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I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

and the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.

Part of a very long piece by Shelly on the Peterloo massacre

http://www.theguardian.com/culture/2013/jul/08/anarchy-in-peterloo-shelleys-poem-unmasked

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[Seen elsewhere, author not credited]   The outside toilet.   In deep midwinter freezing cold, Walked down the path, feeling bold, Needed to go, just couildn't wait,

Ha, ha ! It reminds me of the old tale of the general during WW1, who asked his radio operator to 'Send reinforcements, we're going to advance'. When the message passed through various stages, it fina

Spotted this Pam Ayres ditty in another group and thought it might appeal to those in here what likes poytrie:   The missus bought a Paperback, down Shepton Mallet way, I had a look insi

The Encounter

 

In a park one day, a little lad, on a bench did see old man,

On close approach he saw a tear, down his face there ran.

'Hello' said lad, with turn of head, the man did smile allow,

For he recalled himself that age, had stood where he did now.

 

Had stood and looked beyond, o'er woods and patchwork fields,

Not now their presence met the eye, their fate so long was sealed.

Bricks and mortar, glass and steel, where once grazed sheep and cow,

Toilers on the land did sow, and steer the horse-drawn plough.

 

Recalling times when he was young, he told the lad his story,

Of working hard and having naught, but what was necessary.

Not for him a carefree life, nor one so filled with plenty,

Had his share of life's pitfalls, and survived them evidently.

 

He told the lad of years aback, when meagre was the wage,

Where greed was but a mentioned word, upon a bible page.

Betterment was but a dream, his place was cast from birth,

He never thought that life would give, him anything of worth.

 

The lad did hark, and joined the man in shedding salty tear,

For he would never want, and not have cause to fear.

He turned to face the old man, but his place on bench was bare,

Where had he gone, indeed, he thought, had he ever so been there?

 

As he made so to leave, a glint did strike him hard,

Upon the bench backrest was fixed, words of friends' regard.

'To our beloved Bill, from his fraternity,

May he sit, here and gaze, in earned eternity'.

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It's National Poetry Day today, so here goes:

 

The Seasons

 

Spring is here and life awakes,

Up sprout the bud, unfreeze the lake.

Flowers yawn from hibernation,

Growing with determination.

Soon the rains promote more life,

Root and branch, expansion rife.

 

Summer's warmth to all is welcome,

Enjoy it now, next stop is autumn.

Garden's glories to us proclaim,

Nature's gifts, not all the same.

Flowers abound with different hue,

Expansive vistas, ours to view.

 

The evening's cool, warns us of change,

And autumn glows are now in range.

Soon the turn of leaf to mellow,

And colours that are red and yellow.

Leaf and fruit descend to ground,

And harvest crops so much abound.

 

Then winter's coat to us will tender,

Its crystal glory in all its splendour.

The leafless trees, so stark they stand,

Awaiting warmth that they demand.

Life slows down, the cycle done,

Darkened days await the sun.

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IF (with apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

 

If you're from Robin Hood land, or corners far and wide,

If you enjoy the local twang, then here with us abide.

If you like a laff and rant, with us come and ride,

Then, my dear Nottstalgian, don't you run and hide.

 

If you long for Drury Hill, Black Boy and Vic Station,

If you close your eyes they're, in your imagination.

If recalling memories past, is your favourite inclination,

Then Nottstalgian you're at home, with endless fascination.

 

If your mind do wander back to, sounds of teenage days,

If your memory's still as sharp, and not stuck in a haze.

If you remember ha'pennies, and Elvis you did praise,

Then Nottstalgian cheer up, and your glass do raise.

 

If you drink Hobgoblin, and still find your way back home,

If you devour cream cakes, and on your bike then roam.

If you can mis-spell 'practise', you're not on your own,

You'll be a true Nottstalgian, to whom no-one can moan.

 

If you'd rather go to, City not Pride Park,

If when Derby's mentioned, rather you'd not hark.

If you think that Derby's team, are men having a lark,

Then you, dear Nottstalgian, will have made your mark.

 

If when air turns blue, where saucy jokes do live,

If it never bothers you, not a toss you'll give.

If your inner thoughts do, leak out like a sieve,

Then not to worry Nottstalgian, you're not so sensitive.

 

If you can stand a rollicking, as you did from dear old mam,

If you're on foreign shore and, still think of Nottingham.

If you can take a wind-up, and not then care a damn,

Then you'll be a Nottstalgian, and proud to say 'I am'.

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Any golfing poets out there? Betjeman fans? Seaside Golf

How straight it flew, how long it flew,

It clear'd the rutty track

And soaring, disappeared from view

Beyond the bunker's back -

A glorious, sailing, bounding drive

That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along

It glowed a lonely white;

I played an iron sure and strong

And clipp'd it out of sight,

And spite of grassy banks between

I knew I'd find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content

Two paces from the pin;

A steady putt and then it went

Oh, most surely in.

The very turf rejoiced to see

That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves

And thyme and mist in whiffs,

In-coming tide, Atlantic waves

Slapping the sunny cliffs,

Lark song and sea sounds in the air

And splendour, splendour everywhere.

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Searching for an old history project for my Daughter, I found a large old journal with lots of social comment(poetry?) written inside: one on gangs-recent thread...this one on washing lines..As you do!!

A Wash Day Bluey.

In a seaside town

it's all blown down

the domestic backbone of a nation

humans bunting flapping in the breeze

faded tour t.shirts

and jeans with no knees

It's the barmaids turn to wash the beer towels

string underpants do little

to net a pensioners bowels

a string of soccer shirts

sag the line with fatigue

another Sunday shearer plays the amateur league

six feet of rope in everyone's back

tie another knot take in the slack

crisp white linen and faded old shorts

each an advert a swaying report

a secretive washer your smalls are indoors

draped on a radiator in the hall

strangers become friends

for a watcher of lines

peoples lives pegged out

it's all signs.

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I met Murder on the way -
He had a mask like Castlereagh -
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Only two verses from an epic by Shelly which goes to 38 verses inspired by the Peterloo massacre of 1819.

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Dark,this one,but I've had a few nights like this.

Violence Ballroom.

Slash my face for a nausea word

another time can be heard

the crap kickers play there latest song

as the hate boys kick in a lung

half cut knifer stalks the hall

seven foot wide cats on speed balls

It's dimly lit and icy full of runaways

we've got to be losing our minds

but we dress out and sureshow

Shudder to the cues and do snow

dodgies dressed as Regals bastards done as shits

don't worry for the daughter crank down that hit

everyone's forgettin because

don't talk drink relax

plan a salad

but forget the outside

four sweaty walls and a Marshall stack

hate and hate rub back to back

four a.m stubble versus stockinged rubble

I don't dance alone

look out the pouts are stepping on

blue suede long since gone

doorman's crashed in a pool of piss

blood shit puke and fists

I love this place baby.

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The last verse of Cargoes by John Masefield

Dirty British coaster with a salt caked smokestack,

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rails, pig lead,

Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Sadly not many cargoes for the British coasters these days.

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It's good to read your post Oztalgian. 1962/3 was the last time i heard those words. We learnt the poem at school, and all I could remember over the years were the lines, Quinquireme of Nineveh and Dirty British Coaster with a salt caked smoke stack. Then along came the Internet and I was able to find the whole poem again. Brought back memories of my school days. :)

Anyone else from Gedling School remember that poem.

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'twas on the good ship Venus,

By Christ you should have seen us.

The figure-head was a girl in bed,

The mast was the captain's ...

I can't remember the rest.

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#130

Come on Chulla even you would not call bawdy rugby songs poetry, but they are much more fun than the poetry I learned at school.

Whilst we are on the subject here are some others that I remember from my rugby playing past

If I were the marrying kind

The sexual life of the camel

Swing low sweet chariot

Eskimo Nell

Ivan Scavinsky Scavar

My god how the money rolls in

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I remember the John Masefield poem from my Junior school days at Arno Vale. The way you read it aloud was supposed to sound like a chugging motorboat, I think

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How about this one. Poems that make men cry?

ROGER MCGOUGH - THE IDENTIFICATION

So you think its Stephen?
Then I'd best make sure
Be on the safe side as it were.

Ah, there's been a mistake. The hair
you see, its black, now Stephens fair ...
Whats that? The explosion?
Of course, burnt black. Silly of me.
I should have known. Then lets get on.

The face, is that the face mask?
that mask of charred wood
blistered scarred could
that have been a child's face?
The sweater, where intact, looks
in fact all too familiar.
But one must be sure.

The scoutbelt. Yes thats his.
I recognise the studs he hammered in
not a week ago. At the age
when boys get clothes-conscious
now you know. Its almost
certainly Stephen. But one must
be sure. Remove all trace of doubt.
Pull out every splinter of hope.

Pockets. Empty the pockets.
Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy's.
Dirty enough. Cigarettes?
Oh this can't be Stephen.
I dont allow him to smoke you see.

He wouldn't disobey me. Not his father.
But that's his penknife. That's his alright.
And that's his key on the keyring
Gran gave him just the other night.
Then this must be him.

I think I know what happened
... ... ... about the cigarettes
No doubt he was minding them
for one of the older boys.
Yes thats it.
Thats him.
Thats our Stephen.

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This to be read with the Ovaltini children's song running through your mind. Otherwise, don't bother.

 

We are the old Nottstalgians, happy gels and boys,

We tell our tales and funny stories,

Of life's mistakes, and its glories,

We, don't, talk so posh, we're not all blessed with poise,

 

We moan and groan, but we don't care,

Because we're not afraid to dare,

We're full of bonhomie, so there,

And unsurpressed in joys.

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on a lighter note oztalgian #127 missed out the saga of the 24 maidens from Inverness? I also remember a 'few' years ago helping a colleague finish his Xword by reciting the " sex life of the camel", the clue was "puzzle in the sand" , 6 letters, it finished ".....explains the hump on the back of the camel and the smile on the face of the Sphinx!

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A milkmaid called Maisy was milking the cow,

She'd filled seven buckets and then fed the sow,

The farmer came out and he gave her the sack,

So she turned the cow round and she poured the milk back.

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There was a man from Huddersfield

Who had a cow that would not yield;

The reason why she would not yield -

She did not like her udders feeled.

Or :

I eat my peas with honey

I've done it all my life

It makes the peas taste funny

But it keeps them on the knife.

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