Daz Madrigal
lounge lizard 
a Child of the Matrix
Posts: 11,120
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Post by Daz Madrigal on Sept 14, 2007 23:07:16 GMT
Truly evocative; I often walk in Grantchester Meadows and think of this poem. I don't think much has changed...the clock has been fixed, but you can certainly get honey for tea in The Orchard next the Vicarage. I particularly enjoy the vilification of the people of Cambridge, and the other Villages.  The onlie blot on thee landscape is horrid Jeffrey Archer, who now owns the Vicarage, but at least he has a fragrant wife! ;D Well you're very lively. I think Chris is an interesting bloke...but y'know he was like a runaway train and I just tried to put the brakes on the guy. The real player is Old Holborn... |
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Daz Madrigal
lounge lizard
a Child of the Matrix
Posts: 11,120
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Post by Daz Madrigal on Sept 14, 2007 23:10:00 GMT
Shome mishtake shurley. I'm as sober as..... a very sober person Good...I'll; talk...in a very slurred manner...and you type. Then I can blame you. |
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topsy
Madrigal Member
A garden is never so good as it will be next year
Posts: 2,327
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Post by topsy on Sept 19, 2007 12:44:39 GMT
AVAST THERE, SHIPMATES, STAP ME VITTLES AND SHIVERRR ME TIMBERRS....TODAY IS INTERNATIONAL 'TALK LIKE A PIRATE' DAY!! Not a lot of people know that ARRRH CAP'N FLINT AN' BLIND PEW...THERE'LL BE RUM, BUM AN' BACCY FOR US ALL ! LAID ON BE CAP'N HOSEASONS AT THEE OLD ADMIRAL BENBOW INN! (Exits slapping thigh..) |
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topsy
Madrigal Member
A garden is never so good as it will be next year
Posts: 2,327
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Post by topsy on Sept 21, 2007 11:49:32 GMT
A Day for a pome:
The Harvest Moon
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.
Ted Hughes
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Daz Madrigal
lounge lizard
a Child of the Matrix
Posts: 11,120
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Post by Daz Madrigal on Sept 21, 2007 11:57:11 GMT
Can't you tell it was written by a keen Ameteur Astrologer.
I've never warmed to him though..its one of my few feminista leanings...
But I'll leave it to the " Wimmin " to consecrate his Grave.
.............that just ain't nice (unlike the pome..which is most pleasant).
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topsy
Madrigal Member
A garden is never so good as it will be next year
Posts: 2,327
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Post by topsy on Sept 21, 2007 12:06:07 GMT
Are you referring to the 'fact' that he was a male chauvanist pig? But do we really know what went on ? I don't suppose his lady was very easy to live with.  |
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Daz Madrigal
lounge lizard
a Child of the Matrix
Posts: 11,120
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Post by Daz Madrigal on Sept 21, 2007 13:09:19 GMT
Well one suicide wife is bad luck, 2 is a tad careless.
.......but even so I wouldn't be too rabid about it. A Churchyard is a Sacred Place for quiet Solicitude. Not spray painting Gravestones.
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topsy
Madrigal Member
A garden is never so good as it will be next year
Posts: 2,327
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Post by topsy on Sept 21, 2007 14:55:43 GMT
I'd forgotten there were two...
But as you say, even so.
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Post by Nathan deGargoyle on Sept 21, 2007 20:53:02 GMT
Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
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topsy
Madrigal Member
A garden is never so good as it will be next year
Posts: 2,327
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Post by topsy on Sept 22, 2007 7:45:31 GMT
Oh excellent, Gargoyle...story of my life.
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Post by Nathan deGargoyle on Sept 26, 2007 20:04:53 GMT
Ironic Poem About Prostitution
by Eric Blair (George Orwell)
WHEN I was young and had no sense
In far-off Mandalay
I lost my heart to a Burmese girl
As lovely as the day.
Her skin was gold, her hair was jet,
Her teeth were ivory;
I said, “for twenty silver pieces,
Maiden, sleep with me”.
She looked at me, so pure, so sad,
The loveliest thing alive,
And in her lisping, virgin voice,
Stood out for twenty-five.
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Daz Madrigal
lounge lizard
a Child of the Matrix
Posts: 11,120
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Post by Daz Madrigal on Sept 26, 2007 22:28:59 GMT
how many poems did he write?
I've got the collected works somewhere.
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sandywinder
Madrigal Member
Holistic Philosopher
The private sector makes boxes, the public sector ticks them
Posts: 16,929
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Post by sandywinder on Sept 27, 2007 8:10:57 GMT
You are welcome to my collected works.
Here they all are.
In winters of old
The days were cold
And the knights were armour-plated
It was a hard thing to do
To go to the loo
So they got very constipated.
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topsy
Madrigal Member
A garden is never so good as it will be next year
Posts: 2,327
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Post by topsy on Sept 27, 2007 17:40:23 GMT
Yeesss....a very interesting work.
Note the nostalgia for the past..."In winters of old..."
The preoccupation with nature...description of said winters; natural functions.
And the Romance inherent in the term "Knights"
Clearly the product of an extremely complex brain.
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sandywinder
Madrigal Member
Holistic Philosopher
The private sector makes boxes, the public sector ticks them
Posts: 16,929
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Post by sandywinder on Sept 27, 2007 20:47:57 GMT
Clearly.
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