Who invented work:sneaky:
On a hill i sit,
My dog, happily rolling in sh*t,
Miles done and more to go
Take a deep breath, and get up slow,
Off we trot, the pooch comes grottily,
Could do this all day, if i won the lottery!
Who invented work:sneaky:
On a hill i sit,
My dog, happily rolling in sh*t,
Miles done and more to go
Take a deep breath, and get up slow,
Off we trot, the pooch comes grottily,
Could do this all day, if i won the lottery!
Loved Crowhill's 3ppp's poem, hope the injury clears up soon mate.
Time, Real and Imaginary - An Allegory
mostly By Samuel Taylor Coleridge (I am surprised we haven't posted this poem before!)
On the wide level of a mountain's head,
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread,
Two lovely children run a fell race,
A sister and a brother!
This far outstripp'd the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind:
For he, alas! is blind!
O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,
And knows not whether he be first or last.
I know it's not the kind of poetry we post on here, and I know it's well past Wimbledon now, but I heard this read by the poet at Ledbury and it is so funny (and clever) I had to post it here.
thwok
By Matt Harvey
a game in the life
bounce bounce bounce bounce
thwackety wackety zingety ping
hittety backety pingety zang
wack, thwok, thwack, pok
thwikety, thwekity, thwokity, thwakity
cover the court with alarming alacrity
smackety dink, smackety dink
boshety bashity crotchety crashety
up loops a lob with a teasing temerity
leaps in the air in defiance of gravity
puts it away with a savage severity
coupled with suavity
nice
15-love
(reaches for towel with a certain serenity)
bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce
thwack, thwok, plak, plok
come to the nettety
bit of a liberty
quickly regrettety
up goes a lobbity
hoppety skippety
awkwardly backwardly
slippety trippety
tumble & sprawl
audible gasps…
15-all
(opponent asks how is he?
courtesy, nice to see
getting up gingerly
brushity thighsity
all, if you’re asking me
bit big-girls-blousity)
bounce bounce bounce
whack, thwok, plik, plok
into the corner, then down the linety
chasety downity, whackety backety
all on the runnity, crossety courtety
dropety vollety – quality, quality…
… oh I say what impossible gettery
no, umpirical rulery – nottety uppity –
oooh – doesn’t look happety
back to the baseline
muttery muttery muttery muttery
30-15
bounce, bounce, bounce,
thwacketty OUT
bounce, bounce, bounce,
thwacketty BLEEP
2nd serve
bounce, bounce, bounce,
thwacketty – slappity
thwackety thumpity
dinkety-clinkety, gruntity-thumpity
clinkety
thump!
30-all
fistety pumpety, fistety pumpety COME ON!
quiet please
bounce, bounce, bounce,
thwacketty thwoketty
bashetty boshetty
clashety closhety
OUT!
what?
lookaty linety, lookaty line-judge
line judge nodity
wearily query
umpire upholdery, indicate inchery
insult to injury
give line-judge scrutiny
face full of mutiny,
40-30
back to the baseline
through gritted teethery
muttery mutiny mutiny muttery
bounce bounce bounce
thwak, thwok, thwak, plok
thwakety plik, thwoketty plak
to-ity fro-ity fro-ity to-ity
slowity quickety quickety slowity
turnety headety, headety turnity
leftety rightety leftety rightety
seems like we’ve been here a bloomin eternity
rightety leftety rightety leftety
topety spinnety, backhandy slicety
lookety watchety, scratchety bottity
fabulous forehand, backhandy slicety
furious forehand, savagely slicety
fearsome ferocity, vicious velocity
bilious backhand – blasted so blistery…
…half a mile out but that line judge is history
OOOWWWWWWWWT!
GAME
new balls please
One the other hand we do post this kind of poem, and this is by Robert Frost one of the Dymock poets based not so very far from Ledbury.
There was an exhibition of stitched textiles associated with the festival on the theme of "moon rainbow" associated with "Iris by Night", although confusingly not all the pieces were moon rainbow based, some had chosen e.g. "The Road not Taken" another Frost classic.
Here is Iris by Night, as I'm sure The Road not Taken has appeared on here before.
One misty evening, one another's guide,
We two were groping down a Malvern side
The last wet fields and dripping hedges home.
There came a moment of confusing lights,
Such as according to belief in Rome
Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights
Before the fragments of a former sun
Could concentrate anew and rise as one.
Light was a paste of pigment in our eyes.
And then there was a moon and then a scene
So watery as to seem submarine;
In which we two stood saturated, drowned.
The clover-mingled rowan on the ground
Had taken all the water it could as dew,
And still the air was saturated too,
Its airy pressure turned to water weight.
Then a small rainbow like a trellis gate,
A very small moon-made prismatic bow,
Stood closely over us through which to go.
And then we were vouchsafed a miracle
That never yet to other two befell
And I alone of us have lived to tell.
A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent,
Instead of moving with us as we went
(To keep the pots of gold from being found),
It lifted from its dewy pediment
Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends
And gathered them together in a ring.
And we stood in it softly circled round
From all division time or foe can bring
In a relation of elected friends.
Ha ha...I like this a lot.
I've said it before and I'm going to say it again....there isn't a 'type' of poem that is posted or any unwritten (or written) restrictions regarding what is posted on the thread...there's been all sorts, even biscuit porn limericks. I think some of us just have favourites that we post and repost because we enjoy them or they fit a mood so maybe it might seem that certain types of poems get posted (trawl some of the archives and you'll see that there really has been everything possible). I, for one, will post whatever I like unless I think it would upset or offend anyone so I hope you don't feel restricted Stevie.
Originally Posted by Stevie
I didn't know Frost had spent some time in England so thanks for educating me there
Stevie. I loved the "Thwok" poem as well
Evening Walk
You give the appearance of listening
To my thoughts, O trees,
Bent over the road I am walking
On a late summer evening
When every one of you is a steep staircase
The night is slowly descending.
The high leaves like my mother's lips
Forever trembling, unable to decide,
For there's a bit of wind,
And it's like hearing voices,
Or a mouth full of muffled laughter,
A huge dark mouth we can all fit in
Suddenly covered by a hand.
Everything quiet. Light
Of some other evening strolling ahead,
Long-ago evening of silk dresses,
Bare feet, hair unpinned and falling.
Happy heart, what heavy steps you take
As you follow after them in the shadows.
The sky at the road's end cloudless and blue.
The night birds like children
Who won't come to dinner.
Lost children in the darkening woods.
Charles Simic
Wow...I really do love this Alf.It has such a gentleness to it and then there is the slightly macabre bit about the 'huge dark mouth'.
i agree , i love the personification of the trees who appear both soothing and slightly sinister, i like a paradox! great choice alf...really enjoying this thread as a consumer rather than contributor, but now...is that really the time? BED!Wow...I really do love this Alf.
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