Oh, what a day!
dunkman
Posts: 19,646
The sun rose like bile,
and I instantly felt discordant with the day.
But after a drink and a while,
the sun glanced me a smile. Then out popped a ray.
This lone chink of hope was coming my way.
Oh, what a day!
and I instantly felt discordant with the day.
But after a drink and a while,
the sun glanced me a smile. Then out popped a ray.
This lone chink of hope was coming my way.
Oh, what a day!
oh scary... 40000 morbidly obese christians wearing fanny packs invading europe is probably the least scariest thing since I watched an edited version of The Care Bears movie in an extremely brightly lit cinema.
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Great line.
Thanks Fins...
I used it once in a poem I did in English class. My teacher was a guy called Tom Pow. He's a published poet and stuff and when he read my poem he very brilliantly scored through every other line except this one handed it back to me and said "that opening line deserves something far better than this..... and if you can't think of anything I might have to knick it"
and to this day I don't know if he did use it or not.
didn't Tom Pow write Daffodils or was that Rabbie Burns
YEAH I THOUGHT THAT WAS COOL, BUT I PARTICULARLY LIKED HOW IT CHANGED FOR THE BETTER...
But after a drink and a while,
the sun glanced me a smile
A DRINK AND A WHILE. GLAD YOU ADDED A WHILE.
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?
asyettheearlyrisingsunhasnotattaineditsnoon
wehaveshorttimetostay etc.
you have to say it really fast like HailMary
hailmarymotherofgod
or did you mean.....
I.......wandered.......lonely.......as......a
cloud.........
(which you have to say really slow
dunky - neither Pom Pom nor Robbie Burns wrote daffodils.......
but I liked your bile, and your poem
I know, I know...... it was Ted Hughes. it was an insiders joke to Fins, due to my absolute ignorance in another thread about who wrote what poems. The only one I knew was that Jim Morrison wrote one about his cock
and yet you err........Ted Hughes didn't write a daffodills poem.....silly
I think you should just give up
I know it wasn't Ted Hughes....maybe it was his missus though
love the story about bubba by the way..... don't it make you smile
daffodils....daffodils.............was it the guy from World War 1 then
language is great isn't it....any idea how much a words worth? two in the bush.... definite porno name that "Two in the Bush" .... shit I'm about as coherent as an infinitely drunk boxer with a lisp eating a bar of toffee.
it was Wordsworth ahhahh busted.....what's a word worth......how does a spear shake?- I wandered lonely as a cloud.....(I think.....Fins correct me if I'm wrong)......the guy from WW1 was probably Wilfred Owen......
Wilfred Owen is right....but there's another I remember reading as a youngster an I'm sure his first name was Edmund??? Edwin???
Fins....come on ya lazy bugger help us out
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
________
I'm trying a bit of the ole telepathy here, rummaging through the back of your head, and I think you're talking about Edward Thomas, who did write around the same time as Wilfred Owen. Here's a Thomas poem:
Adlestrop
Yes, I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop-only the name.
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still or lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him , mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
_____
Wilfred Owen is most famous for this poem, "Dulce et Decorum Est":
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 gas-shells dropping softly 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
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.
I go with the edict of "those who can, do...those who can't, teach"
my education is not the problem here...its my frickin memory :(
if they had taught me something interesting in class I might have listened...... you obviously listened ISN.... and you're clearly one thrust short of an orgasm
anyway...I learnded all my stuff from TV and and the papery thing with typing on it and pictures and stuff.....ahhhhhh newspapers thats it!!
Newspapers by Sylvia Plath..... I believe
sorry
I meant second not first...d'oh.... same difference though... people slaughtered, armies, soldiers, death, suicide pigeons, etc...
I meant this blokey:-
Edwin George Morgan was born 27 April 1920 in Glasgow's West End. Soon after his birth his parents decided to move to Rutherglen, where he spent his childhood and attended a local school. After completing Rutherglen school, he went to Glasgow High School, and began his studies at Glasgow University in 1937. He interrupted his studies in 1940 to join the Royal Army Medical Corps, then returned to university in 1946. Edwin Morgan graduated the following year with a First Class Honours Degree, and became lecturer at Glasgow University, turning down a scholarship to Oxford; he took an early retirement in 1980 and hence ended his career as university professor
at least I got the Edwin bit right...... :cool:
In my experience it's been "Those who can't teach, teach, then go home, smoke loads of dope and moan about all the paperwork they have to do"
Anyway, Edwin Morgan.
Here's one of his, called "Absence":
My shadow --
I woke to a wind swirling the curtains light and dark
and the birds twittering on the roofs, I lay cold
in the early light in my room high over London.
What fear was it that made the wind sound like a fire
so that I got up and looked out half-asleep
at the calm rows of street-lights fading far below?
Without fire
Only the wind blew.
But in the dream I woke from, you
came running through the traffic, tugging me, clinging
to my elbow, your eyes spoke
what I could not grasp --
Nothing, if you were here!
The wind of the early quiet
merges slowly now with a thousand rolling wheels.
The lights are out, the air is loud.
It is an ordinary January day.
My shadow, do you hear the streets?
Are you at my heels? Are you here?
And I throw back the sheets.
I will ignore that.......according to you.....I'm three sardines short of a tin.....a couple of thrusts nearer to an orgasm, and about one quotient short of genius......plus now I have to go read Fins poem by Edwin Collins
now that's poetry!!!!!