Know any good poems?

[bob10]

Reading in our local independent newspaper about Nelson Mandela, and how he was inspired by William Ernest Henley's poem Invictus, whilst in Robben Island prison. I looked up the words, out of curiosity. Henley himself was an interesting person, a lifelong atheist, losing his foot to a bone disease, the poem was supposedly written around that time. He was also the inspiration for the character , Long John Silver, of Treasure Island fame. Anyway, the poem. Feel free to add more poems if you wish, Bob

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

W.E.Henley.

[V8Ian]

I don't think this one claims much literary excellence ut it is reputably the shortest poem ever written.

Fleas.
Adam
Had 'em

:angel:

[Ausfree]

How about...

"The boy stood on the burning deck.............................":p

[bob10]

Because of a certain election coming up, I will take the liberty to post one of Henry Lawsons poems, as a message to our political leaders, Bob

https://www.aulro.com/afvb/images/imported/2013/08/1365.jpg (http://www.poemhunter.com/henry-lawson/)



And the Bairns Will Come

So you’ve seen at last what we have seen so long through scalding tears:
You have found what we—the People—we have known for twenty years:
And Australia’s hymn is swelling till the furthest fence-wires hum—
Save your country, Legislators—and the bairns will come.
You would put the blame upon us—we are women, we are men;
And our fathers and our mothers gave the country nine and ten.
They had honest work and wages, and the ways to win a home—
Give us half the chances they had—and the bairns will come.

Try the ranks of wealth and fashion, ask the rich and well-to-do,
With their nurseries and their nurses and their children one and two,
Will they help us bear the burden?—but their purse-proud lips are dumb.
Let us earn a decent living—and the bairns will come.

Young men, helpless in the city’s wheel of greed that never stops,
Tramp the streets for work while sweethearts slave in factories and shops.
Shall they marry and bear children to their parents’ martyrdom?
Make the city what it should be—and the bairns will come.

Shall we give you sons and daughters to a life of never-rest,
Sacrificing all for nothing in the desert of the West,
To be driven to the city’s squalid suburb and the slum?
Make the city what it should be—and the bairns will come.

Don’t you hear Australia calling for her children unconceived?
Don’t you hear them calling to her while her heart is very grieved?
Give the best land to the farmers, make the barren West a home,
Save the rainfall, lock the rivers—and the bairns will come.


Henry Lawson

[Homestar]

I like this one - the longest Palindrome poem (224 words!) titled "Dammit I'm Mad"

by Demitri Martin - a pretty clever guy...:)


Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I ****.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.

[bob10]

How about...

"The boy stood on the burning deck.............................":p

How, indeed, Bob





Casabianca (aka The Boy Stood on the burning deck)

by

Felicia Hemans (1793 - 1835)


http://www.learnenglish.de/newimages/illustrations/fire.jpg
This page has dictionary look up. Double click on any word to see its definition.



The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on–he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud–'Say, father, say
if yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' Once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! Must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound –
The boy! Oh! Where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part –
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
This is another version...

(Anonymous)

The boy stood in the supper-room
Whence all but he had fled;
He'd eaten seven pots of jam
And no amount of bread.
"One crust! One crust! before I bust!"
He cried in accents wild;
He licked the plates, he sucked the spoons -
He was a greedy child.
There came a hideous thunder-clap -
The boy! Oh! Where was he?
Ask of the maid who mopped him up,
The breadcrumbs and the tea




Felicia Hemans was a playwright and poet, she offered a woman's voice confiding a woman's trials; to others she reflected Victorian chauvinism and sentimentality. That said, her writing has an originality that cannot be denied, reflecting her independent spirit. She is now remembered popularly for this poem, and generally for one line only "The boy stood on the burning deck".

[V8Ian]

How about...

"The boy stood on the burning deck.............................":p
.......His pockets full of crackers
A spark flew up his trouser leg
And blew off both his








Kneecaps.

Mrs V's version. :D

[Chucaro]

Do Not Weep
James Wadworth Longfellow

Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow;
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there. I did not die.

[JamesB71]

Every Man should have a Rifle

Henry Lawson (1907)

So I sit and write and ponder, while the house is deaf and dumb,
Seeing visions "over yonder" of the war I know must come.
In the corner - not a vision - but a sign for coming days
Stand a box of ammunition and a rifle in green baize.
And in this, the living present, let the word go through the land,
Every tradesman, clerk and peasant should have these two things at hand.

No - no ranting song is needed, and no meeting, flag or fuss -
In the future, still unheeded, shall the spirit come to us!
Without feathers, drum or riot on the day that is to be,
We shall march down, very quite, to our stations by the sea.
While the bitter parties stifle every voice that warns of war,
Every man should own a rifle and have cartridges in store!

[JamesB71]

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

[numpty]

Oh the sun shone down on the burning plain
Wackatoey Billy mucha tullawong pain

And the moonbeam swayed and the moonbeam sat
Glowing in the moonlight like a great big cat

Gullawong a flackytan ricky ton turn
Campfire campfire crackle and burn

The moon shone on the rainbow and the tree fell on the house and killed the cat and the town caught on fire.

Wackatoey Billy mucha tullawong pain
Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area

"Courtesy of the Aunty Jack Show"

[lebanon]

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Taken from the book "The prophet" by Gibran Khalil Gebran.

[jerryd]

This is my favorite poem :D i remember when it was first shown on tv all those years ago :)


Morecambe and Wise: Byron meets Keats - YouTube

[Ranga]

I like the one from the movie Idiot Box.

Idiot Box (1996) - Quotes - IMDb (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116604/quotes)

[B.S.F.]

A Farmer’s Boy
They strolled down the lane together,
The sky was studded with stars.
They reached the gate in silence,
And he lifted down the bars.
She neither smiled or thanked him
Because she knew not how;
For he was just a farmer’s boy
And she was a Jersey cow!

(anon.)

[sheerluck]

The poem I remember most from school is Dulce et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen dating back to WW1.


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

[bob10]

Yes, the War to end all Wars. If only. the poppy, Bob


When World War 1 erupted, Northern France fields were damaged from the trenches and the shelling. After the conflict, the only plants to grow on the battlefields were poppies.
The significance of the poppy came about due to a Canadian Surgeon John McCrae writing a poem. McCrae presided over the funeral of his friend Lieutenant Alex Helmer who’d been killed during the Second Battle of Ypres - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
He wrote the poem as he sat upon the back of a medical field ambulance, not far from an advance dressing post at Essex Farm, just north of Ypres.
McCrae later discarded the poem, however,a fellow officer sent it to Punch magazine (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Punch_(magazine)). Later that year it was published.
https://www.aulro.com/afvb/images/imported/2014/02/1012.jpg (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AIn_Flanders_fields_and_other_poems%2C_handw ritten.png)


In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead, short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields!
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands, we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields!
By John McCrae

[bob10]

On a lighter note, Bob
Paterson, A. B., 'Banjo' (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/paterson-a-b-banjo/) > The Geebung Polo Club
The Geebung Polo Club

by Paterson (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/paterson-a-b-banjo)
From book: The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poems-book/the-man-from-snowy-river-and-other-verses-0001000) [ Previous (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/paterson-a-b-banjo/an-idyll-of-dandaloo-0001009) | Next (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/paterson-a-b-banjo/the-travelling-post-office-0001011) ]

https://www.aulro.com/afvb/images/imported/2013/08/1330.jpg
It was somewhere up the country, in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives from the rugged mountain side,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash —
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.

It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called ‘The Cuff and Collar Team’.
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them — just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.

Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken — just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar Captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player — so the game was called a tie.

Then the Captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him — all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal — and missed it — then he tumbled off and died.

*****
By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, ‘Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here.’
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub —
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.

[bob10]

Or perhaps this, Bob
Saltbush Bill

by Paterson (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/paterson-a-b-banjo)
From book: The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poems-book/the-man-from-snowy-river-and-other-verses-0001000) [ Previous (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/paterson-a-b-banjo/the-travelling-post-office-0001011) | Next (http://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/paterson-a-b-banjo/a-mountain-station-0001013) ]

https://www.aulro.com/afvb/images/imported/2013/08/1330.jpg

Now this is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey,
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains,
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains,
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand,
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.

For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black —
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight;
Yet the squatters' men, though they hunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep;
But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.

Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough, as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep,
(When the kangaroos by the thousands starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run,
‘We must manage a feed for them here,’ he said, ‘or the half of the mob are done!’
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow,
And they set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack
They forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track;
So William prayed that the hand of fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackaroo.

So he turned and he cursed the Jackaroo, he cursed him alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldy feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and he went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the saltbush plain in the regular prize-ring style.

Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race,
But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face;
So he shifted ground and he sparred for wind and he made it a lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill —
‘We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand,
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland.’
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest,
Then the drover said he would fight no more and he gave his opponent best.

So the new chum rode to the homestead straight and he told them a story grand
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland.
And the tale went home to the Public Schools of the pluck of the English swell,
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain.
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again,
With a week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack

[350RRC]

Upon the good ship Venus..................

...............................

[Gary S11]

Forgiven
I found a little beetle; so that Beetle was his name,
And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same.
I put him in a match-box, and I kept him all the day ...
And Nanny let my beetle out -
Yes, Nanny let my beetle out -
She went and let my beetle out -
And Beetle ran away.

She said she didn't mean it, and I never said she did,
She said she wanted matches and she just took off the lid,
She said that she was sorry, but it's difficult to catch
An excited sort of beetle you've mistaken for a match.

She said that she was sorry, and I really mustn't mind,
As there's lots and lots of beetles which she's certain we could find,
If we looked about the garden for the holes where beetles hid -
And we'd get another match-box and write BEETLE on the lid.

We went to all the places which a beetle might be near,
And we made the sort of noises which a beetle likes to hear,
And I saw a kind of something, and I gave a sort of shout:
"A beetle-house and Alexander Beetle coming out!"

It was Alexander Beetle I'm as certain as can be,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought it must be Me,
And he had a sort of look as if he thought he ought to say:
"I'm very very sorry that I tried to run away."

And Nanny's very sorry too for you-know-what-she-did,
And she's writing ALEXANDER very blackly on the lid,
So Nan and Me are friends, because it's difficult to catch
An excited Alexander you've mistaken for a match.

[lebanon]

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

Taken from the book "The prophet" by Gibran Khalil Gebran.

[rick130]

Do Not Weep
James Wadworth Longfellow

Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow;
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there. I did not die.



Arthur, supposedly this lady composed it Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Beautiful words regardless of authorship IMO

[rick130]

My favourite Aussie wordsmith is a young bloke called Luka Lesson.

Part Aboriginal, part Greek heritage, all Australian, I've seen him live and the bloke is brilliant, I'll dig up some work.

[Redback]

INDIAN SUMMER

I love the best from all
I expect more than I get.
But everything has changed around here,
from the time the Indian Summer had found me.


EVERY MORNING
The night dies every morning
but she laughs at the day after all.
You must hide the sun from her,
I got through, but I’m still here.
I was looking for joy, your treasure
you cried for me and I forgot you after all,
I did find nothing, but love
I got through, come and find me.
Minutes, hours, days, weeks
passing by but you have to wait.
If a door opens in the distance
got through, come and follow me!

Jim Morrison

[JamesH]

When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
such as these you will never find
as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raise them up before you.

Ask that your way be long.
At many a Summer dawn to enter
with what gratitude, what joy -
ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres,
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.

Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But don't in the least hurry the journey.
Better it last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.
So wise you have become, of such experience,
that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean.


Constantine P. Cavafy

[bob10]

Poetry is a universal language, Bob


“My Eyes are like the Flax-Flowers.”

This love-chant is a favourite among the poi-girls on the West Coast; it is sung to a haunting tune which may have been of pakeha origin but which has been adapted and altered as to time and intervals until it is thoroughly Maori:

Whakapukepuke ai au—e
Te roimata i aku kamo,
He rite ki te ngaru
Whati mai i waho—e!
Taku turanga ake
I te taha o te rata,
Ka titiro atu
Ki te akau roa—e!
Ko te rite i aku kamo
Ki te pua korari;
Ka pupuhi te hau,
Ka maringi te wai—e!
Ko te rite i ahau
Ki te rau o te wiwi,
E wiwiri nei
He nui no te aroha—e!
He aroha taku hoa
I huri ai ki te moe,
Hei hari atu
Ki raro Reinga e te tau—e!



(Translation.)
Like a flood, ah me!
My tears stream down;
They burst like ocean-waves
Breaking yonder on the shore, Ah me!
Lonely I sit
Beneath my rata tree,
Gazing, ever gazing
On the long sea-strand, Ah me!
My weeping eyes
Are like the drooping flax-flowers;
When the wind rustles them
Down fall the honey showers Ah me!
I'm like the wind-blown rushes,
The wiwi bending in the gale,
Quivering, shaking, trembling
With the strength of my love Ah me!
Once love was my companion
When I turned me to slumber;
It was the spirit of my love
That joined me in the land of dreams.

[bob10]

Who could forget Kipling? Bob



If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

[lebanon]

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Taken from the book "The prophet" by Gibran Khalil Gebran.

[bob10]

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Taken from the book "The prophet" by Gibran Khalil Gebran.


That is so good, I am using it at my Sons upcoming wedding. thank you, Lebanon, Bob

[waz]

I don't think this one claims much literary excellence ut it is reputably the shortest poem ever written.

Fleas.
Adam
Had 'em

:angel:

I thought the shortest poem was by Muhammad Ali

Me,
We.

Written as a statement of solidarity with the African people when he went over for the Rumble in the Jungle.

Waz

[bob10]

Banjo, again, Bob


On the Trek

Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day,
With sun above and silent veldt below;
And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away,
And the homestead where the climbing roses grow.
Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain?
Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough?
Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again,
For we’re going on a long job now.
In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep,
With the endless line of waggons stretching back,
While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep,
Plodding silent on the never-ending track,
While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see
Makes you wonder will your turn come–when and how?
As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee–
Oh! we’re going on a long job now.
When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead,
And you’ve seen a load of wounded once or twice,
Or you’ve watched your old mate dying–with the vultures overhead,
Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price.
And down along Monaro now they’re starting out to shear,
I can picture the excitement and the row;
But they’ll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year,
For we’re going on a long job now.

[lebanon]

That is so good, I am using it at my Sons upcoming wedding. thank you, Lebanon, Bob

Congratulations to your son and future daughter in law for their marriage.

[wrinklearthur]

When Girlie Goes Looking for Nuts
"The doctors tell us that our bones
To them a tale unfold,
Of how we're degenerating
From the usual human mould.

"For we are slipping back, they say,
To what we were before,
And by our tails will swing from trees
In a thousand years or more.

"But this to me seems passing strange,
'Tis laughable if true,
I pray my ghost will live to see
The troubles it will brew.

"How will a politician look
If monkey he must be?
Will he harangue the crowd for votes
While sitting on a tree?

"And will he promise them the nuts
Of others that he'll scatter,
And waste the precious fleeing hours
On things that do not matter?

"What tickles me, though, most of all
Is how will Girlie take it-
Will she quite spring up from her tail
Should a male monk strive to shake it?

"And will she comb her pretty fur
Then gaze upon a pool?
And will she fold her furry tail
When sitting on a stool?

"Or will she pass her time of day
In looking out for nuts,
Or coyly wander through the bush
A shyly meeting knuts?

"Or maybe she will climb a tree
And crack upon her knees,
The really choice collection
Of her daily catch of fleas.

"Oh joy 'twill be if I am there
To watch the pretty dears,
To watch their little antics
In another thousand years!"

[Petetheprinta]

"The Snake" by Edward Vance Palmer

I killed a snake this morning in the grass, A lovely, sinister thing of gleaming jet:
I see it yet!
Gliding across the place my feet would pass, In effortless motion, fluid as molten glass, Yet live as fire, and evilly aware
Of all the magic in its jewelled stare,
The founts of poison in its being set.

I struck with savage force, and now it lies
With small ants swarming round its mangled head,
Surely it’s dead!
Yet in the sunlight myriad shapes arise
And flow in rhythm before my dazzled eyes;
Each black stick melts in curves, each tussock holds Its crimson belly and its shining folds,
Till mind and sense recoil in nameless dread.

Who dragged this creature from the nether streams
And on an innocent world it's presence thrust?
It's eyes hold lust
And evil will beyond mans darkest dreams
Yet when it move a baleful beauty gleams
The shy birds flutter and shriek each lyric note
Turned to a bat's cry in a quivering throat
By this insidious dragon of the dusk

This is 3 verses of a poem I learnt a long time ago in high school. Sadly I don't remember the last verse. For some reason this poem by Australian writer/poet Vance Palmer really resonated with me and I have remembered most of it for 50 years

[bob10]

Petetheprinter, thank you for introducing me to Vance Palmer, I had never heard of him, but his poetry resonates with me. I couldn't find your last verse, but found this, Bob








The Road to Roma Jail

It's a long road, a cruel road, the road to Roma Jail,
birds in all the branches mocking as you pass,
the spiteful little soldier-bird, the stupid old jackass,
crying 'One, two three of them; riding head to tail'.
On the long road, the cruel road, the road to Roma Jail.

Crookedly the track runs beneath the grassy skies
silver shines the mulga, golden glows the plain,
Bullocks in the barley-grass start and stare again,
stockmen at the station-yards, watch the white dust rise,
but one man, jogging on, dare not raise his eyes.

Pride of life and wild blood, all must pay the toll,
stolen horses' mouths are hard as misers hearts
none knew where the end is once the journey starts,
and Steve rides a long ride to reach a bitter goal
where black imps, grinning imps, hover round his soul.

It's a long road, a cruel road the road to roma Jail,
a trooper rides behind you, a tracker rides before,
your hands are tied, your head bowed, your heart and body sore,
and high above you in the blue the homing wood-duck sail,
on the long road, the cruel road, the road to Roma Jail


Vance Palmer

[bob10]

And another from Palmer, Bob



The Pathfinders

Night, and a bitter sky, and strange birds crying,
The wan trees whisper and the winds make moan,
Here where in ultimate peace their bones are lying
In gaunt waste places that they made their own,
Beyond the ploughed lands where the corn is sown.

Death, and untrodden ways, and night before them,
From sheltering homes and friendly hearths they came;
Far from the mouldering dust of those that bore them
They rest in silence now and know no fame,
No proud stone speaks, no waters lip the name.

Brave and undaunted hearts, eyes lit with laughter,
Minds that outran the ancient doubts and fears,
They blazed the track for legions following after,
And bared new treasure to the hungry years,
Till spent with strife they sank amongst the spears.

Slow sinks the glowing flame and fades the ember,
No bright star flickers and the woods are stark,
But still our children's children will remember
The swift forerunners, bearers of the ark,
Who lit the beacons in the uncharted dark.

Rich towns shall flourish on the hills that hold them,
Bright dreams shall quicken from their wandering dust,
And till the end our reverent minds shall fold them
In storied chambers free from moth and rust:
The fealty pledged, the kingdom given in trust.


Vance Palmer

[bob10]

Last one, had to post this one, Bob . [Palmer was an interesting man, his biography can be read at www.PoemHunter.com (http://www.PoemHunter.com), Vance Palmer, 1885-1959/Australia]

The Farmer remembers the Somme

Will they never fade or pass!
The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming
In file through the foul morass,
And the grey flood-water ripping the reeds and grass,
And the steel wings drumming.

The hills are bright in the sun:
There's nothing changed or marred in the well-known places;
When work for the day is done
There's talk, and quiet laughter, and gleams of fun
On the old folks' faces.

I have returned to these:
The farm, and the kindly Bush, and the young calves lowing;
But all that my mind sees
Is a quaking bog in a mist - stark, snapped trees,
And the dark Somme flowing.



Vance Palmer

[bob10]

Can't forget Bill, Bob



All the World's a Stage

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


William Shakespeare

[carjunkieanon]

Short poems are fun,
you can see at a glance
whether you
like them or not.

(Steve Turner - I think)

[jerryd]

When Paul McCartney was dating Heather Mills...........


They sat upon a grassy bank,
His hands were all a quiver,
He fumbled with her suspender belt,
And her leg fell in the river..........:wasntme:

[303gunner]

Long before Long Tan there was Kap'yong.


On the night of 23-24 April 1951, the 3rd Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment fought an action at Kapyong, Korea alongside the 2nd Battalion, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry against overwhelming North Korean and Chinese forces.

On April 23, 3RAR and 2PPCLI occupied prominent hills on either side of a 3 1/2 mile wide valley, the Australians on Hill 504 on the east and the Canadians on the western feature Hill 677. Early in the evening, retreating South Koreans broke and ran from the Communist onslaught and the supporting tanks from the US 1st Marine Division were overrun.


Throughout the evening and night, the Communists repeatedly pressed the thinly spread Australians, attacking in human waves over their dead and wounded. A Coy, 3RAR launched a dawn counter-attack that breached the Chinese lines and was followed up by B Coy fighting hand to hand in trenches and bunkers, clearing the Communists from Hill 504. The position could not be held by the small number of Australians, and reinforcements could not be supplied by the US 1st Marine Division who had fallen back thinking the Australian position had been wiped out in the night. The Australians withdrew to prepared positions further back, supported by Artillery fire from the New Zealand 16 Field Regt. This led to the Communists being able to put intense pressure on the PPCLI position who fought a similar battle on the night of 24-25 April before themselves being relieved on 25 April under NZ artillery cover. 3RAR suffered 32 dead and 53 wounded and 2PPCLI 10 dead and 23 wounded. It was estimated the Communists suffered approx 1200 casualties from an attacking force of 7000. (I know one of those Kiwi Gunners and he was recently invited back to South Korea and presented with a 60 year anniversary medal from the Sth Korean Govtl).


This poem was written by a Kiwi Artilleryman who also was there, Maurie Gasson:


"I am standing in my garden, in the early morning haze,
Looking up towards the hillside where the quiet cattle graze,
And the fog which night has gathered on the swamp which lies between,
Forms a blanket which enhances this, my early morning scene.

But now further up the valley, from the quarry neath the hills,
Comes the sound of early blasting which my peaceful scene dispels
For the sound I hear recalls to me the echo of a gun,
In a valley in Korea in the spring of fifty one.

And the fog which shrouds the swamp land, now assumes a deeper hue
Like the gunsmoke on the paddy, in that valley that I knew,
I smell the cordite once again, and as the daylight comes,
I see spread across the valley floor, that regiment of guns.

The Middlesex ahead of us, Australians to the right,
And to the left Canadians have held on through the night.
With target after target from our O.P. on the crest,
The gunners feed the guns, their bodies crying out for rest.

For the guns, now like an orchestra, the targets they engage,
With a symphony of anger, a cacophony of rage.
And from the hill above me, just beyond the nearest crest,
Comes the stutter of the Bren guns from the infantry hard pressed.

Along the road which lies behind us come the Army Service Corps,
Dump their load of ammunition and then speed back off for more.
I see walking wounded moving through our lines, while overhead,
Fly the choppers which are lifting out the dying and the dead.

And now at last, the foe repelled, the storm and fury done,
Each weary gunner lays him down and sleeps beside his gun.

Now I hear a pheasant calling, and a stirring in the trees,
And I feel the cool caresses of an early morning breeze
I feel a hand upon my arm, a voice beside me say,
"What are you thinking of my love? You seem so far away"

My aging eyes refocus on the farmlet that we share,
The orchard with the apple trees, the peach, the plum, the pear,
The sun is up, the mist is gone, the cattle on the hill,
Are back to grazing peacefully, and all is calm and still.

You sometimes smile and tell me of the things that I forget,
People's names and missed appointments, little things like that, and yet
Despite the years that lie between, my mind can still recall,
How we held the line that April, on the road that led to Seoul.


M. E Gasson, May 2003 "


As the Anniversary for the recognition of the Battle for Kap'yong is 24 April, it is usually overshadowed by Anzac Day.

[digger]

Yes, the War to end all Wars. If only. the poppy, Bob


When World War 1 erupted, Northern France fields were damaged from the trenches and the shelling. After the conflict, the only plants to grow on the battlefields were poppies.
The significance of the poppy came about due to a Canadian Surgeon John McCrae writing a poem. McCrae presided over the funeral of his friend Lieutenant Alex Helmer who’d been killed during the Second Battle of Ypres - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Battle_of_Ypres).
He wrote the poem as he sat upon the back of a medical field ambulance, not far from an advance dressing post at Essex Farm, just north of Ypres.
McCrae later discarded the poem, however,a fellow officer sent it to Punch magazine (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Punch_(magazine)). Later that year it was published.
https://www.aulro.com/afvb/images/imported/2014/02/1012.jpg (https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File%3AIn_Flanders_fields_and_other_poems%2C_handw ritten.png)


In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead, short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields!
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands, we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields!
By John McCrae


first line ends with the word GROW...

McCrae wasnt originally credited as the author (it was listed anonymously) but later this was corrected.

Operating in tents even into the winter until they were able to move the surgery areas into a building, McCRAE caught pneumonia (? <-sp?) and
died in 1918. (I believe) He was buried with full military honours (I believe in Belgium but that could also be wrong- working the grey cells here...)

Apparently he often stated that the version of Flanders Field that was being commonly printed or used wasn't the one he had written, but he also allegedly wasn't very concerned so long as the message still was conveyed.

I recall hearing that there was something about his tombstone that was unusual or different to the normal military cemetery in its design or set up but cannot recall what that was. (Ill go looking tonight maybe, I believe I have some stuff about McCrae in a WWI book I have.)

[digger]

I thought the shortest poem was by Muhammad Ali

Me,
We.

Written as a statement of solidarity with the African people when he went over for the Rumble in the Jungle.

Waz

I dont know about poems but I heard the longest sentence and shortest sentence are the same

" I DO". apparently one leads to the other...:angel:

[bob10]

There is an excellent book, written by Jack Galloway, paperback, titled ' Last Call Of the Bugle', about the Australian volunteers who joined up for the Korean War. The story behind the title is,


" for more than 5 decades since the raising of the first expeditionary force in the Sudan in 1896, Australian troops who served overseas were citizen soldiers, volunteers raised from amongst the general community. In the soldiers argot of the day these volunteers were said to have 'heard the bugle', whilst those who enlisted some time after hostilities were sometimes asked if they were ' a bit hard of hearing', or told they were a ' bit slow hearing the bugle'. .....The Korean War was the last occasion this occurred, the last call of the bugle. " [ from the foreword]


The 27th British Commonwealth Brigade was in the thick of the action from the start, another extract;


"In the advance into North Korea, gross error that it was, the 8th Army [USA] moved on a narrow and road bound front - so narrow as to accommodate only a Brigade forward. During the advance to the North Korean capital,27 BCB was at point for the 8th Army [USA] . 3 Battalion [ Australian] was leading the Brigade when the capture of thousands of prisoners at Sariwon left no substantial formed body of troops to defend Pyongyang. For the whole of the remainder of the advance into North Korea, it was the troops of the 27th British Commonwealth Brigade who led the way. " it goes on;


" No account of these operations fails to tell of the spectacular insertion by parachute of the 187th American Airborne regiment at Sukchon and Sunchon but a reader will search in vain for mention of how the Americans became disastrously unstuck and were rescued from disaster by the Australians, . Relying upon their own small arms and morters, 3 Battallions forward companies tore into a whole regiment of North Koreans and annihilated them while the US Army's elite troops stood and watched. "


The books' cover says ' the long road to Kapyong' with the battle of the apple orchard, battle of the broken ridge, battle at Chongju, battle at Pakchon , battle for Chipyong-ni among them. The 27 BCB had to be one of the best Commonwealth units , and 3 battalion, Australian, its best Battalion.


Last call of the bugle




In Pusan there is hallowed ground
A simple cross to mark each mound
They bought us there from whence we died
To lie together side by side


Our country's call, that bugle sound
We answered. We were honour bound.
They said the cause was just, you know.
But then, was this not always so?.


Strange country and a stranger war,
It made no odds - we knew the score.
We were blood brothers, truth to tell,
In valiant company when we fell.


Seek not our grave, and do not weep
We are not there. We do not sleep.
The life we gave was ours to give.
Remember this, and we still live .


For like the tireless wind that blows,
chilled by endless northern snows
Or warmed in harsher southern lands
Of spinifex and desert sands


Part of the sounds of morning's hush,
Kin to the swift demanding rush
Of noisy flocks in searching flight
As sunlight softens passing night.


We touch the fields of ripening grain
Red cattle grazing sun drenched plain.
We span the forest, farm , to reach
The towns and cities, oceans beach


Long gone that bugles strident blast
We kept the faith, we were the last.
Seek not our grave, weep not , or cry
We are not there, we did not die.




LEST WE FORGET, Bob

[bob10]

first line ends with the word GROW...





Sorry , Digger, I think if you read this, the word is blow, the explanation is in the text after the poem Bob


https://www.aulro.com/afvb/images/imported/2014/02/1008.jpg


In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
https://www.aulro.com/afvb/images/imported/2014/02/1009.jpg
Courtesy of Bee MacGuire (beemacguire@gmail.com)
Obtained From TheMcCrae Museum of The Guelph Museum

McCrae's "In Flanders Fields" remains to this day one of the most memorable war poems ever written. It is a lasting legacy of the terrible battle in the Ypres salient in the spring of 1915. Here is the story of the making of that poem:

Although he had been a doctor for years and had served in the South African War, it was impossible to get used to the suffering, the screams, and the blood here, and Major John McCrae had seen and heard enough in his dressing station to last him a lifetime.
As a surgeon attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade, Major McCrae, who had joined the McGill faculty in 1900 after graduating from the University of Toronto, had spent seventeen days treating injured men -- Canadians, British, Indians, French, and Germans -- in the Ypres salient.
It had been an ordeal that he had hardly thought possible. McCrae later wrote of it:
"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done."
One death particularly affected McCrae. A young friend and former student, Lieut. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, had been killed by a shell burst on 2 May 1915. Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetery outside McCrae's dressing station, and McCrae had performed the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain.
The next day, sitting on the back of an ambulance parked near the dressing station beside the Canal de l'Yser, just a few hundred yards north of Ypres, McCrae vented his anguish by composing a poem. The major was no stranger to writing, having authored several medical texts besides dabbling in poetry.
In the nearby cemetery, McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches in that part of Europe, and he spent twenty minutes of precious rest time scribbling fifteen lines of verse in a notebook.
A young soldier watched him write it. Cyril Allinson, a twenty-two year old sergeant-major, was delivering mail that day when he spotted McCrae. The major looked up as Allinson approached, then went on writing while the sergeant-major stood there quietly. "His face was very tired but calm as we wrote," Allinson recalled. "He looked around from time to time, his eyes straying to Helmer's grave."
When McCrae finished five minutes later, he took his mail from Allinson and, without saying a word, handed his pad to the young NCO. Allinson was moved by what he read:
"The poem was exactly an exact description of the scene in front of us both. He used the word blow in that line because the poppies actually were being blown that morning by a gentle east wind. It never occurred to me at that time that it would ever be published. It seemed to me just an exact description of the scene."
In fact, it was very nearly not published. Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but a fellow officer retrieved it and sent it to newspapers in England. The Spectator, in London, rejected it, but Punch published it on 8 December 1915.
Thanks to Mack Welford (welford@roanoke.edu) for reminding me of this great poem. Updated: 12 November 2008 Updated: 9 November 2009

[Bigbjorn]

Perhaps "The Ball at Kirriemuir" for those amongst us of Scots ancestry.

[mojo]

Unfortunately most of the good poems I know aren't really suitable for a family friendly forum ... ;)

[vnx205]

I don't consider it a great poem, but I remember the circumstances in which I heard it.

When I was teaching at Narrabri High School in the 1970s, the Australian poet Eric Rolls was invited to speak to some of the English classes.

The only one of his poems that I still remember was one that he used to illustrate the idea that not all poems need to be serious. The students enjoyed it!

I have forgotten the name of the poem.

"What will you have?" said the waiter,
reflectively picking his nose.
"Two boiled eggs, you bastard.
You can't put your fingers in those."

[bob10]

Harry 'breaker' Morant was a bit of a poet, and submitted poetry to the Bulletin. This is his last poem. A little known fact about Morant is, for a short period [ very short, she chucked him out after he got into trouble with the law] he was married to Daisy May O'Dwyer, at Charters Towers. Daisy May had a interesting life, some what controversial, and was actually the renown Daisy Bates. The Morant story is well documented, what may not be well known is that the Victorian Supreme Court held a mock appeal, using Military Law of the day, with two eminent Judges, and cleared Morant & Handcock. Anyway, the poem, Bob


BUTCHERED TO MAKE A DUTCHMAN'S HOLIDAY by Harry ("Breaker") Morant

In prison cell I sadly sit, A d__d crest-fallen chappie! And own to you I feel a bit- A little bit - unhappy!
It really ain't the place nor time To reel off rhyming diction - But yet we'll write a final rhyme Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!
No matter what "end" they decide - Quick-lime or "b'iling ile," sir? We'll do our best when crucified To finish off in style, sir!
But we bequeath a parting tip For sound advice of such men, Who come across in transport ship To polish off the Dutchmen!
If you encounter any Boers You really must not loot 'em! And if you wish to leave these shores, For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!!
And if you'd earn a D.S.O., Why every British sinner Should know the proper way to go Is: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!"
Let's toss a bumper down our throat, - Before we pass to Heaven, And toast: "The trim-set petticoat We leave behind in Devon."

[benji]

I'm not much of a poet I have to admit.

There's two that stick in my mind for different reasons.

One is:

Roses are red, violets are blue, this doesn't ryme... bacon.

And the other is The Man from Snowy River.

[bob10]

I'm not much of a poet I have to admit.

There's two that stick in my mind for different reasons.

One is:

Roses are red, violets are blue, this doesn't ryme... bacon.

And the other is The Man from Snowy River.


Thank you so very much for giving me an excuse to post this, once again, Bob


The Man From Snowy River - Banjo's Poem - YouTube (http://youtu.be/fs_-DKUimeo)

[camel_landy]

I always thought it was:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Some poems rhyme,
Others don't.

However, a little one I like is:

I eat my peas with honey,
I've done it all my life.
It makes the peas taste funny,
But it keeps them on my knife.

M

[Fatso]

Ausie Poem


**** it,s hot .