fiddle he played and all night he stayed,
keeping the locals merry.
In Scarnish Bar stood Mick McGarr
with his whisky in his hand.
While Mick was drunk t’was his dog that stunk,
on its feet could hardly stand.
The night passed fine till closing time
for the fiddler’s tunes were gay,
but when the bar shut there was no hut
for Mick to sleep till day.
As the night grew old Mick grew more cold,
He drank from his whisky jar;
And across the dunes played sadder tunes
From the fiddle of Mick McGarr.
As he slowly walked to his dog he talked
Of his home and his child and wife,
And his songs, once gay, now seemed to say,
“Oh for the Dublin life”.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Far beneath Tiree the primeval sea
has burrowed an endless cave;
there toil the trolls in honeycomb holes
each one the Devil’s slave.
Guarding the tombs, the crypts and rooms
of the corridors leading to Hades,
their favourite treat, boiled babies feet,
gnawed crouching in spidery shades.
Below the soil the dark trolls toiled
at the tasks of their king, the Deil,
and through the ground they heard the sound
of the fiddler’s mournful reel.
The goblins and trolls climbed from their holes,
they seized Mick and his dog;
they dragged them down below the ground
to face their leader, Trog.
Trog was a gnome as black as doom,
his eyes shone bright as fire;
second in command at the Deil’s right hand
never did his malice tire.
His twisted mouth was quite enough
to send a shiver up Mick’s spine;
for Trog was evil, but for the Devil,
the foulest in the mine.
But as Mick stood, and before Trog could
condemn him to the Hell,
a rush of flame from the cavern came
and the trolls on their faces fell.
The Devil appeared to see who dared
to enter his domain;
“Why have you come into this tomb
before you have been slain?”
As Mick grew faint his dog’s restraint
was broken by this final fear;
it growled and barked till the Deil’s fire sparked
to clear it’s back of hair.
With a whimpering yelp and a scalded scalp
it fled to the tunnel’s end
and Mick alone, in the Devil’s tomb
had lost his only friend.
After a pause the Devil’s claws
clutched at the fiddle’s strings
“Who’s is this?” Then Trog said, “His”.
“How well can you play this thing?”
So the Irishman a tune began,
a song from Galway bay;
and the Devil’s smile grew all the while
that Mick his fiddle played.
The music’s flow, both soft and slow
made Satan bow his head,
and when it stopped the Devil hopped
with joy among the dead.
“This must not end, you’ll be my friend,
to play for me each day.
I’ll give you food and whisky good
if you will with me stay.”
And so Mick stayed and forever played
his reels and fiddle tunes;
and more whisky far than in Scarnish Bar
he drinks beneath the dunes.
His dog’s still there, without its hair
sniffling near the bar;
and in its dreams it sometimes seems
it’s there with Mick McGarr.
* * * * * * * * * *
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