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The New Coffee Room

  1. TNCR
  2. General Discussion
  3. The poetry thread

The poetry thread

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  • A Aqua Letifer
    19 Jan 2023, 02:23

    @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.

    D Online
    D Online
    Doctor Phibes
    wrote on 19 Jan 2023, 03:03 last edited by
    #38

    @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.

    I was only joking

    1 Reply Last reply
    • A Aqua Letifer
      19 Jan 2023, 02:06

      @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.

      M Away
      M Away
      Mik
      wrote on 19 Jan 2023, 04:10 last edited by
      #39

      @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?”

      “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

      1 Reply Last reply
      • A Offline
        A Offline
        Aqua Letifer
        wrote on 19 Jan 2023, 17:19 last edited by Aqua Letifer
        #40

        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 own

        The ravens fly out past the window
        The man, with a wink, disappears
        And when all once forgotten emerges
        My heart reconciles and clears

        In 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

        Please love yourself.

        HoraceH 1 Reply Last reply 19 Jan 2023, 18:18
        • A Aqua Letifer
          19 Jan 2023, 17:19

          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 own

          The ravens fly out past the window
          The man, with a wink, disappears
          And when all once forgotten emerges
          My heart reconciles and clears

          In 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

          HoraceH Offline
          HoraceH Offline
          Horace
          wrote on 19 Jan 2023, 18:18 last edited by
          #41

          @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 own

          The ravens fly out past the window
          The man, with a wink, disappears
          And when all once forgotten emerges
          My heart reconciles and clears

          In 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

          Excellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.

          Education is extremely important.

          A 1 Reply Last reply 19 Jan 2023, 18:32
          • HoraceH Horace
            19 Jan 2023, 18:18

            @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 own

            The ravens fly out past the window
            The man, with a wink, disappears
            And when all once forgotten emerges
            My heart reconciles and clears

            In 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

            Excellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.

            A Offline
            A Offline
            Aqua Letifer
            wrote on 19 Jan 2023, 18:32 last edited by
            #42

            @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 own

            The ravens fly out past the window
            The man, with a wink, disappears
            And when all once forgotten emerges
            My heart reconciles and clears

            In 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

            Excellent 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.

            Please love yourself.

            1 Reply Last reply
            • A Offline
              A Offline
              Aqua Letifer
              wrote on 20 Jan 2023, 21:41 last edited by Aqua Letifer
              #43

              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 song

              The deer were drawing to the dale
              And left the hillocks free
              And sheltered in beneath the shade
              Of vaulted emerald trees

              White 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 around

              He 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 free

              Thrice 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 beneath

              When 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!

              Please love yourself.

              1 Reply Last reply
              • M Away
                M Away
                Mik
                wrote on 20 Jan 2023, 22:13 last edited by
                #44

                Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.

                “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

                A 1 Reply Last reply 20 Jan 2023, 22:13
                • M Mik
                  20 Jan 2023, 22:13

                  Aqua, is The Old Man yours? Love it, so I hope so. It has your voice.

                  A Offline
                  A Offline
                  Aqua Letifer
                  wrote on 20 Jan 2023, 22:13 last edited by
                  #45

                  @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.

                  Please love yourself.

                  brendaB 1 Reply Last reply 22 Jan 2023, 04:50
                  • A Aqua Letifer
                    20 Jan 2023, 22:13

                    @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.

                    brendaB Offline
                    brendaB Offline
                    brenda
                    wrote on 22 Jan 2023, 04:50 last edited by
                    #46

                    @Aqua-Letifer ♥

                    1 Reply Last reply
                    • A Offline
                      A Offline
                      Aqua Letifer
                      wrote on 27 Jan 2023, 17:24 last edited by
                      #47

                      Fire and Ice
                      —Robert Frost

                      Some 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.

                      Please love yourself.

                      M 1 Reply Last reply 27 Jan 2023, 21:37
                      • A Aqua Letifer
                        27 Jan 2023, 17:24

                        Fire and Ice
                        —Robert Frost

                        Some 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.

                        M Away
                        M Away
                        Mik
                        wrote on 27 Jan 2023, 21:37 last edited by
                        #48

                        @Aqua-Letifer

                        Love that.

                        “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

                        A 1 Reply Last reply 27 Jan 2023, 22:06
                        • M Mik
                          27 Jan 2023, 21:37

                          @Aqua-Letifer

                          Love that.

                          A Offline
                          A Offline
                          Aqua Letifer
                          wrote on 27 Jan 2023, 22:06 last edited by
                          #49

                          @Mik said in The poetry thread:

                          @Aqua-Letifer

                          Love that.

                          Typical tone for ol' "Bitter Frost," but yeah, still good. 😄

                          Please love yourself.

                          1 Reply Last reply
                          • taiwan_girlT Offline
                            taiwan_girlT Offline
                            taiwan_girl
                            wrote on 29 Jan 2023, 18:07 last edited by
                            #50

                            Some good and interesting stuff here!!!!

                            1 Reply Last reply
                            • M Away
                              M Away
                              Mik
                              wrote on 12 Feb 2023, 00:45 last edited by
                              #51

                              DBF29723-6B55-46B3-83D5-CB553194A3AE.jpeg

                              “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

                              1 Reply Last reply
                              • Catseye3C Offline
                                Catseye3C Offline
                                Catseye3
                                wrote on 13 Mar 2023, 19:20 last edited by
                                #52

                                'When You Are Old' (1892) by W.B.Yeats

                                When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

                                And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

                                And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

                                Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

                                How many loved your moments of glad grace,

                                And loved your beauty with love false or true,

                                But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

                                And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

                                And bending down beside the glowing bars,

                                Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

                                And paced upon the mountains overhead

                                And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

                                Success is measured by your discipline and inner peace. – Mike Ditka

                                1 Reply Last reply
                                • A Offline
                                  A Offline
                                  Aqua Letifer
                                  wrote on 21 Mar 2023, 15:31 last edited by
                                  #53

                                  It's World Poetry Day, so here you go.

                                  I wrote this about 11 years ago, give or take.

                                  (For those interested, instead of iambic pentameter or some other form we borrowed from the Greeks, this was written in fornyrðislag, a pretty common alliterative verse form in medieval Iceland and Anglo-Saxon areas. It's good for long narratives.)

                                  Contemplate carefully your curious eyes:
                                  Your world-windows and wondrous informers
                                  For our forebears, foregone by eras,
                                  Scores of secrets their sight could tell:
                                  Where to find water, when the stars
                                  Brought beasts beyond the plains,
                                  The time of tides.

                                  This talent evolved
                                  As with our ancestors, answering questions
                                  Broader, more bold; we're able by sight
                                  To compare, discover, equate and to judge.
                                  We discern by sight—we see and believe.

                                  Are we bounded by the blessings of broader sight?
                                  We've clever inventions, devices to cast
                                  Ourselves into stars, inside each atom;
                                  We've mapped the material, mastered its puzzles.
                                  But still we sit through each second's passing:
                                  Powerless against perpetual Present, we remain
                                  Interned by time.

                                  We've turned in the past
                                  To soothsayers and sages to scry our fortunes,
                                  With vague visions and evasive hereafters
                                  Granting but glimpses of the games Fates played,
                                  Their schemes still concealed.

                                  Now consider our Future:
                                  Devoid of diviners, prevailing by reason,
                                  We swap sages for science, trade
                                  Mysticism for method. Must our vision
                                  Still be restricted, stuck in the Now?
                                  Can our complex, accomplished technology
                                  Award us the wisdom once reserved
                                  For Fates and far-seers? What fears await us
                                  When science assumes Second Sight?

                                  Please love yourself.

                                  1 Reply Last reply
                                  • JollyJ Offline
                                    JollyJ Offline
                                    Jolly
                                    wrote on 21 Mar 2023, 17:36 last edited by
                                    #54

                                    An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                    In an obscure corner of the net
                                    Resided the battling bastards
                                    Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                    Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                    Strangely, they really did care
                                    What happened to one and all
                                    Trampling the growing tares,
                                    To lay down their mace and ball

                                    Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                    I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                    And that you be made whole again
                                    That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                    “Cry havoc and let slip the DOGE of war!”

                                    Those who cheered as J-6 American prisoners were locked in solitary for 18 months without trial, now suddenly fight tooth and nail for foreign terrorists’ "due process". — Buck Sexton

                                    HoraceH A 2 Replies Last reply 21 Mar 2023, 18:02
                                    • JollyJ Jolly
                                      21 Mar 2023, 17:36

                                      An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                      In an obscure corner of the net
                                      Resided the battling bastards
                                      Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                      Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                      Strangely, they really did care
                                      What happened to one and all
                                      Trampling the growing tares,
                                      To lay down their mace and ball

                                      Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                      I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                      And that you be made whole again
                                      That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                      HoraceH Offline
                                      HoraceH Offline
                                      Horace
                                      wrote on 21 Mar 2023, 18:02 last edited by
                                      #55

                                      @Jolly said in The poetry thread:

                                      An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                      In an obscure corner of the net
                                      Resided the battling bastards
                                      Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                      Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                      Strangely, they really did care
                                      What happened to one and all
                                      Trampling the growing tares,
                                      To lay down their mace and ball

                                      Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                      I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                      And that you be made whole again
                                      That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                      An ode to pwning libtards.

                                      Education is extremely important.

                                      1 Reply Last reply
                                      • JollyJ Jolly
                                        21 Mar 2023, 17:36

                                        An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                        In an obscure corner of the net
                                        Resided the battling bastards
                                        Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                        Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                        Strangely, they really did care
                                        What happened to one and all
                                        Trampling the growing tares,
                                        To lay down their mace and ball

                                        Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                        I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                        And that you be made whole again
                                        That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                        A Offline
                                        A Offline
                                        Aqua Letifer
                                        wrote on 21 Mar 2023, 19:40 last edited by
                                        #56

                                        @Jolly said in The poetry thread:

                                        An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

                                        In an obscure corner of the net
                                        Resided the battling bastards
                                        Screeching, arguing, but yet
                                        Sometimes they quit flinging words

                                        Strangely, they really did care
                                        What happened to one and all
                                        Trampling the growing tares,
                                        To lay down their mace and ball

                                        Fare thee well, my electronic friend
                                        I wish you no lasting sorrow
                                        And that you be made whole again
                                        That I may kick your ass on the morrow

                                        😄👏👏👏

                                        Nice one! Fun turn at the end there.

                                        Please love yourself.

                                        1 Reply Last reply
                                        • M Away
                                          M Away
                                          Mik
                                          wrote on 22 Mar 2023, 03:07 last edited by
                                          #57

                                          9692E71C-4570-4C21-B6A2-CA0245AC8FF2.jpeg

                                          “I am fond of pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.” ~Winston S. Churchill

                                          1 Reply Last reply
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