It's National Poetry Day

Diminuendo

Diminuendo

At the Start
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Jun 3, 2003
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Location
The West Country
and to celebrate it, here's a poem by the late Ronnie Barker.....

NELL OF THE YUKON.

My tale is a weird one - 'twas found, long ago,
In a book on my Grandpappy's shelf
So hush while I tell it, and don't make a sound,
'Cos I'd like to hear it myself.

lt was writ in the days when the Yukon was rich,
And the miners got drunk every night.
It was writ all in red, by my old Uncle Jed,
'Cos he was the one as could write.

Now the story begins with a quarrel, one hight,
Between Jed and his pretty wife, Nell;
She'd lost all his dough at the gambling saloon,
And one of her garters as well.

Now Nell was a gal with a wonderful shape;
She could hit a spitoon at ten paces;
When she went on the town, she wore a tight gown,
And was seen in all the right places.

Well, she'd come home that night, just a little bit tight,
And she threw off her clothes in disgust.
"What's the matter?" said Jed, and she drunkenly sald
As she undid her corset, "You're bust!"

Now jed knew what she meant, all his gold she had spent,
And he sat there awhile, making faces;
Then as she bent over to unlace her boots,
He gave her a belt, with his braces.

Nell gave a great jump, with her hand to her rump,
And a yell all Alaska could hear
Then she made a quick run, and she snatched up Jed's gun,
And she poked it inside of Jed's ear.

"That's the finish," said Nell, "I've had all I can take,
Do you hear me? - Get out of my sight!'
Well, old Jed could hear... and the gun in his ear
Made him hear even better that night.

So he quitted the shack, and he never looked back,
And he set out to search for more gold;
But his luck it was out, and he wandered about,
Till at last he was dying of cold.

So he dragged himself into a nearbv saloon,
Which was known as the "Barrel of Glue"
It was one of those joints where the men are all men,
And most of the women are, too.

The place was a gambling hell, it was clear;
Every man jack was betting and boozing
Three miners were winning a strip poker game,
And a girl with no clothes on was losing.

Jed sat down at a table and bought himself in
By produdng his very last dollar;
And he started to deal with hope in his heart,
And three aces under his collar.

And he won thick and fast; when the evening was past,
He owned all the gold on the table...
As well as six mines, and a three-quarter share
In a Mexican showgirl called Mabel.

Then in walked Black Lou, with a sackful of gold,
And he challenged poor Jed, with a leer...
"One cut and one call, and the winner takes all,
And the loser must buy all the beer!"

What could Jed do? he hated Black Lou,
As everyone did in those parts;
So Jed shuffled the cards, and both players cut,
And both players cut... Ace of Hearts!

Then up jumped Black Lou, and his face went bright blue,
(Which astonished a passing physician)
And he used a foul word that no one had heard
Since the time of the Great Exhibition.

'You cheated, you swine." said Lou with a whine,
As he grabbed Uncle Jed round the neck;
And he started to squeeze, fill Jed dropped to his knees,
And with one final wheeze, hit the deck.

The whole saloon froze as Black Lou drew his gun
"Alright stranger!" said he, "Have it your way."
When in rushed a woman... and as Lou turned round,
She spat stralght in his eye, from the doorway.

It was Nell! There she stood, and she really looked good
As she grabbed Jed, and rushed him outside
And they didn't stop running for seven long miles,
Till they found themselves some place to hide.

'Twas a room booked by Nell in a sleazy hotel,
A dollar-a-night double-roomer
It was built out of driftwood, and named 'The Savoy"
By some guy with a quick sense of humour

Well, they flopped on the bed... "Thank the Lord," said old Jed,
"My gambling days are behind me,
But I'm puzzled, dear Nell, and I want to hear tell,
How in hell's name you managed to find me?"

'I've been wandering too, all around, just like you,"
Said Nell, 'and the thought makes me wince;
And the reason, my dear, was that whack on the rear...
I just ain't sat down, ever since."

And they lay there awhile, then Jed, with a smile
Said, "I'll never more leave this old town
We'll find peace, you and I." but he got no reply,
For young Nell was a-sleeping... face down.
 
So give it up for a soul recent past
'Cos our lives will be so much the darker
Let's remember the wit very fast
Of the wonderful, late Ronnie Barker.
 
Every teenager's favourite

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
 
And although Bernard used to run it down

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
 
and of course


Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
 
My favourite poem:

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.
 
THE FLEA.
by John Donne


MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
 
One of the few Poetry Books I own is from Banjo Patterson (Dermot Welds favourite poet as it happens). It seems apt here...



A Dream of the Melbourne Cup

Bring me a quart of colonial beer
And some doughy damper to make good cheer,
I must make a heavy dinner;
Heavily dine and heavily sup,
Of indigestible things fill up,
Next month they run the Melbourne Cup,
And I have to dream the winner.
Stoke it in, boys! the half-cooked ham,
The rich ragout and the charming cham.,
I've got to mix my liquor;
Give me a gander's gaunt hind leg,
Hard and tough as a wooden peg,
And I'll keep it down with a hard-boiled egg,
'Twill make me dream the quicker.

Now that I'm full of fearful feed,
Oh, but I'll dream of a winner indeed
In my restless, troubled slumber;
While the night-mares race through my heated brain
And their devil-riders spur amain,
The trip for the Cup will reward my pain,
And I'll spot the winning number.

Thousands and thousands and thousands more,
Like sands on the white Pacific shore,
The crowding people cluster;
For evermore is the story old,
While races are bought and backers are sold,
Drawn by the greed of the gain of gold,
In their thousands still they muster.

* * * * *

And the bookies' cries grow fierce and hot,
"I'll lay the Cup! The double, if not!"
"Five monkeys, Little John, sir!"
"Here's fives bar one, I lay, I lay!"
And so they shout through the livelong day,
And stick to the game that is sure to pay,
While fools put money on, sir!

And now in my dream I seem to go
And bet with a "book" that I seem to know --
A Hebrew money-lender;
A million to five is the price I get --
Not bad! but before I book the bet
The horse's name I clean forgret,
Its number and even gender.

Now for the start, and here they come,
And the hoof-strokes roar like a mighty drum
Beat by a hand unsteady;
They come like a rushing, roaring flood,
Hurrah for the speed of the Chester blood;
For Acme is making the pace so good
They are some of 'em done already.

But round the track she begins to tire,
And a mighty shout goes up "Crossfire!"
The magpie jacket's leading;
And Crossfire challenges fierce and bold,
And the lead she'll have and the lead she'll hold,
But at length gives way to the black and gold,
Which right to the front is speeding.

Carry them on and keep it up --
A flying race is the Melbourne Cup,
You must race and stay to win it;
And old Commotion, Victoria's pride,
Now takes the lead with his raking stride,
And a mighty roar goes far and wide --
"There's only Commotion in it!"

But one draws out from the beaten ruck
And up on the rails by a piece of luck
He comes in a style that's clever;
"It's Trident! Trident! Hurrah for Hales!"
"Go at 'em now while their courage fails;"
"Trident! Trident! for New South Wales!"
"The blue and white for ever!"

Under the whip! with the ears flat back,
Under the whip! though the sinews crack,
No sign of the base white feather:
Stick to it now for your breeding's sake,
Stick to it now though your hearts should break,
While the yells and roars make the grand-stand shake,
They come down the straignt together.

Trident slowly forges ahead,
The fierce whips cut and the spurs are red,
The pace is undiminished
Now for the Panics that never fail!
But many a backer's face grows pale
As old Commotion swings his tail
And swerves -- and the Cup is finished.

* * * * *

And now in my dream it all comes back:
I bet my coin on the Sydney crack,
A million I've won, no question!
"Give me my money, you hook-nosed hog!
Give me my money, bookmaking dog!"
But he disappeared in a kind of fog,
And I woke with "the indigestion".

A B Banjo Paterson
 
Whatabout Willie :o

"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"


I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay: 10
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood, 20
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
 
A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.
 
Think we've done this before but it's a welcome return.. I love Marvell - funny and sexy!


Had we but World enough, and Time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges side
Should'st Rubies find: I by the Tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood:
And you should if you please refuse
Till the Conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable Love should grow
Vaster than Empires and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.
Two hundred to adore each Breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An Age at least to every part,
And the last Age should show your Heart.
For Lady you deserve this State,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I alwaies hear
Times winged Chariot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lye
Desarts of vast Eternity.
Thy Beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble Vault, shall sound
My echoing Song: then Worms shall try
That long preserv'd Virginity:
And your quaint Honour turn to dust;
And into ashes all my Lust.
The Grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.


Now therefore, while the youthful hew
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing Soul transpires
At every pore with instant Fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our Time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt pow'r.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one Ball:
And tear our Pleasures with rough strife,
Thorough the Iron gates of Life:
Thus, though we cannot make our Sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
 
The struggle for freedom has ended they say,
The days of fatigue and Remorse,
But our hearts one and all are in memory today,
We are losing our old friend, the Horse.

The old quadruped that has carried us thro'
The sand ridden caravan track
And shared in the charge of the gallant and true
With the boys who will never come back.

Oh those long weary days thro' a miniature hell
Short of water and nothing to eat,
Each hour we climbed down for a few minutes' spell
And dozed safe and sound and your feet.

When the enemy shrapnel broke overhead,
As we passed up that Valley of Death,
You never once slackened in that hail of lead
Though the boldest of all held their breath.
But we never forgot you, old Comrade and friend,
When the QM Dump hove in sight.
What the Buckshee to Gippo's we scored in the end
And your rations were doubled that night.

Then came the long journey, the greatest of all,
The cavalry stunt of the world.
The sons of Australia had answered the call
And the Ensign of Freedom unfurled.

And now we are leaving you footsore and worn
To the land where the Mitchell grass grew,
Where you frolicked like lambs in the sweet scented morn,
To the song of the Dismal Curlew.

So farewell to the Yarraman old warhorse, farewell,
Be you mulga bred chestnut or bay.
If there's a hereafter for horses as well
Then may we be with you some day.
 
And on a completely different note....

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care,
No children run to lisp their Sire's return,
Nor climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke,
How jocund did they drive their team afield,
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stoke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th'inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll,
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear,
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The treats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined:
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memories still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and epitaph supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralists to die.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resing'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate:
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn',
'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away',
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn'.

'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech',
'That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high',
'His listless length at noontide would he stretch',
'And pore upon the brook, that babbles by'.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn',
'Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove';
'Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forelorn',
'Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love'.

'One morn I miss'd him from the custom'd hill',
'Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree';
'Another came; nor yet beside the rill',
'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he'.

'The next with dirges due in sad array,'
'Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne',
'Approach and read, for thou cans't read, the lay',
'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn'.

The Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his father, and his God.
 
The Flea says the same things as To his Coy Mistress but much more subtly and with much more style .
 
Can't say I agree with you there, James - Donne is far less raunchy and more spiritual.. they were writing about very different aspects of love!
 
Not at all Julie - they are about the same thing . Donne is very raunchy ! though some are raunchier than this poem
 
James - all literature is open to interpretation, as you surely know.

So I think we had better preface our previous statements with "in my opinion"...


As in 'men' and 'subtlety' being two words I doubt I'd ever use in the same sentence.... :P
 
Our globe trotting hero Bar the Bull
Down in ol Temple bar on the pull
astonished when he took her in the toilet
on top of him she rode auto pilot
while he complained Alistairs Downs article was dull
 
It is obviously an opinion , why waste time saying in my opinion

Anyway you are wrong :P
 
A was once an Apple-pie,
Pidy
Widy
Tidy
Pidy
Nice Insidy
Apple-pie.

B was once a little Bear,
Beary!
Wary!
Hairy!
Beary!
Taky Cary!
Little Bear!

C was once a little Cake,
Caky
Baky
Maky
Caky
Taky Caky,
Little Cake!

D was once a little Doll,
Dolly
Molly
Polly
Nolly
Nursy Dolly
Little Doll!

And thus, to

Z was once a piece of Zinc
Tinky
Winky
Blinky
Tinky
Tinkly Minky
Piece of Zinc!

Way, way, before Sesame Street, Blue Peter, and the Teletubbies, I give you...

(roll of tiny toy drums, drummy, wummy, mummy, drummy Little Drums!)

the incomparable...

the inimitable...

the one and ONLY...

EDWAAAAARD LEEEEEAR! :D
 
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