Today's poet

[Alf]

Forum says "There are currently 41 users browsing this thread. (1 member and 40 guests)"

That must be a record - where did these 40 guests come from and why are they here!?

They might be bolstering themselves up with a bit of inspirational poetry before heading for the picket lines?

The Miners Strike (remembered 25 years later)

It feels like a hundred years ago, or it could just be last week
When they stood on a freezing picket line and history took a turn
When communities refused to die or turn the other cheek
And what did we learn, eh? What did we learn?

For a year the pit wheels stood stock still,
And money dwindled, then ran out
But collectivism's hard to kill
And if you stand and listen, you'll still hear them shout...
But what did we learn, eh? What did we learn?

It feels like just a week ago, or it could be a hundred years
When the police vans charged with their sirens on through the silent weeping streets;
And they cooked and marched and argued through a mist of pain and fear
And a shut down pit's a symbol of depression and defeat
So what did we learn, eh? What did we learn?

The past is not just Kings and Queens, it's those like me and you
Who clashed with a woman at Number 10, who had to stand and fight
Cos when your way of life's being smashed to bits, what else can you do?
As the pickets braziers glow and smoke in the freezing Yorkshire night;
What did we learn, he? What did we learn?
Buy frozen peas where the braziers burned
What did we learn? What should we learn?

Ian McMillan

[Hes]

The Bungler

You glow in my heart
Like the flames of uncounted candles.
But when I go to warm my hands,
My clumsiness overturns the light,
And then I stumble
Against the tables and chairs.

Amy Lowell

(who would have thought it...a poem about love and clumsiness! )

[stevefoster]

The Bungler

You glow in my heart
Like the flames of uncounted candles.
But when I go to warm my hands,
My clumsiness overturns the light,
And then I stumble
Against the tables and chairs.

Amy Lowell

(who would have thought it...a poem about love and clumsiness! )

Made me laugh that Hes, they don't call it 'falling' in love for nowt:wink:

[Hes]

From the Telephone

Out of the dark cup
Your voice broke like a flower.
It trembled, swaying on its taut stem.
The caress in its touch
Made my eyes close.

Florence Ripley Mastin

[Hes]

Too true Steve, all that going weak kneed and faint...its a dangerous business.

Made me laugh that Hes, they don't call it 'falling' in love for nowt:wink:

[stevefoster]

Too true Steve, all that going weak kneed and faint...its a dangerous business.

Aye, as they used to say in 'Hill Street Blues' Let's be careful out there...............they missed out the 'enjoy' bit though, you only live once, unless your James Bond

[Stevie]

It is time to post this one by Simon Armitage. I heard him read this at Mytholmroyd when he was doing his Pennine Way walk and daily readings. The geographical closeness to Luddenden and the fact that the woman who had organised that reading (on behalf of the Ted Hughes Society) was a librarian herself made the poem particularly relevant. I'm sure the librarian organiser had nothing to do with the librarian in the poem!

Full Moon

It's midnight in Luddenden,
midnight in Luddenden,
midnight in Luddenwhen
all of a suddenden
here comes a shape in a cloak and a hood.
They're holding hands in Luddendenfoot
and there's trouble in Luddenden,
trouble in Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddendenfoot.

Luddendenfoot, Luddendenfoot,
they're forming a circle in Luddendenfoot,
but the frumpy librarian's really a witch
who's bedding a druid from Hebenden Bridge -
hubble and bubble there;s trouble in Luddenden
trouble in Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddendenfoot.

Luddendenfoot, Luddendenfoot,
they're closing rank in Luddendenfoot.
Round the back of a hut
a goat gets killed with a woodenden clubenden,
chickens are slaughtered,
Catholics are neutered,
the queen of the covenden
working up phelgm with soya milk bubblegum
gobs on the grave of the great and the goodenden
curses the vicars
of Mixenden, Illingworth, Warley and Ovenden.
Look, Mother, look,
in the locked-up, blacked-out community centre
they're burning a book. Nothing is sacred -
they're writhing and shaking, they're stark bollock naked
they're painting their genitals green and magenta,
they're veggies as well but they're eating placenta
they're all in a huddleden
daubing themselves with henna and mudenden,
here comes the knife and here comes the bloodenden.
Call for the cops -
there's trouble in Luddenden,
trouble in Luddenden,
trouble tonight and it's double in Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddendenfoot.

[Alf]

It is time to post this one by Simon Armitage. I heard him read this at Mytholmroyd when he was doing his Pennine Way walk and daily readings. The geographical closeness to Luddenden and the fact that the woman who had organised that reading (on behalf of the Ted Hughes Society) was a librarian herself made the poem particularly relevant. I'm sure the librarian organiser had nothing to do with the librarian in the poem!

Full Moon

It's midnight in Luddenden,
midnight in Luddenden,
midnight in Luddenwhen
all of a suddenden
here comes a shape in a cloak and a hood.
They're holding hands in Luddendenfoot
and there's trouble in Luddenden,
trouble in Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddendenfoot.

Luddendenfoot, Luddendenfoot,
they're forming a circle in Luddendenfoot,
but the frumpy librarian's really a witch
who's bedding a druid from Hebenden Bridge -
hubble and bubble there;s trouble in Luddenden
trouble in Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddendenfoot.

Luddendenfoot, Luddendenfoot,
they're closing rank in Luddendenfoot.
Round the back of a hut
a goat gets killed with a woodenden clubenden,
chickens are slaughtered,
Catholics are neutered,
the queen of the covenden
working up phelgm with soya milk bubblegum
gobs on the grave of the great and the goodenden
curses the vicars
of Mixenden, Illingworth, Warley and Ovenden.
Look, Mother, look,
in the locked-up, blacked-out community centre
they're burning a book. Nothing is sacred -
they're writhing and shaking, they're stark bollock naked
they're painting their genitals green and magenta,
they're veggies as well but they're eating placenta
they're all in a huddleden
daubing themselves with henna and mudenden,
here comes the knife and here comes the bloodenden.
Call for the cops -
there's trouble in Luddenden,
trouble in Luddenden,
trouble tonight and it's double in Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddenden,
Luddenden, Luddenden, Luddendenfoot.

I enjoyed that Stevie it fairly rattles along doesn't it. Luddenden, who would have thought ?

[freckle]

From the Telephone

Out of the dark cup
Your voice broke like a flower.
It trembled, swaying on its taut stem.
The caress in its touch
Made my eyes close.

Florence Ripley Mastin

lovely hes

[Alf]

What the Chairman Told Tom

Poetry? It’s a hobby.
I run model trains.
Mr Shaw there breeds pigeons.

It’s not work. You dont sweat.
Nobody pays for it.
You could advertise soap.

Art, that’s opera; or repertory—
The Desert Song.
Nancy was in the chorus.

But to ask for twelve pounds a week—
married, aren’t you?—
you’ve got a nerve.

How could I look a bus conductor
in the face
if I paid you twelve pounds?

Who says it’s poetry, anyhow?
My ten year old
can do it and rhyme.

I get three thousand and expenses,
a car, vouchers,
but I’m an accountant.

They do what I tell them,
my company.
What do you do?

Nasty little words, nasty long words,
it’s unhealthy.
I want to wash when I meet a poet.

They’re Reds, addicts,
all delinquents.
What you write is rot.

Mr Hines says so, and he’s a schoolteacher,
he ought to know.
Go and find work.


Basil Bunting