poetry slam

[Stramash]

poems come in all shapes and forms, from medieval sonnets to street rhymes. Would love to see the wide taste of the TF membership.

Only rules for sharing are;

a) Song lyrics do NOT count.

Please credit the author of the poem.

to start off, a great poem from UK punk poet John Cooper Clarke, endearingly entitled, '****'.

Like a Night Club in the morning, you?re the bitter end.

Like a recently disinfected ****-house, you?re clean round the bend.

You give me the horrors

too bad to be true

All of my tomorrow?s

are lousy coz of you.

You put the Shat in Shatter

Put the Pain in Spain

Your germs are splattered about

Your face is just a stain

You?re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag.

Do us all a favour, here... wear this polythene bag.

You?re like a dose of scabies,

I?ve got you under my skin.

You make life a fairy tale... Grimm!

People mention murder, the moment you arrive.

I?d consider killing you if I thought you were alive.

You?ve got this slippery quality,

it makes me think of phlegm,

and a dual personality

I hate both of them.

Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay.

Please, please, please, please, take yourself away.

Like a death a birthday party,

you ruin all the fun.

Like a sucked and spat our smartie,

you?re no use to anyone.

Like the shadow of the guillotine

on a dead consumptive?s face.

Speaking as an outsider,

what do you think of the human race

You went to a progressive psychiatrist.

He recommended suicide...

before scratching your bad name off his list,

and pointing the way outside.

You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart.

You?re heading for a breakdown,

better pull yourself apart.

Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss.

Your attitudes are platitudes,

just make me wanna piss.

What kind of creature bore you

Was is some kind of bat

They can?t find a good word for you,

but I can...

****.

and then one from my favourite living poet, the wonderful Benjamin Zephaniah, called 'The British (serve 60 million)

Take some Picts, Celts and Silures

And let them settle,

Then overrun them with Roman conquerors.

Remove the Romans after approximately 400 years

Add lots of Norman French to some

Angles, Saxons, Jutes and Vikings, then stir vigorously.

Mix some hot Chileans, cool Jamaicans, Dominicans,

Trinidadians and Bajans with some Ethiopians, Chinese,

Vietnamese and Sudanese.

Then take a blend of Somalians, Sri Lankans, Nigerians

And Pakistanis,

Combine with some Guyanese

And turn up the heat.

Sprinkle some fresh Indians, Malaysians, Bosnians,

Iraqis and Bangladeshis together with some

Afghans, Spanish, Turkish, Kurdish, Japanese

And Palestinians

Then add to the melting pot.

Leave the ingredients to simmer.

As they mix and blend allow their languages to flourish

Binding them together with English.

Allow time to be cool.

Add some unity, understanding, and respect for the future,

Serve with justice

And enjoy.

Note: All the ingredients are equally important. Treating one ingredient better than another will leave a bitter unpleasant taste.

Warning: An unequal spread of justice will damage the people and cause pain. Give justice and equality to all.

[caioacido]

It's late

the dream is sleeping

my sou lights the path

[caioacido]

It's late

the dream is sleeping

my soul lights the path

[Stramash]

bah! you try and introduce a bit of culture to the site but all people want to do is argue about Israel and look at big ****!!

:evil:

[eagle]

bah! you try and introduce a bit of culture to the site but all people want to do is argue about Israel and look at big ****!!

:evil:

****

[Stramash]

bah! you try and introduce a bit of culture to the site but all people want to do is argue about Israel and look at big ****!!

:evil:

****

[eagle]

she don't look jewish ?

[Stramash]

she don't look jewish ?

Just for you Gerry...

[eagle]

Gawin Douglass wrote"

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Shouldn't this be in sex and relationships

:?:

( some poetrry slamming for ya :wink:)

[Stramash]

Gawin Douglass wrote"

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Shouldn't this be in sex and relationships

:?:

( some poetrry slamming for ya :wink:)

uncouth infidel!!!

Gawin Douglas only wrote the comment. The poem is by Rabbie Burns!!

Here is a translation for those not versed in the wonderful Scots tongue

When the peddler people leave the streets,

And thirsty neighbours, neighbours meet;

As market days are wearing late,

And folk begin to take the road home,

While we sit boozing strong ale,

And getting drunk and very happy,

We don?t think of the long Scots miles,

The marshes, waters, steps and stiles,

That lie between us and our home,

Where sits our sulky, sullen dame (wife),

Gathering her brows like a gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath, to keep it warm.

This truth finds honest Tam o' Shanter,

As he from Ayr one night did canter;

Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses,

For honest men and bonny lasses.

Oh Tam, had you but been so wise,

As to have taken your own wife Kate?s advice!

She told you well you were a waster,

A rambling, blustering, drunken boaster,

That from November until October,

Each market day you were not sober;

During each milling period with the miller,

You sat as long as you had money,

For every horse he put a shoe on,

The blacksmith and you got roaring drunk on;

That at the Lords House, even on Sunday,

You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.

She prophesied, that, late or soon,

You would be found deep drowned in Doon,

Or caught by warlocks in the murk,

By Alloway?s old haunted church.

Ah, gentle ladies, it makes me cry,

To think how many counsels sweet,

How much long and wise advice

The husband from the wife despises!

But to our tale :- One market night,

Tam was seated just right,

Next to a fireplace, blazing finely,

With creamy ales, that drank divinely;

And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnny,

His ancient, trusted, thirsty crony;

Tom loved him like a very brother,

They had been drunk for weeks together.

The night drove on with songs and clatter,

And every ale was tasting better;

The landlady and Tam grew gracious,

With secret favours, sweet and precious;

The cobbler told his queerest stories;

The landlord?s laugh was ready chorus:

Outside, the storm might roar and rustle,

Tam did not mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man so happy,

Even drowned himself in ale.

As bees fly home with loads of treasure,

The minutes winged their way with pleasure:

Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious,

Over all the ills of life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread:

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow fall on the river,

A moment white - then melts forever,

Or like the Aurora Borealis rays,

That move before you can point to where they're placed;

Or like the rainbow?s lovely form,

Vanishing amid the storm.

No man can tether time or tide,

The hour approaches Tom must ride:

That hour, of night?s black arch - the key-stone,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in

And such a night he takes to the road in

As never a poor sinner had been out in.

The wind blew as if it had blown its last;

The rattling showers rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed,

Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed:

That night, a child might understand,

The Devil had business on his hand.

Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg.

A better never lifted leg,

Tom, raced on through mud and mire,

Despising wind and rain and fire;

Whilst holding fast his good blue bonnet,

While crooning over some old Scots sonnet,

Whilst glowering round with prudent care,

Lest ghosts catch him unaware:

Alloway?s Church was drawing near,

Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.

By this time he was across the ford,

Where in the snow the pedlar got smothered;

And past the birch trees and the huge stone,

Where drunken Charlie broke his neck bone;

And through the thorns, and past the monument,

Where hunters found the murdered child;

And near the thorn, above the well,

Where Mungo?s mother hung herself.

Before him the river Doon pours all his floods;

The doubling storm roars throught the woods;

The lightnings flashes from pole to pole;

Nearer and more near the thunder rolls;

When, glimmering through the groaning trees,

Alloway?s Church seemed in a blaze,

Through every gap , light beams were glancing,

And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn! (whisky)

What dangers you can make us scorn!

With ale, we fear no evil;

With whisky, we?ll face the Devil!

The ales so swam in Tam?s head,

Fair play, he didn?t care a farthing for devils.

But Maggie stood, right sore astonished,

Till, by the heel and hand admonished,

She ventured forward on the light;

And, vow! Tom saw an incredible sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance:

No cotillion, brand new from France,

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,

Put life and mettle in their heels.

In a window alcove in the east,

There sat Old Nick, in shape of beast;

A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large,

To give them music was his charge:

He screwed the pipes and made them squeal,

Till roof and rafters all did ring.

Coffins stood round, like open presses,

That showed the dead in their last dresses;

And, by some devilish magic sleight,

Each in its cold hand held a light:

By which heroic Tom was able

To note upon the holy table,

A murderer?s bones, in gibbet-irons;

Two span-long, small, unchristened babies;

A thief just cut from his hanging rope -

With his last gasp his mouth did gape;

Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted;

Five scimitars with murder crusted;

A garter with which a baby had strangled;

A knife a father?s throat had mangled -

Whom his own son of life bereft -

The grey-hairs yet stack to the shaft;

With more o' horrible and awful,

Which even to name would be unlawful.

Three Lawyers? tongues, turned inside out,

Sown with lies like a beggar?s cloth -

Three Priests? hearts, rotten, black as muck

Lay stinking, vile, in every nook.

As Thomas glowered, amazed, and curious,

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;

The piper loud and louder blew,

The dancers quick and quicker flew,

They reeled, they set, they crossed, they linked,

Till every witch sweated and smelled,

And cast her ragged clothes to the floor,

And danced deftly at it in her underskirts!

Now Tam, O Tam! had these been queens,

All plump and strapping in their teens!

Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel,

Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! -

The trousers of mine, my only pair,

That once were plush, of good blue hair,

I would have given them off my buttocks

For one blink of those pretty girls !

But withered hags, old and droll,

Ugly enough to suckle a foal,

Leaping and flinging on a stick,

Its a wonder it didn?t turn your stomach!

But Tam knew what was what well enough:

There was one winsome, jolly wench,

That night enlisted in the core,

Long after known on Carrick shore

(For many a beast to dead she shot,

And perished many a bonnie boat,

And shook both much corn and barley,

And kept the country-side in fear.)

Her short underskirt, o? Paisley cloth,

That while a young lass she had worn,

In longitude though very limited,

It was her best, and she was proud. . .

Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,

That skirt she bought for her little grandaughter,

With two Scots pounds (it was all her riches),

Would ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my tale must stoop and bow,

Such words are far beyond her power;

To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked

(A supple youth she was, and strong);

And how Tom stood like one bewitched,

And thought his very eyes enriched;

Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full of lust,

And jerked and blew with might and main;

Till first one caper, then another,

Tom lost his reason all together,

And roars out: ? Well done, short skirt! ?

And in an instant all was dark;

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees buzz out with angry wrath,

When plundering herds assail their hive;

As a wild hare?s mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts running before their nose;

As eager runs the market-crowd,

When ? Catch the thief! ? resounds aloud:

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

With many an unearthly scream and holler.

Ah, Tom! Ah, Tom! You will get what's coming!

In hell they will roast you like a herring!

In vain your Kate awaits your coming !

Kate soon will be a woeful woman!

Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg,

And beat them to the key-stone of the bridge;

There, you may toss your tale at them,

A running stream they dare not cross!

But before the key-stone she could make,

She had to shake a tail at the fiend;

For Nannie, far before the rest,

Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,

And flew at Tam with furious aim;

But little was she Maggie?s mettle!

One spring brought off her master whole,

But left behind her own grey tail:

The witch caught her by the rump,

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, who this tale of truth shall read,

Each man, and mother?s son, take heed:

Whenever to drink you are inclined,

Or short skirts run in your mind,

Think! you may buy joys over dear:

Remember Tam o? Shanter?s mare.

(nice addition Jay btw)

[Ngairo]

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

Is 'Cutty-Sark' whiskey?....I'm sure I've used it to start wars before.....

[Ngairo]

K.

[Stramash]

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

Is 'Cutty-Sark' whiskey?....I'm sure I've used it to start wars before.....

a 'cutty sark' was a short female petticoat.

The Cutty Sark was the fastest tea clipper of her day, built about 3 miles from where I am sitting and named by the owner, Jock Willis, for the mention in the Burns poem.

Cutty Sark was the world's first light coloured whisky, created in 1923 and named after the ship that was named after the poem.

The Cutty Sark can be visited in Greenwich, London.

Cutty Sark can be bought at alcohol emporiums everywhere.

The management of Cutty Sark Whisky accept no responsibilities for injuries incurred by belligerent New Zealanders while under the influence.

[LakeGeneve]

bah! you try and introduce a bit of culture to the site but all people want to do is argue about Israel and look at big ****!!

:evil:

****

This is that famous urban feminist poet from Hungary,

Ms whatshername........?

[Stramash]

Olga Knickersanovski...

[Stramash]

very nice choice Jay.

Today's choice from me;

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree :

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round :

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !

A savage place ! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover !

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced :

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war !

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves ;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !

His flashing eyes, his floating hair !

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

[Stramash]

two very differing views on marriage tonight.

First the great Ogden Nash;

Geniuses of countless nations

Have told their love for generations

Till all their memorable phrases

Are common as goldenrod or daisies.

Their girls have glimmered like the moon,

Or shimmered like a summer moon,

Stood like a lily, fled like a fawn,

Now the sunset, now the dawn,

Here the princess in the tower

There the sweet forbidden flower.

Darling, when I look at you

Every aged phrase is new,

And there are moments when it seems

I've married one of Shakespeare's dreams.

followed by the slightly less great Pam Ayres;

Yes, I'll marry you, my dear,

And here's the reason why;

So I can push you out of bed

When the baby starts to cry,

And if we hear a knocking

And it's creepy and it's late,

I hand you the torch you see,

And you investigate.

Yes, I'll marry you, my dear,

You may not apprehend it,

But when the tumble-drier goes

It's you that has to mend it,

You have to face the neighbour

Should our labrador attack him,

And if a drunkard fondles me

It's you that has to whack him.

Yes, I'll marry you,

You're virile and you're lean,

My house is like a pigsty

You can help to keep it clean.

That sexy little dinner

Which you served by candlelight,

As I do chipolatas,

You can cook it every night!

It's you who has to work the drill

and put up curtain track,

And when I've got PMT it's you who gets the flak,

I do see great advantages,

But none of them for you,

And so before you see the light,

I do, I do, I do!

(the fact that poem 2 features a labrador in no insinuates anything at all about a certain admin type person's marriage)

:wink:

[Stramash]

Let the sweet fresh breezes heal me

As they rove around the girth

Of our lovely mother planet

Of the cool, green hills of Earth.

We rot in the moulds of Venus,

We retch at her tainted breath.

Foul are her flooded jungles,

Crawling with unclean death.

[ --- the harsh bright soil of Luna ---

--- Saturn's rainbow rings ---

--- the frozen night of Titan --- ]

We've tried each spinning space mote

And reckoned its true worth:

Take us back again to the homes of men

On the cool, green hills of Earth.

The arching sky is calling

Spacemen back to their trade.

ALL HANDS! STAND BY! FREE FALLING!

And the lights below us fade.

Out ride the sons of Terra,

Far drives the thundering jet,

Up leaps a race of Earthmen,

Out, far, and onward yet ---

We pray for one last landing

On the globe that gave us birth;

Let us rest our eyes on the friendly skies

And the cool, green hills of Earth.

-- Robert A. Heinlein

Jay, you continue to surprise and impress me...

[Stramash]

Fruits in suits, nodded and advised

The next revolution will be televised

The youth of today has no clue

Sell the whole riot on Pay per View

Signed the whole deal with a corporate pen

Gave pre warning to Fox and CNN

Anarchist's misspelt slogans rise from a wall

In high definition fake governments will fall

Balaclava student, featuring a sports logo solution

Advertising contract to cover the next revolution

Guest commentary will be none other than the capitalist elite

Would Mr. Gates and Warren Buffett please take your seat

Capital markets prepare to shift in size

FT reports indices look set to rise

Petrol bombs fall, the emblem of an oil giant blazon on the side

The last tear of true revolution was recorded when Joe Strummer died

(by Scribblings of a middle aged mad man )

COMMANDANTE JOE (by Attila the Stockbroker)

I guess in quite a lot of ways I grew up just like you

A bolshy kid who didn't think the way they told him to

You kicked over the statues, a roots rock rebel star

Who knew that punk was more than just the sound of a guitar

And I'll always remember that night at the Rainbow

When you wrote a soundtrack for my life, Commandante Joe.

So many bands back then were like too many bands today

A bunch of blokes who made a noise with bugger all to say

The Clash were always out in front, you put the rest to shame

Your words were calls to action, your music was a flame

You were our common Dante, and you raised an inferno

And you wrote a soundtrack for my life, Commandante Joe.

Reggae in the Palais

Midnight till six!

Rockin' Reds in Brockwell Park!

Sten guns in Knightsbridge!

Up and down the Westway

In and out the lights!

Clash City Rockers!

Know Your Rights!

I guess in quite a lot of ways I grew up just like you

A bolshy kid who didn't think the way they told him to

Like you I always knew that words and music held the key

As you did for so many, you showed the way to me

Although I never met you I'm so sad to see you go

'Cos you wrote a soundtrack for my life, Commandante Joe.

[Stramash]

Jay, you continue to surprise and impress me...

for some reason this poem has stayed stuck in my head since i read the book 25 years ago. Heinlein and Asimov are probably my favourite Sci Fi authors - along with Harry Harrison (genius)

Have to completely agree with you there; I even named my cat 'Pixel'!! And the Stainless Steel Rat series was fantastic; can remember it being turned into a comic strip in UK by 2000AD back in the 80's.

Also have to mention Philip K ****, who has given us the books behind some of my favourite sci fi films.

Can't think who you mean by 'Joe somebody' - need to think about that one!!