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Thread: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

  1. #1051
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Quote Originally Posted by Donal Og View Post
    You could afford LPs in 1964? I used to wait until cheapo compilation LPs came out on Marble Arch records. 12/6 they cost! Thats about 60 cents. We were poor then...but by God we were miserable
    So God wasn't on your side.
    "Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, misdiagnosing it, and then misapplying the wrong remedies.”

  2. #1052
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    No. I was in the poverty trap but I Shall Be Released.

  3. #1053
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Quote Originally Posted by Donal Og View Post
    No. I was in the poverty trap but I Shall Be Released.






    ...
    Last edited by riposte; 16-10-2016 at 06:49 PM.
    "Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, misdiagnosing it, and then misapplying the wrong remedies.”

  4. #1054
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    I came across this, pinned to the door against which Jonathan Corrie died last year, within spitting distance of the Dail's front gates, written by one of his friends.

    My World

    My bag is my home
    My voice is my phone
    My fridge is the cold
    My food is full of mould.

    My rain is my bath
    My pet is a rat
    My friends are all gone
    My enemies live on.

    My job is my cup
    My government's corrupt
    My cry is thunder
    My life torn asunder.


    By Dotty Lanigan.
    “ We cannot withdraw our cards from the game. Were we as silent and mute as stones, our very passivity would be an act. ”
    — Jean-Paul Sartre

  5. #1055
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Can They Handle The Truth?

    Consider the case of the poet
    The fact that he's famous makes no difference.
    He's concerned to discover a means
    by which complex truths are to be conveyed.
    The omission of certain types of information
    constitutes a form of lying.
    His publishers may well react
    with a naked display of power.
    To them the English language
    comes a poor second.
    The nuance at the nub of every response
    is embedded with a hidden threat.
    You just can't jump up and down
    and speak any time you like.
    Such are all shortcomings
    of a profession which presumes to judge you.
    Of course there are an infinite number
    of more subtle versions.
    Journalism is an exercise in creating fiction
    based more or less on facts.

    © Michael O'Flanagan 2001



    .
    Last edited by riposte; 03-12-2016 at 02:57 PM.
    "Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, misdiagnosing it, and then misapplying the wrong remedies.”

  6. #1056
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    I was watching the movie "Sing Street" today and one of the characters in it says "There is nothing worse than bad music ...."

    I was wondering why this line stuck in my mind until I realised .. it's because it's simply not true.
    Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

  7. #1057
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Quote Originally Posted by Sam Lord View Post
    I was watching the movie "Sing Street" today and one of the characters in it says "There is nothing worse than bad music ...."

    I was wondering why this line stuck in my mind until I realised .. it's because it's simply not true.
    Yeah.... truth is like poetry...... and people hate poetry.
    "Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, misdiagnosing it, and then misapplying the wrong remedies.”

  8. #1058
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Quote Originally Posted by riposte View Post
    Yeah.... truth is like poetry...... and people hate poetry.
    Ripi tit tip toes, Do i hear my riposte?

    Ripi tit, slippy tit, ripi tit,tippy tip toes,

    Enter riposte.....
    Happiness is an inside job.

  9. #1059
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others




    Quote Originally Posted by C. Flower View Post
    The Companion (Yevtushenko)

    She was sitting on the rough embankment
    her cape too big for her tied on slapdash
    over an odd little hat with a bobble on it,
    her eyes brimming with tears of hopelessness,
    An occasional butterfly floated down
    fluttering warm wings onto the rails.
    The clinkers underfoot were deep lilac.
    We got cut off from our grandmothers
    while the Germans were dive-bombing the train.
    Katya was her name. She was nine.
    I'd no idea what I could do about her,
    but doubt quickly dissolved to certainty;
    I'd have to take this thing under my wing'
    -girls were in some sense of the word human,
    a human being couldn't just be left.
    The droning in the air and the explosions
    receded farther into the distance,
    I touched the little girl on her elbow.
    "Come on. Do you hear? What are you waiting for?"
    The world was big and we were not big,
    and it was tough for us to walk across it.
    She had galoshes on and felt boots,
    I had a pair of second-hand boots.
    We forded streams and tramped across the forest;
    each of my feet at every step it took
    taking a smaller step inside the boot.
    The child was feeble, I was certain of it.
    "Boo hoo" she'd say. "I'm tired" she'd say.
    She'd tire in no time, I was certain of it.
    But as things turned out it was me that was tired.
    I growled I wasn't going any further
    and sat down suddenly beside the fence,
    "What's the matter with you" she said.
    "Don't be stupid. Put grass in your boots.
    Do you want to eat something? Why won't you talk?
    Hold this tin: this is crab.
    We'll have refreshments. You small boys,
    you're always pretending to be brave."
    Then I went out across the prickly stubble
    marching beside her in a few minutes.
    Masculine pride was muttering in my mind;
    I scraped together strength and I held out
    for fear of what she'd say. I even whistled.
    Grass was sticking out from my tattered boots.
    So on and on
    We walked without thinking of rest
    passing craters, passing fire,
    under the rocketing sky of '41
    tottering crazy on its smoking columns.
    “ We cannot withdraw our cards from the game. Were we as silent and mute as stones, our very passivity would be an act. ”
    — Jean-Paul Sartre

  10. #1060
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Peach Time


    I watch a first, solitary, peach, growing on my old pot-grown peach tree.
    A tiny raspberry-milk-shake-coloured flower had formed:
    Heartwarming little polyp of pink.

    A miraculous conception happens.
    Slowly, a fruit grows and grows. A good size,
    Pale and round as a moon. Quiver of proprietorial pride!
    I watch and wait for it to ripen yellow-gold and rose.
    Days pass.
    Stubbornly, the peach stays white.
    Then one day, it falls to the ground.

    I pick it up: battered, soft, ripe and luscious.
    A White Peach.

    Oh....!

    How many white peaches are missed in life, not quite fitting the bill - ripening, falling, bruising, rotting, because of, not quite, meeting pre-conceptions ?

    I take a knife, slice off the bruise, and eat the sweet juicedripping remains
    Of the luscious White Peach.




    Last edited by C. Flower; 02-04-2017 at 01:19 PM.
    “ We cannot withdraw our cards from the game. Were we as silent and mute as stones, our very passivity would be an act. ”
    — Jean-Paul Sartre

  11. #1061
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Like this young Dublin poet.

    “ We cannot withdraw our cards from the game. Were we as silent and mute as stones, our very passivity would be an act. ”
    — Jean-Paul Sartre

  12. #1062
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others


  13. #1063
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Give me a misty day, pearly gray, silver, silky faced, wide-awake crescent-shaped smile

  14. #1064
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    My Grandmother’s Grave by Dunya Mikhail

    My Grandmother’s Grave


    When my grandmother died
    I thought, “She can’t die again.”
    Everything in her life
    happened once and forever:
    her bed on our roof,
    the battle of good and evil in her tales,
    her black clothes,
    her mourning for her daughter who
    “was killed by headaches,”
    the rosary beads and her murmur,
    “Forgive us our sins,”
    her empty vase from the Ottoman time,
    her braid, each hair a history —


    First were the Sumerians,
    their dreams inscribed in clay tablets.
    They drew palms, so dates ripen before their sorrows.
    They drew an eye to chase evil
    away from their city.
    They drew circles and prayed for them:
    a drop of water
    a sun
    a moon
    a wheel spinning faster than Earth.
    They begged: “Oh gods, don’t die and leave us alone.”


    Over the Tower of Babel,
    light is exile,
    blurred,
    its codes crumbs of songs
    leftover for the birds.


    More naked emperors
    passed by the Tigris
    and more ships . . .
    The river full
    of crowns
    helmets
    books
    dead fish,
    and on the Euphrates, corpse-lilies floating.


    Every minute a new hole in the body of the ship.


    The clouds descended on us
    war by war,
    picked up our years,
    our hanging gardens,
    and flew away like storks.


    We said there isn’t any worse to come.


    Then the barbarians came
    to the mother of two springs.
    They broke my grandmother’s grave: my clay tablet.
    They smashed the winged bulls whose eyes
    were sunflowers
    widely open
    watching the fragments of our first dreams
    for a lifetime.


    My hand on the map
    as if on an old scar.

    http://www.theartdivas.com/2014/12/m...a-mikhail.html
    “ We cannot withdraw our cards from the game. Were we as silent and mute as stones, our very passivity would be an act. ”
    — Jean-Paul Sartre

  15. #1065
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    1,655

    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Sweet

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