Is It Snowing In Your Neck Of The Woods?
ChatterBank1 min ago
What Poems stick out in your mind?
75 Answers
One poem that I will never forget is "Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen. I read it while in year 6 at school so aged 10-11. Has stayed with me ever since xx
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One of my favourites is WB Yeat's Fisherman:
Although I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, 'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
Although I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, 'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
It's not a proper poem as such but I recall this from an English textbook
You cannot hope to bribe or twist
Thank God a British journalist.
But seeing what the man will do unbribed
There's no occasion to.
I've often thought about it with never ending controversy about journalists and the media in general over the years
You cannot hope to bribe or twist
Thank God a British journalist.
But seeing what the man will do unbribed
There's no occasion to.
I've often thought about it with never ending controversy about journalists and the media in general over the years
This (even)
The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
The More Loving One
by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
From the film, The Way to the Stars, which i have seen a number of times, and this poem always makes me sad.
The following poetry, supposedly written by Archdale, was penned by John Pudney. It is found on a piece of paper and given by Penrose to Toddy after her husband's death. Later, she gives it to Hollis's friend to read after he is killed.
FOR JOHNNY
Do not despair.........For Johnny-head-in-air;
He sleeps as sound.....As Johnny underground.
Fetch out no shroud....For Johnny-in-the-cloud;
And keep your tears....For him in after years.
Better by far..........For Johnny-the-bright-star,
To keep your head......And see his children fed.
The following poetry, supposedly written by Archdale, was penned by John Pudney. It is found on a piece of paper and given by Penrose to Toddy after her husband's death. Later, she gives it to Hollis's friend to read after he is killed.
FOR JOHNNY
Do not despair.........For Johnny-head-in-air;
He sleeps as sound.....As Johnny underground.
Fetch out no shroud....For Johnny-in-the-cloud;
And keep your tears....For him in after years.
Better by far..........For Johnny-the-bright-star,
To keep your head......And see his children fed.
We did Wilfred Owen at school, Anthem for Doomed Youth. Shame he got killed just before the was ended.
The poem I like is The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. My dear dad knew it off by heart and used to recite it to me when I was young.
Another that sticks in my mind is The Lady of Shalott, Tennyson's song of Lancelot. I was in the schools choir and we had to sing it in the Town Hall in Birmingham when I was about 15. I only did it to get out of lessons!
The poem I like is The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. My dear dad knew it off by heart and used to recite it to me when I was young.
Another that sticks in my mind is The Lady of Shalott, Tennyson's song of Lancelot. I was in the schools choir and we had to sing it in the Town Hall in Birmingham when I was about 15. I only did it to get out of lessons!
Timothy Winters by Charles Causley. Watching the news footage of the riots made me update it:
Timothy Winters comes to school
Hungry, tired and late as a rule
Can’t read on his own and won’t do goes-into’s
The good kids snigger at Timothy Winters
His face is pasty, his moods go bang
And his hairstyle’s that of the Croxie gang
Gran’s note says his blazer is worn right through
But his trainers gleam white and band-box new
In class young Timothy won’t sit down
It’s gone way past just acting the clown
He’ll stay around for his free school meal
Then legs it down the shops to steal
His statement says he has ADHD
But his mum says ‘that school’s picking on me’
She’s flogged his Ritalin down the lane
And Timothy’s running on empty again
He went into care but Gran got him back
His mum does tricks for coke and crack
Gran smokes weed with her vodka and lime
His mum’s new boyfriend’s doing time
His social worker shrugs and sighs
She knows the family, knows their lies
And she knows social work’s got a bad name
And that litigation’s a growing game
In school assembly we won’t forget
To praise each child for challenges met
Timothy watches, his view is dim
He knew from the off they all hated him
So five more years of going bad
And Timothy Winters’ll be a dad
He’ll learn his kids to duck and scam
And the cycle repeats ad nauseam
Timothy Winters comes to school
Hungry, tired and late as a rule
Can’t read on his own and won’t do goes-into’s
The good kids snigger at Timothy Winters
His face is pasty, his moods go bang
And his hairstyle’s that of the Croxie gang
Gran’s note says his blazer is worn right through
But his trainers gleam white and band-box new
In class young Timothy won’t sit down
It’s gone way past just acting the clown
He’ll stay around for his free school meal
Then legs it down the shops to steal
His statement says he has ADHD
But his mum says ‘that school’s picking on me’
She’s flogged his Ritalin down the lane
And Timothy’s running on empty again
He went into care but Gran got him back
His mum does tricks for coke and crack
Gran smokes weed with her vodka and lime
His mum’s new boyfriend’s doing time
His social worker shrugs and sighs
She knows the family, knows their lies
And she knows social work’s got a bad name
And that litigation’s a growing game
In school assembly we won’t forget
To praise each child for challenges met
Timothy watches, his view is dim
He knew from the off they all hated him
So five more years of going bad
And Timothy Winters’ll be a dad
He’ll learn his kids to duck and scam
And the cycle repeats ad nauseam
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