Thread: Know any good poems?

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

Fleas.
Adam
Had 'em

How about...

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

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





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

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.

Originally Posted by Ausfree

How about...

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

How, indeed, Bob





Casabianca (aka The Boy Stood on the burning deck)

by

Felicia Hemans (1793 - 1835)

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".

Originally Posted by Ausfree

How about...

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

.......His pockets full of crackers
A spark flew up his trouser leg
And blew off both his








Kneecaps.

Mrs V's version.

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.

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!