National Poetry Day

[mothhawk]

Oh
No!......................

Now I know an even shorter one! I don't think that can be beat, VC

[veggiechicken]

Me?
We!!!!!

[alldigging]

I?
Ay!



:-)

[julesapple]

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!

*excerpt from "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

Music for your Poe. A Welshman too......and drop dead gorgeous with a voice like melted velvet. It is well worth listening to.

Steve Balsamo- Immortal - YouTube

[veggiechicken]

Did you know that CardiffSteve IS Steve Balsamo, Jules?
Doesn't rhyme, we should have known, we're such fools!

[julesapple]

I have just died and gone to Heaven,
I did not realise he was that Steven.

What a tease,
I am weak at the knees,
Oh Please.....

[Qzy]

Ireland have tons of great poets, but my favourite is Australian, Banjo Paterson.....

Roses ruddy and roses white,
What are the joys that my heart discloses?
Sitting alone in the fading light
Memories come to me here to-night
With the wonderful scent of the big red roses.


Memories come as the daylight fades
Down on the hearth where the firelight dozes;
Flicker and flutter the lights and shades,
And I see the face of a queen of maids
Whose memory comes with the scent of roses.


Visions arise of a scene of mirth,
And a ball-room belle that superbly poses --
A queenly woman of queenly worth,
And I am the happiest man on earth
With a single flower from a bunch of roses.


Only her memory lives to-night --
God in His wisdom her young life closes;
Over her grave may the turf be light,
Cover her coffin with roses white --
She was always fond of the big white roses.


Such are the visions that fade away --
Man proposes and God disposes;
Look in the glass and I see to-day
Only an old man, worn and grey,
Bending his head to a bunch of roses

[VirginVegGrower]

I'm off to bed
Said Tired Ted

A bit of alliteration for you there too

[veggiechicken]

Thanks to you all
For being such sports,
And sharing your poems
Of various sorts

[Dusty Rhodes]

There once was a feisty lass nicknamed Veggie Chicken,
Who could give blokes a proper @rse kickin',
If they didn't treat her right,
There'd be a terrible fight,
And they'd come around to a new way of thinkin'!

[Dusty Rhodes]

There once was a nutter called Dusty
Whose seed stock was getting quite musty,
He said they're not old,
Just ignore all the mould,
Dear Ma'am I assure you, they're lusty

Well done VC. From now on when I see your initials "VC", I will be thinking "Very Clever"

[veggiechicken]

Well done VC. From now on when I see your initials "VC", I will be thinking "Very Clever"

Or, as someone said the other day "Very Cheeky"!!

[mrswadders]

This my favourite, Silver by Walter De La Mere, reminds me of when I was little, my dad always quoted this when our old black lab Suzy was laying with her head on her paws - lovely..........

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

[alldigging]

I was too under the weather to go to a poetry reading thing last night where Sylvia Plath's the bee box was read out.


The Arrival of the Bee Box
I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.

Sylvia Plath (In 1962 Plath started bee keeping. Her father was a beekeeper and had written two books about bees.)