The poetry thread
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And the poets down here don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of a knife, they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland -
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. -
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
Please love yourself.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
I like him because okay, say what you want about everything else, but when it came to his writing, he really brought it. Most people don't.
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood, which was pretty fucking rad, with or without substances.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
I like him because okay, say what you want about everything else, but when it came to his writing, he really brought it. Most people don't.
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood, which was pretty fucking rad, with or without substances.
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood
That was on the other side of the Child's Christmas in Wales I listened to as a kid.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
No, it certainly isn’t. Endeavoring to obscure your message is just pretension. Clarity doesn’t necessarily mean being obvious, but if you don’t get what you’re talking about across, it’s like a lot of abstract art. “What does it mean TO YOU?”
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The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook again -
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook again@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
@Horace said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
You've a white male face, bro. Might wanna rethink that last.
-
Robin Hood and the Monk
—my version, adopted heavily from the Cambridge Ff.5.48 manuscript. This was a real bitch to do.In summer, when the woods were bright
And leaves grew large and long,
The merry forest welcomed in
The sparrows’ morning songThe deer were drawing to the dale
And left the hillocks free
And sheltered in beneath the shade
Of vaulted emerald treesWhite Sunday, when the flowers bloomed
So brilliantly in May—
They rivaled dawn’s own gilded glow—
Such was the scene that day.“A merry sight,” said Little John
“By Christ Upon the Cross,
To find a man as half-content
You’d all be at a loss!”“Pick up your heart, my master, please,”
He ventured on to say,
“No light is ever fairer than
The morning light of May.”“Except I’m troubled,” Robin said,
“I’m sorry that it shows.
It’s time for Sunday Mass again;
It’s there I ought to go.”“It’s been a fortnight since I’ve been—
Much longer than I’d planned.
I’ll try today—but led, with luck
By Mary’s gentle hand.”Along came Much, the Miller’s son,
Who took the two aside.
“So bring a dozen merry men
And let them be your guide!
If any wished to do you harm,
They’d risk their suicide.”“Just one, my friend,” said Robin Hood,
“To keep us out of sight.
So Little John shall hold my bow—
Unless we find a fight.”“You’ll hold your own,” said Little John,
“And me, I’ll carry mine.
In fact, a dollar wager for the man
Who shoots the truer line.”“A dollar? No,” said Robin back
“Let’s have a little fun:
For besting me in archery,
I’ll give you three-to-one.”They wagered once, and wagered twice
As both dared not to lose
‘Till Little John had won enough
To buy new socks and shoes.Then silence grew between the two
As Robin stormed ahead
The other tried to claim his prize
When Robin turned his head.He fiercely struck at Little John—
“You cheated!” Robin roared
And Little John responded fast
By brandishing his sword.“Were you another’s master, Robin,
I’d sorely make you pay.
Return to town. Go where you will.
You walk alone today.”So Robin walked to Nottingham,
Uneasy and alone,
And Little John, to Sherwood by
The paths he’d always known.And later, once in Nottingham,
A hooded man began
To pray to Mary and to God
To see him safe again.He stepped inside Saint Mary’s church
And knelt before the Lord
And all within saw Robin Hood
Alone, save bow and sword.Across from him, a local monk
Whose head sat full and round
Identified the visitor
And quickly spun aroundHe bolted out the door and sought
The sheriff as he fled—
Disrupting Robin’s sanctuary,
Betraying him instead.While searching all of Nottingham,
He told the sheriff’s men:
“Secure the gates and arm yourself—
The Thief returns again!”He found the sheriff as he yelled,
“Rise up, and fix your ears!
Surround the church with all your guards,
Your ‘Robin Hood’ is here!I saw the felon there myself,
Attending Sunday mass
The failure’s yours and yours alone
If he’s allowed to pass!I know the traitor, same as you—
He sprang and robbed me blind!
A hundred pounds he took from me—
It’s never left my mind.”The sheriff nodded, thanked the monk
And smiled, now content.
He mobilized his strongest men
And to the church they went.They beat upon St. Mary’s doors
With staves dispersed and drawn
“‘Just two,’ I said,” spat Robin Hood,
“And now, no Little John!”He drew his longsword out at once
And held it by his knee,
Then charged against the sheriff’s men
Their staves now swinging freeThrice through did Robin come at them
And those who saw it say
He wounded countless armored guards
And twelve he killed that day.His sword, upon the sheriff’s head,
Abruptly broke in two.
“The smith that made you,” Robin said,
“Deserves to be run through!I’m weaponless, and so I yield,
Before more blood is spilled.
(And if I ran, they barred the gates—
They’d surely have me killed.)”————————————
Within the forest, past the towns,
Beyond their field and glen,
Stood Little John, who spoke at once
Before the merry men:“Our master’s not returned and I
Suspect he’s locked away.
But quiet! Listen up, my friends,
And hear what I would say—He’s served Our Lady piously;
For us, She will provide.
Because of Her, despite my fears,
I don’t believe he died.So please be glad,” said Little John,
“And let your mourning go.
I’ll leave with Much to bring him back;
The monk? We’ll bring him low.
If Mild Mary lends Her might,
We’ll give him what he’s owed.Keep watch upon our meeting tree
And while we’re down the trail,
Bring back that summer venison
That stalks our wooded vale.”They crossed the forest, John and Much—
Beyond the trees, the two
Arrived at Much’s uncle’s house,
The highway in full view.The morning came, and from the house,
The two companions saw
The monk come riding with a Page
In the gentle light of dawn.“By faith alone,” said Little John,
“Our luck would be this good!
The very monk we’re looking for—
I know him by his hood!”They joined the road, both Much and John,
And like two gentlemen
Approached the monk and little Page
As if they’d been old friends“From where’d you come?” asked Little John.
“I’d heard a merchant say
An outlaw stalking Nottingham
Was taken yesterday.He stole from us some twenty marks—
We wondered if you knew
Was what our friend had said of his
Incarceration true?”“A hundred pounds,” The monk replied,
“He lifted from my purse!
He’s captured, thanks to me alone;
It’s I who saw him first.”“Give thanks to God!” said Little John,
“We’d like to, if we may,
Provide you two some company
And bring you on your way.It’s up to you—the two of us
Aren’t felons to be feared;
But Robin’s woods have many friends
and you could disappear.”He’d gladly bear their company,
The monk told Little John.
But the king was waiting for his word,
So they continued on.John walked beside the monk awhile,
Then turned to speak. Instead,
He grabbed the horse the monk was on
And yanked him by the head.Then Much locked arms around the Page
In case he tried to stray,
As John pulled down the hefty monk
Whose horse began to bray.When Little John unsheathed his sword,
His wild eyes grew wide;
The monk, who saw his death at-hand
Fell to his knees and cried.“You jailed my master,” shouted John,
“Your soul I see is rotten!
You’ll never meet our king. What’s more,
Your fate will be forgotten.”John slew the monk and took his head,
Dispatching him to hell,
Then Much removed the Page’s, too,
For fear that he might tell.They stole the letters from their bags,
As swords rejoined their sheaths,
They buried both the page and monk
In shallow graves beneathWhen John appeared before the king,
He knelt upon his knee,
“May God preserve you, lord,” he said,
“And Jesus save and see!”He gave him letters that the monk
Had kept before he died
The king drew close, inspecting them
At once, and then replied:“Upon my throne, there never was
Such trouble on my mind,
Or a yeoman all throughout our land
I wanted more to find.But where’s the monk who wrote to me?
I’d see him, if I may.”
“My lord, I’m sorry,” mumbled John,
“He died along the way.”The king gave Much and Little John
Both twenty pounds before
He made them yeomen of the crown
Requesting one thing more:He gave to John his seal in-hand—
The sheriff, as his arm,
Shall carry Robin to the king
But none shall do him harm.Then John and Much took leave at once,
And as the stories say,
Toward Nottingham they never stopped—
They ran for one full day.When Little John and Much arrived,
The outer gates were barred.
They tried in vain to lift them up,
And called upon a guard:“What cause is there,” John asked of him,
To bar the gates so fast?”
“Because of Robin Hood,” he said,
“In prison now at last!“Will Scarlock, Little John and Much,
Those friends of Robin Hood,
They sometimes stalk about these walls—
They'd kill us if they could.”The two produced the royal seal,
The guardsmen let them in,
And by the village square, they found
The sheriff with his men.John drew the message from the king
Removed its outer band
And with the sheriff looking on,
John placed it in his hand.The sheriff glanced upon the seal
And said, “The monk’s not here?
But where’s he gone?” he asked of John,
And turned so he could hear.“He’s now an abbot,” John replied,
“As true as I now stand:
Westminster Abbey. Ordered by
The Crown and God’s command.”The sheriff smiled at the two,
And treated them as guests.
By night, the group retired to
Their beds to take their rest.And later, as the sheriff slept,
Still drunk on wine and ale,
Both Little John and Much arose
To slip inside the jail.The two snuck up behind the guard:
“Wake up!” said Little John—
“The bandit, Robin Hood, escaped!
Get up! You see? He’s gone!”The jailer readied straight away
But startled at the call,
So with a sword, John ran him through—
He died against the wall.“I’ve been demoted to a guard,”
Said John with teasing eyes.
He took the keys to Robin’s cell
And freed him of his ties.He offered him the jailer’s sword
Which seemed to be well-kept
Then, once they scaled the village wall,
In darkness, down they leapt.That morning, when the roosters crowed
And twilight gently fell,
The Sheriff found the jailer’s corpse
And struck the common bell.“My villagers!” he shouted out,
“If you can hold a sword
And carry Robin Hood to me,
You’ll name your own reward!I cannot dare approach the king—
Our prisoner has fled!
And if he knew what happened here,
He’d surely have my head!”He ran to scour Nottingham,
Through every street and stall,
And Robin, back in Sherwood, smiled:
Uninjured after all.Then Little John addressed his master:
“I’ve something I must say—
You owe a debt, but I’ve made good—
Repay me when you may.”“Our bitterness is now cleared up,
Again I clearly say.
I’ve brought you through our greenwood line
Now see me on my way.”“I don’t accept your leave,” said Robin,
Not now, not even then!
Instead, let’s make you master of
This group of merry men.”“A fellow’s who I am,” said John,
“And shall I ever be.
Throughout our dark ordeal today,
It’s clear for all to see:
A master’s life is death delayed—
Too dangerous for me.”Then John and Robin joined the rest
Of Sherwood’s merry men
And when they saw him whole and sound
They cheered throughout the glen.A messenger soon told the king
A tale beyond belief:
His sheriff, bested by the men
Of Sherwood’s master thief.But as the king began to speak,
His wrath was quickly quelled:
“That ‘Little John’ beguiled me—
My sheriff fooled as well!The merry men have tricked us both
It’s obvious to me
I ought to hang my Sheriff up
From England’s tallest tree.I made them yeomen of the crown,
Put money in their hands,
Then pardoned Little John and Much
Throughout my sovereign lands!What John himself contended with,
The lengths through which he’s gone,
Because he loves his master so,
I’m calling him Saint John.And Robin’s ever in his debt—
By stable, street and stall,
I’ll tell you this, and speak no more:
‘Saint John’ has tricked us all.”Thus ends the Story of the Monk
Except to offer this:
May Robin’s luck run ever-long—
May Mary’s grace be his! -
@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.
Yeah, that was mine. Thanks, man.
-
@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.
Yeah, that was mine. Thanks, man.
-
Fire and Ice
—Robert FrostSome say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice. -
Fire and Ice
—Robert FrostSome say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.Love that.
-
Love that.
@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Love that.
Typical tone for ol' "Bitter Frost," but yeah, still good.
-
Some good and interesting stuff here!!!!
