They fuck you up your mum and dad (Phillip Larkin)

The Journey of the Magi
By T.S. Elliot

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Those were fun!

Jake Thackray was a Yorkshire poet, singer and songwriter.

Romance

When I first fell in love I thought
My whole existence would now be fraught
With ecstasy,
Felicity,
Blessed content.
It would be different.

I got ready to climb up the balcony of my beloved
with after-shaving lotion and a dab of talc
Behind my ear,
Couple o' pints of beer,
Clean underpants.
This was romance!

And she was waiting for me there,
With some egg on her chin.
I dreamed she'd have a rose in her hair,
And she'd be softly plucking at a mandolin.
To tell you the truth, there wasn't a rose
And as a matter of fact, she was plucking her nose.

******************************************
And the inimitable Dorothy Parker echoing some of the sentiments I've read on GN ! .

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled—
Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world,—
And I wish I’d never met him.

My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams,—
And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart,—
And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

Oh I studied that poem for English literature, at school.

Anniebach Bless your heart, you brought a tear to my eye.

I like this poem, Naming of Parts not just for its own sake, but because it perfectly describes the contrst between beauty and the mundane and how I was in Maths class.
An inner city school and a child with discalculia, longing for the countryside.

Today we have naming of parts.
Yesterday, we had daily cleaning.
And tomorrow morning, we shall have what to do after firing.
But to-day, today we have naming of parts.
Japonica glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel.
And this is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings.
And this is the piling swivel, which in your case you have not got.
The branches hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb.
And please do not let me see anyone using his finger.
You can do it quite easy if you have any strength in your thumb.
The blossoms are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt.
The purpose of this is to open the breech, as you see.
We can slide it rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring.
And rapidly backwards and forwards the early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.
© Henry Reed, 1960.

Roger McGough is my favourite

"The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living; which is Atlas."

Beautuful!

I love that!!!

I've got to add this- U. A Fanthorpe

ATLAS

There is a kind of love called maintenance,
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes, which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living; which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in the air,
As Atlas did the sky.

by U.A. Fanthorpe

Bend me over backwards on me hostess trolley!

I love the Victoria Wood song with the hugely funny line "Beat me on the bottom with the Woman's Weekly"
Sorry I know it's not a poem!

Oh dear! What can the matter be?

Eight o’clock at night on a Saturday,

Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby

Coming to town double quick.

They rendezvous in front of a pillar.

Tracey’s tall like Jonathan Miller.

Nicola’s more like Guy the Gorilla,

If Guy the Gorilla were thick.

Their hair’s been done. It’s very expensive.

Their use of mousse and gel is extensive.

As weapons, their heads would be classed as offensive

And put under some kind of a ban.

They’re covered in perfumes, but these are misnomers.

Nicola’s scent could send dogs into comas.

Tracey’s kills insects and dustbin aromas,

And also gets stains off the pan.


Chorus:

But it’s their night out.

It’s what it’s all about,

Looking for lads, looking for fun,

A burger and chips with a sesame bun.

They’re in the mood

For a fabulous interlude

Of living it up, painting the town,

Drinking Barcardi and keeping it down,

But it’s all alright.

It’s what they do of a Saturday night.


Oh dear! What can the matter be?

What can than terrible crunching and clatter be?

It’s the cowboy boots of Nicola Battersby

Leading the way into town.

They hit the pub, and Tracey’s demeanour

Reminds you of a loopy hyena.

They have sixteen gins a rum and Ribena,

And this is before they’ve sat down.

They dare a bloke from Surrey called Murray

To phone the police and order a curry.

He gets locked up. It’s a bit of a worry,

But they won’t have to see him again.

They’re dressed to kill and looking fantastic.

Tracey’s gone for rubber and plastic.

Nicola’s dress is a piece of elastic.

It’s under a heck of a strain.


Chorus:

But it’s their night out.

It’s what it’s all about,

Ordering drinks, ordering cabs,

Making rude gestures with doner kebabs.

They’re in the mood

For a fabulous interlude

Of weeing in parks, treading on plants,

Getting their dresses caught up in their pants,

And it’s all alright.

It’s what they do of a Saturday night


Oh dear! What can the matter be?

What can that terrible slurping and splatter be?

It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby

Snogging with Derek and Kurt.

They’re well stuck into heavyish petting.

It’s far too dark to see what you’re getting.

Tracey’s bra flies off, how upsetting,

And several people are hurt.

Oh dear, oh dear,

Oh dear, oh dear,

Oh dear! What can the matter be?

What can that motheaten pile of old tatters be?

It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby

Getting chucked off the last Ninety-Two

With miles to go and no chance of hitching,

And Nicola’s boots have bust at the stitching,

Tracey laughs and says, "What’s the point bitching?

I couldn’t give a bugger. Could you?"

© Victoria Wood

I love that rosecarmel. It makes me sad, but it's lovely.

Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

That's very sad Monica.

I love people
who have been
through adversity and heartache
and obstacles
as impossible
as the sun itself.
They usually make it out
with hearts as warm as gold.
Cores made of fire.
Lives soaked with intention.
Hope like another morning.
They know how to start again -
how to walk through walls
with palms wide open,
and how to begin
at the edge,
and end.
Those to me,
are the best people.

Edge of Wonder, Victoria Erickson

On the other hand to lighten the mood, this poem by Adrian Mitchell

Celia, Celia

When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on

Some years ago we had a GN member called Absentgrana.

She was a published poet, although I do not know what her name was. She published a poem on GN that obviously rose from a personal tragedy, but exactly described my sister, who died in a road accident.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Straight-backed and walking briskly,
Your dark curls bouncing in rhythm with the swirl of your skirt
As the heels of your best court shoes clicked along the pavement.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Your grey eyes sparkling brightly
And sweet face eager with the joy of anticipation
As rapid steps bore you on to your unwritten future.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Your skin smooth, no tell-tale lines,
Your waist trim and shoulders squared, pink-tipped nails shining
On the long slim fingers of your unblemished hands.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
Break into a girlish run
Until you were enveloped in an infinite embrace,
As if death itself could not divide the two of us.

I thought I saw you in a moment out of time,
My viewpoint strangely shortened
And perspective skewed. When my blurred vision cleared again
All was still, you were gone, lost to me in silence.

Cavewoman

Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death

Roger McGough

I'm a massive Ted Hughes fan but I have so many poems over the years that I've love but they are ones that fit my mood/emotion/feelings at the time.

One love that will always be with me was when I discovered the War Poets.

www.poetryarchive.org/poem/thought-fox Ted Hughes - my favourite one of his.

Yes! (*Monica*)

I've always loved the bit "Here is a child who clambers and scrambles. All by himself and gathering brambles"

Wanted to be that child when I was little.

I love ‘Jenny Kissed Me’ , confess I like to change Jenny to my husbands name and she to he

journey, not junior

For some reason I love railway poems, not just famous ones like Adlestrop (which I find wonderfully evocative of a railway junior of my childhood), but also this one by Robert Louis Stevenson, you can feel the speed of the train.

From a railway carriage

FASTER than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

Louis Macneice

The last four lines are poignant.