Great Poetry

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

THE BALLAD OF WILLIAM BLOAT  (Raymond Calvert)

In a rude abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man called William Bloat;
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He slit her bloody throat.

With a razor's gash he settled her hash
Oh, never was crime so quick
But the steady drip on the pillowslip
Of her life's blood made him sick.
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.

Still, he was glad he had done what he had
As she lay there stiff and still;
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Filled his soul with an awful chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun,
He decided himself to kill.

He took the sheet from the wife’s cold feet
And he twisted it into a rope.
Then he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
‘Twas an easy end (let’s hope).
In the face of death with his dying breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.

But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell but his wife got well
And she’s still alive and sinning.
For the razor blade was British made
But the rope was Irish linen.

*****

Boru

[fredd bear]

THE BALLAD OF WILLIAM BLOAT  (Raymond Calvert)

In a rude abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man called William Bloat;
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He slit her bloody throat.

With a razor's gash he settled her hash
Oh, never was crime so quick
But the steady drip on the pillowslip
Of her life's blood made him sick.
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.



Still, he was glad he had done what he had
As she lay there stiff and still;
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Filled his soul with an awful chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun,
He decided himself to kill.

He took the sheet from the wife’s cold feet
And he twisted it into a rope.
Then he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
‘Twas an easy end (let’s hope).
In the face of death with his dying breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.

But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell but his wife got well
And she’s still alive and sinning.
For the razor blade was British made
But the rope was Irish linen.

*****

Boru

 

There was a faith healer of Beale

 Who said "although pain isn't real,

When I sit on a pin

And it punctures my skin,

I dislike what I fancy I feel"


@Boru: Would you like to have a go at explaining "The Irish Bull"?

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

If I told you that, you'd be the deadest man who ever lived.

Boru

[fredd bear]

If I told you that, you'd be the deadest man who ever lived.

Boru

Yeah.The Irish Bull is always pregnant.

---Well, now sir. No, you can't actually get there from here.


Brendan Behan's reported last words have the flavour. To the nursing nun:  " Bless you sister and may all your sons be bishops"


If you're interested, you can see just about every positive Irish stereotype invented by the Americans in one place.  Take a  look at the 1953 John Ford film "The Quiet Man". Male leads John Wayne, Ward Bond , Victor McLaglen, and Barry Fitzgerald. The film is worth watching (repeatedly) to see an actual gorgeous colleen*, Maureen O'Hara. She plays your stereotypical fiery redhead who is a match for John Wayne's legendary masculinity.

*born in Ranelagh, county Dublin.

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

If I told you that, you'd be the deadest man who ever lived.

Boru

Yeah.The Irish Bull is always pregnant.

---Well, now sir. No, you can't actually get there from here.


Brendan Behan's reported last words have the flavour. To the nursing nun:  " Bless you sister and may all your sons be bishops"


If you're interested, you can see just about every positive Irish stereotype invented by the Americans in one place.  Take a  look at the 1953 John Ford film "The Quiet Man". Male leads John Wayne, Ward Bond , Victor McLaglen, and Barry Fitzgerald. The film is worth watching (repeatedly) to see  an actual gorgeous colleen*, Maureen O'Hara. She plays your stereotypical fiery redhead who is a match for John Wayne's legendary masculinity.

*born in Ranelagh, county Dublin.

On the short list of my all-time favourite films, John Wayne notwithstanding (horrible actor).

I once lobbied to have the expression, 'The best thing since sliced bread' replaced by 'The best thing since Maureen O'Hara's tits'.  Went nowhere.

Boru

[Brian37]

Gawdzilla Saved Me,  By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @brianrrs37 on twitter).
 
Florence was 
Barreling down
On the east coast
I had to get out of town.
 
I could not decide
How to escape
North or south
Or east to evade
 
I delayed and delayed
Till the last minute
Then finally left
In a panic
 
Rushed to remove
Things from my yard
Put my cat in his crate
Started my car
 
Got stuck in traffic
On the way there
The bullseye closing in
In my despair 
 
But I made
It to my hotel
Hundreds of miles inland
Avoided the coastal hell
 
Relief you'd think
Was on my menu
But the hurricane destroyed
Paths to return to
 
Day after day
I watched the news
Wondering how
I'd make it through
 
How to get  back
I had no Waze
Just a cheap burner phone
No way to get through the maze
 
Minute by minute
Road reports
Would have the them open one second
The next second closed
 
I was desperate
To get back home
Not knowing which roads
Would be open
 
Highway 40 
Became a river
My panic set in
Gawdzilla delivered 
 
I suffer from
Anxiety and depression
My hesitation
Made return the question
 
I did not want
To make the attempt
To return
Only to get stuck
 
My online friend
Offered to
Sit by the phone
Till I got through
 
Just in case
A road got blocked
On my way back
I could call
 
Call him up
And adjust my barrings 
To get home
Without worrying
 
No it was not
Katrina or a Tsunami
My house fared fine
I was lucky
 
But mentally
I can say
Just being there
I found my way
 
Gawdzilla is
His nickname
Glad to have
This online friend
 
To understand
Those who have anxiety
Can magnify
Any event
 
To the point
Panic sets in
He kept me calm
On my return.

[Mr.Obvious]

Bilateral Breathing
 
These waters we treaded were cold but calm,
without waves nor currently a current;
no single argument and never qualm.
I believed to be swimming ‘till we weren’t.
 
Now come hither; look at this wet-haired fool
whom, whilst performing the butterfly proud,
caused the perfect storm in his local pool
when the wings of moths summoned a great cloud.
 
The thunderous typhoon reigned supreme,
rained verdict; liquid in liquid did pour,
leaving two drifters at sea and no team
to never swim monotome laps no more.
 
This sinking feeling it is familiar.
Yet I know I shall not sink all too deep,
for the depth which I hold is naught on par
to the pool of tears I’m left to weep.
 
She left me naked, but my swim-shorts:
Unable to leave the pool due to shame.
So I will remember the suit she sports
and continue my strokes, if all the same.

[Macoleco]

My favorite poet is Dante Alighieri. Obviously, the Comedy is my favorite poem

[Brian37]

"Feuernacht" By Brian37, (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @brianrrs37 on twitter)
 
He called it unfair
Accused us of cheating
In the Berlin Olympics
When Owens was winning
 
You'd think we'd grown
Since those vile events
Of church bombings
In the days of segregation
 
But the night of fire
Is like broken glass
Churches burned down
Just like in the past
 
In 10 short days
Churches go up in a blaze
I wonder what year
I live in today
 
The tone is set
At the top
He is responsible
For the words they follow
 
Ann Frank and MLK
Words are of courage
To all of humanity
Will not be discouraged
 
Broken glass
Churches on fire
Shooting up Mosques 
Are inhumane and vile
 
And those who 
Try to enter here
Are not all criminals
We should fear
 
It is all the same
Throughout history
Politicians divide
For power to keep
 
What does not change
Is the one home all have
We are all the same species
Hate is not the path
(end)

Admittedly I am loosely translating the German history "Night of Broken Glass" to the recent church fires in the South in the past 10 days. "Feuer" according to my google search is translated to "fire". So my title means "Night of fire".




 

[Succubus]

Sorry if it's been posted before but a quick search didn't find it. But here it is again.

---

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

---

I've listened to all (?) the recitations but not even that most beautiful of all voices (Richard Burton) works.



Rage, rage against the dying of the light.