Poetry

[Anubis]

This always makes me a bit sad but the description is brilliant. Causley based it on a someone he knew. It reminds me of food banks and breakfast clubs for kids in school. We haven’t really come that much further from when it was written.

 

 

'Timothy Winters' Timothy Winters comes to school With eyes as wide as a football-pool, Ears like bombs and teeth like splinters: A blitz of a boy is Timothy Winters. His belly is white, his neck is dark, And his hair is an exclamation-mark. His clothes are enough to scare a crow And through his britches the blue winds blow. When teacher talks he won't hear a word And he shoots down dead the arithmetic-bird, He licks the pattern off his plate And he's not even heard of the Welfare State. Timothy Winters has bloody feet And he lives in a house on Suez Street, He sleeps in a sack on the kithen floor And they say there aren't boys like him anymore. Old Man Winters likes his beer And his missus ran off with a bombardier, Grandma sits in the grate with a gin And Timothy's dosed with an aspirin. The welfare Worker lies awake But the law's as tricky as a ten-foot snake, So Timothy Winters drinks his cup And slowly goes on growing up. At Morning Prayers the Master helves for children less fortunate than ourselves, And the loudest response in the room is when Timothy Winters roars "Amen!" So come one angel, come on ten Timothy Winters says "Amen Amen amen amen amen." Timothy Winters, Lord. Amen Charles Causley

[AngryOfTuebrook]

Nice touch from Benjamin Zephaniah.

 

 

[Sugar Ape]

The Naughty Preposition

Morris Bishop -- 1947

-

I lately lost a preposition:

It hid, I thought, beneath my chair.

And angrily I cried: ``Perdition!

Up from out of in under there!''

-

Correctness is my vade mecum,

And straggling phrases I abhor;

And yet I wondered: ``What should he come

Up from out of in under for?''

[AngryOfTuebrook]

Decent article (based on Paul Foot's writing) explaining Shelley's Mask of Anarchy and its enduring influence. 

 

https://thehumandivine.org/2017/06/25/masks-of-anarchy-by-paul-foot/

[Bruce Spanner]

I've seen the poison letters of the horrible hacks
About the yellow peril and the reds and the blacks
And the TUC and its treacherous acts
Kremlin money, all right Jack
I've seen how democracy is under duress
But I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express

 

I've seen the suede jackboot, the verbal cosh
Whitehouse Whitelaw whitewash
Blood uptown where the vandals rule
Classroom mafia scandal school
They accuse, I confess
I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express

 

Angry columns scream in pain
Love in vain domestic strain
Divorce disease it eats away
The family structure day by day
In the grim pursuit of happiness
I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express

This paper's boring, mindless, mean
Full of pornography, the kind that's clean
Where William Hickey meets Michael Caine
Again and again and again and again
I've seen millionaires on the DHSS
But I've never seen a nipple in the Daily Express

[Elite]

@YorkshireRed

[Bruce Spanner]

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay; And heard unmov'd thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say?

 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as thine own.

 

But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine; The tears that from my eyelids flow'd Were lost in those which fell from thine.

 

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame, And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breath'd my name.
 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain, But that, will make us weep the more.

 

Again, thou best belov'd, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, Nor let thy mind past joys review, Our only hope is, to forget

[AngryOfTuebrook]

I'd assumed Lawrence Ferlinghetti was long dead. He just died today, shortly before his 102nd birthday. 

 

 

 

[lifetime fan]

For fucks sake don’t listen to Lemn Sissay read Suitcases and muddy parks whilst driving. 
 

 

[Captain Turdseye]

On 17/03/2009 at 19:27, Guest Ulysses Everett McGill said:

"COUGH"

 

Virgins

 

"COUGH"

Isn’t this one of the fellas that went on to do The Anfield Wrap podcast. Safe to say he jumped the gun a bit with his insults. 

[Captain Turdseye]

Poetry is for virgins though. 

[Elite]

My heart yearns for a greater love,

One that fits my spunk pumper like a glove,

I don't care if it's latex or made out of ember,

I just want a tight fit around my member

 

 

[Bjornebye]

Tenderness and love and happiness

Bitchiness and craziness

All I want

Is my sister to stop using my tampons 

[Elite]

17 minutes ago, Bjornebye said:

Tenderness and love and happiness

Bitchiness and craziness

All I want

Is my sister to stop using my tampons 

 

[YorkshireRed]

Wrote this. It’s shit but not as shit as the person it’s about.

 

Boris Fucking Johnson...

 

Boris fucking Johnson,

acts the buffoon.

Top grades at posh school,

still plays the clown.

 

It’s all a ruse,

he’s luring you in.

You’re one of his gang, 

but not on his team.

 

Nothing he does, 

has you at its core.

Unless you’re from privilege,

have wealth or great power.

 

From you he just wants,

a cross on the ballot. 

Once you’ve obliged,

get back in your lane.

 

He’ll throw you some crumbs,

to keep you aligned.

While picking your pockets,

and stealing your pride.

 

Good old Boris,

you’ll probably shout.

While life gets tougher,

for all but a few. 

 

The few.

 

Not you. 

 

[Bjornebye]

Good that Mal. 

 

 

 

I wrote this about Gary Mabbutt. 

 

 

 

Do not go into that downstairs bog for a shite,
My arse has done nothing but burn and rage all day;
Rage, rage against coz I was dying for a shite.

Though wise men at their end remember when dog shit was white,
Because their memories aren't just of white lightning
Do not go into that downstairs bog for a shite.

Brave men, near death, who crave to smell shite
Blinded eyes could blaze but they would make hey,
Rage, rage coz their dying to smell shite.

And you, my Gary, stood there needing a shite,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go into that downstairs bog for a shite.
Let your arse rage, rage while you're dying for a shite. 

 

 

 

 

 

From The Poems of Stig The Sexist, published by New Directions. Copyright © 1952, 1953 Stig The Sexist. Copyright © 1937, 1945, 1955, 1962, 1966, 1967 the Trustees for the Copyrights of Stig The Sexist. Copyright © 1938, 1939, 1943, 1946, 1971 New Directions Publishing Corp. Used with permission.

[AngryOfTuebrook]

One for Alan Sex 

 

https://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/robertburns/works/cock_up_your_beaver/

 

 

[polymerpunkah]

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

 

— Percy Shelley's "Ozymandias"

[mattyq]

One for this time of year

 

Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness

Close bosomed friend of the maturing sun

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch eves run

etc, that's all i remember but it's a cracker, Ode to Autumn by Keats

[AngryOfTuebrook]

1 hour ago, polymerpunkah said:

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

 

— Percy Shelley's "Ozymandias"

Can't beat a bit of Perce. I occasionally drop the phrase "cold sneer of command" into conversations about horrible bastard politicians.

[polymerpunkah]

21 minutes ago, AngryOfTuebrook said:

Can't beat a bit of Perce. I occasionally drop the phrase "cold sneer of command" into conversations about horrible bastard politicians.

It came to mind when Trump went to visit his already-collapsing wall a few months back, and it's stuck around ever since with the never-ending series of governmental cluster-fucks we've had to endure.

[AngryOfTuebrook]

4 hours ago, polymerpunkah said:

It came to mind when Trump went to visit his already-collapsing wall a few months back, and it's stuck around ever since with the never-ending series of governmental cluster-fucks we've had to endure.

Whenever Joe Anderson used to pull his sad face about the cuts he was imposing, I always thought of this bit of The Mask of Anarchy.

 

[Clem H Fandango]

"That stomach those abs, those pictures you send so I can keep tabs. You make me feel funny down there. Especially when you're there and you look up and stare. I am beginning to think you are always right. That's OK it will keep us tight. I'm gonna end by saying you are my love, my friend, my soul. And most of all you believe in me which makes me as hard as a totem pole."

[manwiththestick]

1 hour ago, Clem H Fandango said:

"That stomach those abs, those pictures you send so I can keep tabs. You make me feel funny down there. Especially when you're there and you look up and stare. I am beginning to think you are always right. That's OK it will keep us tight. I'm gonna end by saying you are my love, my friend, my soul. And most of all you believe in me which makes me as hard as a totem pole."

*wipes away tear.

 

Beautiful.

[Chocoholic]

09/04

 

What’s got into me?

 

30 years ago or more

I wrote a poem, but none before

An ode to mark some weekend fun

40 mentioned, left out none

 

Here I find myself again, 

Now with pc, then with pen

Fuck knows what’s got into me

I’m drawn to writing poetry

 

Humour, darkness, light relief

Joy of memories, pain of grief

Sparked by thoughts of now or past

Write them down while they last 

 

Start them going, get on a roll

See what rhymes… this doesn’t

Notes for words used down a bit

Trial and error, will they fit?

 

Who will hear them? Who will read?

Depends upon content indeed

Not all are shared, for reasons mine

Different people, for different time

 

And so these verses end quite soon

Gathered words, shaped and hewn

A thought from here, a wordplay there

For poems that come from everywhere