Poetry Please

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Trollius, I have no doubts as to your appreciation of literature. (How is Cressida BTW?)
Did you like my verse? :ROFLMAO:
Well done on reading Shakespeare. We all did, at school. Make a forum with Catherine and Heraclitus, and suck each other's dicks there. I have no interest in talking with you.
 

GodsDog

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Nice!
 

GodsDog

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Well done on reading Shakespeare. We all did, at school. Make a forum with Catherine and Heraclitus, and suck each other's dicks there. I have no interest in talking with you.
You should be a bit nicer to your aunty Catherine.
She fought your corner to allow your punk ass back in spite of your three permabans you ungrateful little shite! :ROFLMAO:
 

Anglophile

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Dublin

Grey brick upon brick,
Declamatory bronze
On sombre pedestals -
O'Connell, Grattan, Moore -
And the brewery tugs and the swans
On the balustraded stream
And the bare bones of a fanlight
Over a hungry door
And the air soft on the cheek
And porter running from the taps
With a head of yellow cream
And Nelson on his pillar
Watching his world collapse.

This never was my town,
I was not born or bred
Nor schooled here and she will not
Have me alive or dead
But yet she holds my mind
With her seedy elegance,
With her gentle veils of rain
And all her ghosts that walk
And all that hide behind
Her Georgian facades -
The catcalls and the pain,
The glamour of her squalor,
The bravado of her talk.

The lights jig in the river
With a concertina movement
And the sun comes up in the morning
Like barley-sugar on the water
And the mist on the Wicklow hills
Is close, as close
As the peasantry were to the landlord,
As the Irish to the Anglo-Irish,
As the killer is close one moment
To the man he kills,
Or as the moment itself
Is close to the next moment.

She is not an Irish town
And she is not English,
Historic with guns and vermin
And the cold renown
Of a fragment of Church latin,
Of an oratorical phrase.
But oh the days are soft,
Soft enough to forget
The lesson better learnt,
The bullet on the wet
Streets, the crooked deal,
The steel behind the laugh,
The Four Courts burnt.

Fort of the Dane,
Garrison of the Saxon,
Augustan capital
Of a Gaelic nation,
Appropriating all
The alien brought,
You give me time for thought
And by a juggler's trick
You poise the toppling hour -
O greyness run to flower,
Grey stone, grey water,
And brick upon grey brick.

– Louis MacNeice.
 

Sham Fox

The Gulag Party
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Dublin

Grey brick upon brick,
Declamatory bronze
On sombre pedestals -
O'Connell, Grattan, Moore -
And the brewery tugs and the swans
On the balustraded stream
And the bare bones of a fanlight
Over a hungry door
And the air soft on the cheek
And porter running from the taps
With a head of yellow cream
And Nelson on his pillar
Watching his world collapse.

This never was my town,
I was not born or bred
Nor schooled here and she will not
Have me alive or dead
But yet she holds my mind
With her seedy elegance,
With her gentle veils of rain
And all her ghosts that walk
And all that hide behind
Her Georgian facades -
The catcalls and the pain,
The glamour of her squalor,
The bravado of her talk.

The lights jig in the river
With a concertina movement
And the sun comes up in the morning
Like barley-sugar on the water
And the mist on the Wicklow hills
Is close, as close
As the peasantry were to the landlord,
As the Irish to the Anglo-Irish,
As the killer is close one moment
To the man he kills,
Or as the moment itself
Is close to the next moment.

She is not an Irish town
And she is not English,
Historic with guns and vermin
And the cold renown
Of a fragment of Church latin,
Of an oratorical phrase.
But oh the days are soft,
Soft enough to forget
The lesson better learnt,
The bullet on the wet
Streets, the crooked deal,
The steel behind the laugh,
The Four Courts burnt.

Fort of the Dane,
Garrison of the Saxon,
Augustan capital
Of a Gaelic nation,
Appropriating all
The alien brought,
You give me time for thought
And by a juggler's trick
You poise the toppling hour -
O greyness run to flower,
Grey stone, grey water,
And brick upon grey brick.

– Louis MacNeice.
I knew this lad here. He recited this to me when he was off the drink. I accidently came across this a few weeks ago on youtube. Was gutted to hear that Mick died a few years back. He was an incredible guy. You will be doing well to hear a better version of this. Forgive him for missing a verse too, he was drinking at the time.

 
Joined
May 11, 2019
Messages
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Likes
29
Dublin

Grey brick upon brick,
Declamatory bronze
On sombre pedestals -
O'Connell, Grattan, Moore -
And the brewery tugs and the swans
On the balustraded stream
And the bare bones of a fanlight
Over a hungry door
And the air soft on the cheek
And porter running from the taps
With a head of yellow cream
And Nelson on his pillar
Watching his world collapse.

This never was my town,
I was not born or bred
Nor schooled here and she will not
Have me alive or dead
But yet she holds my mind
With her seedy elegance,
With her gentle veils of rain
And all her ghosts that walk
And all that hide behind
Her Georgian facades -
The catcalls and the pain,
The glamour of her squalor,
The bravado of her talk.

The lights jig in the river
With a concertina movement
And the sun comes up in the morning
Like barley-sugar on the water
And the mist on the Wicklow hills
Is close, as close
As the peasantry were to the landlord,
As the Irish to the Anglo-Irish,
As the killer is close one moment
To the man he kills,
Or as the moment itself
Is close to the next moment.

She is not an Irish town
And she is not English,
Historic with guns and vermin
And the cold renown
Of a fragment of Church latin,
Of an oratorical phrase.
But oh the days are soft,
Soft enough to forget
The lesson better learnt,
The bullet on the wet
Streets, the crooked deal,
The steel behind the laugh,
The Four Courts burnt.

Fort of the Dane,
Garrison of the Saxon,
Augustan capital
Of a Gaelic nation,
Appropriating all
The alien brought,
You give me time for thought
And by a juggler's trick
You poise the toppling hour -
O greyness run to flower,
Grey stone, grey water,
And brick upon grey brick.

– Louis MacNeice.
Luke Kelly recites the first verse of that poem in this clip.
 
Joined
May 1, 2019
Messages
330
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127
Location
Hildesheim
You should be a bit nicer to your aunty Catherine.
She fought your corner to allow your punk ass back in spite of your three permabans you ungrateful little shite! :ROFLMAO:
She just brought me back to be rude to me. A girl's depravity is beyond my comprehension. She is the rudest little skank I have ever had the misfortune of having to talk to.
 

Colonel Zachariah

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The Legend of Stumpie's Brae


Heard ye nae tell o' Stumpies Brae?
Sit doon, sit doon, young freen,
I'll mak yer flesh tae creep the day,
An' yer hair tae stan' on enn.


Young man it's hard to strive wi' sin,
An' the hardest strife o' a'
Is where the greed o' gain creeps in,
An' drives God's grace awa'.


Oh, it's quick tae do, but it's lang tae rue,
When the punishment comes at last.
And we would give the world tae undo,
The deed that's done an' past.


Over yon strip of meadow land,
An' o'er the burnie bright,
Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gables white?


I mind it weel in my younger days,
The story yet was rife:
There dwelt within that lonely place,
A farmer an' his wife.


They sat the-gither all alone,
Ane blessed Autumn night.
When the trees without, and hedge,
and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.


The boys an' girls were gone doon all
A wee till the blacksmith's wake;
There pass'd ane onby the window small,
An' guv the door a shake.


The man he up an' open'd the door -
When he had spoken a bit.
A pedlar man stepped into the floor,
Doon he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it.


"Gude save us aa," says the wife,
wi' a smile,
"But yours is a thrivin' trade."
"Aye, aye, I've wandered mony a mile,
An' plenty have I made."


The man sat on by the dull fire flame,
When the pedlar went to rest;
Close till his ear the Devil came,
An' slipp'd intil his breast.


He look'd at his wife by the dim fire light,
And she was as bad as he -
"Could we no murder thon man the night?"
"Aye, could we, ready," quo' she.


He took the pickaxe without a word,
Whence it stood ahint the door;
As he pass'd in, the sleeper stirr'd,
That never waken'd more.


"He's deid!" says the auld man, comin' back -
"What o' the corp, my dear?"
"We'll bury him snug in his ain bit pack,
Niver ye mind for the loss of the sack,
I've ta'en oot a' the gear."


"The pack's owre short by twa guid span."
"What'll we do?" quo' he.
"Och, you're a doited, unthoughtfu' man;
We'll cut him aff at the knee."


They shortened the corp an' they pack'd
him tight,
Wi' his legs in a pickle hay;
Over the burn in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.


They shovell'd a hole right speedily,
They laid him on his back -
"A right pair are ye," quo' the PEDLAR,
quo' he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.


"Ye think ye've laid me snugly here,
An' none shall know my station.
But I'll haunt ye far, an' I'll haunt ye near,
Father an' son, wi' terror an' fear
Til the nineteenth generation."


The twa were sittin' the verra next night,
When the dog began to cower.
And they knew by the pale blue fire light,
That the Evil One had power.


It had stricken nine, jist nine o' the clock,
The hour when the man lay dead;
There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.


The old man's head swam round an' round,
The woman's blood 'gan freeze,
For it was not a natural sound,
But like some ane stumpin' o'er the ground
An the banes o' his twa bare knees.


And through the door, like a sough of air,
And stump, stump, round the twa.
Wi' his bloody head, and his knee banes bare
They'd maist ha'e died of awe!


The wife's black locks e'er morn grew white,
They say, as the mountain snaws,
The man was as straight as a staff that night,
But he stooped when the morning rose.


Still, year an' day, as the clock struck nine,
The hour when they did the sin,
The wee bit dog began to whine,
An' the gaist came clatterin' in.


Ae night there was a fearfu' flood -
Three days the skies had pour'd;
And white wi' foam, an' black wi' mud
The burn in fury roar'd.


Quo' she, "Gude man, ye need na' turn,
Sae pale in the dim fire light.
The Stumpie canna cross the burn,
He'll no' be here the night.


For it's o'er the bank, an' it's o'er the linn,
And it's up to the meadow ridge -"
"Aye," quo' the Stumpie, hirplin' in.
And he gie'd the wife a slap on the chin,
"But I cam' roun' by the bridge."


And stump, stump, stump to his plays again,
And o'er the stools and chairs;
Ye'd surely hae thought ten women an' men,
Were dancing there in pairs.


They sold their gear, and o'er the sea,
To a foreign land they went,
O'er the sea - but wha can flee,
His appointed punishment?


The ship swam o'er the water clear,
Wi' the help o' the eastern breeze,
But the verra first sound in guilty fear,
O'er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on
their ear,
Was the tappin' o' them twa knees.


In the woods of wild America,
Their weary feet they set;
But the Stumpie was there the first, they say,
And he haunted them on to their dying day,
And he follows their children yet.


I haud ye, niver the voice of blood
Call'd from the earth in vain;
And never has crime won worldly good,
But it brought its after-pain.


This is the story of Stumpie's Brae,
An' the murderers' fearfu' fate.
Young man, yer face is turned that way,
Ye'll be gangin' the night that gate.


Ye'll ken it weel, through the few fir trees,
The house where they wont to dwell,
Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees,
Stumpin' aboot on the banes o' his knees
It'll jist be Stumpie himsel'.

By Mrs Cecil Frances Alexander

 

Tadhg Ó Raghallaigh

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She just brought me back to be rude to me. A girl's depravity is beyond my comprehension. She is the rudest little skank I have ever had the misfortune of having to talk to.
Dude, Swords has had the patience of Job when dealing with you. Throttle back or Rick and Hans will tell you to piss up a rope permanently.
 

johnhan279

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Ireland
The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley...
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp...
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people hardly marching... on the hike...
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.
Seamus Heaney
 
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