Poetry, anyone? > Likes and Comments

Ooo that could definitely work!! Thank you!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
The Female of the Species

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Tough weekend was it, Jim? I can sympathise there

The phrase "The female of the species must be deadlier than the male" came to mind and I decided to hunt down the full poem.

Apparently he wrote it in 1911

Well I like it ;-)

Oh be kind to your web-footed friend,
For the duck may be somebody's brother.
He lives in a pond or a swamp
Where the climate is always damp

Oh you may think that this is the end,
Well it is..

My dad used to sing this - Flanders and Swan?

Apparently not
According to wiki

The "web-footed friends" parody, was sung at the end of every episode of the popular 1960s TV series Sing Along with Mitch.[6] It was recorded by Mary Healy and Peter Lind Hayes[7] in 1954 and by Homer and Jethro in 1955 as "Crazy Mixed Up Song".[8] The parody lyrics are credited to Charles Randolph Grean and Joan Javits. It was also heard in the Tiny Toon Adventures episode "Hollywood Plucky", and an episode of Sesame Street; these parody lyrics themselves are well-known enough to have spawned many other parodies of their own.

Thanks Jim. Dad must have picked up his version in the late forties to be singing it in the car when we were kids. The other favourite was the 'Glorious Mud' song which I believe is F&S and known officially as 'The Hippo Song'.

My favourite poets by the way are Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. You may have guessed?

A bold hippopotamus was standing one day! Pure poetry :-)

I was introduced to Flanders & Swann by my aunt, who also first exposed me to the spoken word by playing me Stanley Holloway stuff on 78's. Actually I still have a lot of them now, and often do 'Albert & The Lion' (Holloway) and 2 F & S pieces at longer spoken word performances. The Horn Concerto has me in stitches, and if you ever have a spare moment on YouTube The Gasman Cometh - Lego version - is great

How could I have forgotten to include Stanley Hollloway? Just going to beat myself over the head with the stick with the 'orses 'ead 'andle before I go and find The Gasman Cometh.

I don't do poetry, it's just not my thing, really, but Scotland has a new Makar today and this one of hers which I read today I found very moving. Perhaps I may be converted.

Darling, by Jackie Kay

You might forget the exact sound of her voice
Or how her face looked when sleeping.
You might forget the sound of her quiet weeping
Curled into the shape of a half moon,

When smaller than her self, she seemed already to be leaving
Before she left, when the blossom was on the trees
And the sun was out, and all seemed good in the world.
I held her hand and sang a song from when I was a girl -

Heil Ya Ho Boys, Let her go Boys
And when I stopped singing she had slipped away,
Already a slip of a girl again, skipping off,
Her heart light, her face almost smiling.

And what I didn't know or couldn't see then
Was that she hadn't really gone.
The dead don't go till you do, loved ones.
The dead are still here holding our hands.

Oh, that's excellent. Mingulay boat song, too!

Excellent indeed!

I can recommend you to read russian classics. I'm fond of Esenin poety. Very deep and emotional

When I am dead my dearest
Sing no sad songs for me
Plant thou no roses at my feet
Nor stately cypress tree
Be as the grass above me
With rain and dewdrops wet
And if thou wilt remember
And if thou wilt, forget

Christina Rosetti (verse one)

I read this at my mother's funeral and at my father-in-law's. But I still love it.

It's a funeral classic, Jane. I think that's because it doesn't lay any guilt upon the survivors. I love it.

Written by my mate Tim Williams, who died in February.

They say it's Naked Gardening day
So throw off all your clothes
Go and plant some vegetables
But mind your bollocks on the rose!
So I took off vest and pants and socks
And laid them by the tree
I danced around the mulberry bush
landing gear swinging free.

But the Carmarthen Police arrived
Doing 'blues and twos' -
They went and they arrested me
For not wearing any clothes.
I said:"But officer, dont you know
It's Naked gardening Day?"
He said:"Don't talk such bollocks man
And put yer knob away."

So I'm off to spend the night inside
With just this little towel.
Will someone please go get my clothes?
I think I left them by the trowel.

Only just found this! It doesn't apply to ladies, of course - but it produced a snigger from this one!

You can see why I chose to edit some lines out when Tim's 8 year old daughter was sitting three feet away from me at the funeral!

I can indeed!

Love the Naked Gardening poem. Specially as my mother was actually an exponent of that fine art. If you don't count the Wellington boots....

On the subject of nakedness. With some gardening involved...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=huytU...

Lay your sleeping head my love,
Human on my faithless arm

Lullaby by WH Auden.

Read the rest it's amazing

I love Auden. :)

This may not meet the basic standards that qualify a writing as poetry; however I have a great excuse. I was just 19-years-old when I wrote the following in 1967.

We fight in a land that's filled with sorrow.
We bag our dead, then we march away.
We do not worry about tomorrow;
We just hope to make it through today.

Back at the basecamp, I'll fool with the guys,
But I never learn their names too well;
Because today, though we fight together,
By tomorrow, some of us will be in Hell.

I pick up a pen and I write a letter.
I write, "Dear Mom, I'm doing just fine.
So please don't worry. Things couldn't be better."
Then I grab my weapon to defend the line.

I wrote this one for my Daughter when she moved house - to a little place in Wales.

MOVING HOUSE

Our Bobbs is moving to a house
That sits among the hills
The childhood picture we all draw
With curtains of ‘R’ frills

She’ll turn this house into a home
A dog, maybe a cat
Blaenclydach is the place she’ll be
Now where the f##k is that?

My just-turned-seven granddaughter just phoned to read to me her current favourite poem, 'Bad Sir Brian Botany', which she could hardly read for laughing. It transported me back to the days when my children were young and loved the same work. As I roared out, 'Is anyone else for a wash?' they collapsed in gales of laughter and as soon as I finished there were cries of, 'Again!'
Happy days - and good to know that the sense of humour is being passed on.

Two lovely self-penned poems there. I enjoyed them both.

My kids can still recite Bad Sir Brian Botany - and they're in their 40s. We had the Armada Lion book of kids verse with this in. It also include 'What shall I call my dear little dormouse?' We eventually bought a second copy of that book because the first had been read to bits.

We had it in A A Milne's 'When we were very young', collection. Our daughter (not the mother of the granddaughter), also in her forties, phoned a few minutes ago. I mentioned the poem and off she went. 'Sir Brian had a battleaxe with great big knobs on. He went among the villagers and blipped them on the head...'
Lovely stuff.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
Free Halloween rhyme for your child or grandchild!
"The Land of Purple Pumpkins"
In the land of purple pumpkins,
Lives a witch named Eloise,
And three orange haired Hob Goblins,
Hiding high up in the trees.
The first one’s named Ga Gabby,
‘Cause he stutters when he talks,
The second’s named Ka Clumsy,
‘Cause he stumbles when he walks.
The third is known as Whadyasay,
He was born with just one ear.
When speaking, stand off to his left,
If you wish for him to hear.
In the cornfields you’ll find scarecrows,
Wearing polka-dotted vests,
While a team of yellow Leprechauns,
Greet all incoming guests.
There’s a friendly ghost named Casper,
Though his color’s neon green.
And a black cat painted silver,
Who adds mystery to this scene.
But by now I’m sure you’ve guessed,
If you’ve paid attention well,
That the wicked which named Eloise,
Has cast a magic spell.
For pumpkins should be orange,
Not the hair on goblins’ heads,
And Scarecrows don’t wear polka-dots,
All different shades of reds.
Those Leprechauns should all be green,
Casper a see through white.
And the cat that’s painted silver,
Should be black as the night.
Beware then as you enter here,
And hold each other’s hand,
For the wicked witch named Eloise,
Has cursed this wretched land.
If you are all quite frightened now,
By all that you have seen,
I guess it’s time I wished you all,
A Happy Halloween!
From Poetry in Motion- Halloween Issue
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Poetry-Motio...

I remember this poem from some years ago which, at the time, was believed to be the shortest poem in the world. It was about 'fleas' and simply read:

Adam
Had 'em

It still makes me smile...

Nah - I can, at least, equal the wordage. A poem by Spike Milligan, entitled "The Goldfish" - simply read "Oh wet pet"

I'm not big on poetry, but Robert Service's "Songs of a Sourdough" are brilliant. And of course, Kipling.

And at least it's seasonal (and apparently not by Ogden Nash)

The spring is sprung, the grass is riz.

I wonder where the boidie is.

They say the boidie’s on the wing.

But that’s absoid. The wing is on the bird.

Chris wrote: "I'm not big on poetry, but Robert Service's "Songs of a Sourdough" are brilliant. And of course, Kipling."

I enjoy a lot of Robert Service poems and also Robert Frost too.

Reflection
Where are they now? The people who once touched
Our lives but then disappeared from view
To enjoy endless time off in lieu,
Recompense for the numbered days spent clutched
To our bosoms, before love's stems were scutched,
Pounded to pieces by rough edges too
Diamond hard for years to wear them through
To soft toleration of being hutched
Together, sharing chores and life's little
Triumphs, as we have done for decades since.
It's not regret exactly but sometimes
Chance will start a chain of thought and it'll
Awaken dormant feelings and evince
Reflection that the bell tolls not, it chimes.

It starts with an idea, and becomes a title

A plot starts to materialize, this is vital

Characters formulate in one’s mind

Cruel, nasty, evil, magical, spirited, good, and kind

A world begins to come into view

Flower and fauna, landscapes, colours, and skies of blue

Infrastructure, cities, towns and settlements

Wars, castles, palaces, realms and battlements

The story takes pace, and scenarios begin

Vengeance, gold, jewels, kingdoms and sin

Love and romance, hate and betrayal, happiness and tears

A story that becomes a saga, can go on for years

Or a stand- alone novel, an epic tale

Fantasy, fiction, adventure, flowing from the Literary Well


by Leo.

Well, it's only taken me seven years to come across this thread!

I love great poetry so it's wonderful to come across a few gems here.

Thank you.

Do not talk to me - I will not hear you.
Do not bring me tea - I cannot taste it.
Do not bring me tablets. (Unless it is every packet in the house.)
Do not hug me:
for I am fragile and will shatter like cheap glass.

Listen to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QY3V0... It was my favourite poem as a child.

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw—
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN'T THERE !
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

I LOVE Macavity! Thats my all time favourite poem.

I like the Cats sung version of it :-)

I didn't know it was a poem first! I only know Lloyd-Webber's version

Ah, but you're young! 😉

. Last day to get this one for FREE. don't miss it! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D828T6R
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Flora-Fauna-...

Kath wrote: "Ah, but you're young! 😉"

Maybe so, but I'm catching up!

I hadn't been introduced to macavity. Love it though.

Here are some of the poems that I've wrote myself from my book "Life In My Ink"

1.
When I was a kid,
I didn’t know what I wanted.
And it was the same when I grew up,
I still didn’t know what I wanted,
but I knew
what I didn’t want.
That’s why I went to see the world.



2.
All the beauty
that people talk about to me
doesn’t make sense anymore
when I’m standing in front of this world,
because I do not know anymore
if my mind
or heart
speaks for me.



3.
Water your mind with new knowledge
and it will bloom in new colors.
Let yourself try to learn something new,
to absorb some new knowledge.
Maybe this way
you will find something that will chain you to it,
and all that you will want to do
will be to grow and reach
for more never-ending knowledge.
You will become yourself a person,
who will start to share
all the gathered knowledge with the world.
You will be the person,
who will help other persons to grow and improve.
You will be that arm of help,
which will be always stretched
for those who need it.
You will be that bloomed person,
who was watering his garden continuously
with new beautiful knowledge.


4.
I was born in the land of amber,
but I left it,
that I could see the world,
so in the end,
for me,
home is where I want to be,
where I feel good and happy.
And the only place like that,
that I would know now,
is your touched by sun,
amber eyes.
Your beautiful eyes are my home.
Especially when I see those happy looking eyes,
and inside of them,
I see myself.

5.
Learn to be still and calm
in this chaotic life.
Accept the changes.
Accept the decisions,
which life throws to you.
Calm your soul,
by telling her,
that this is the way,
that life was meant to flow.
With the chaos and calmness
in our souls.

Patti (baconater) wrote: "One of my favourites.


Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!..."

Weirdly, this one of those poems I know off by heart, even though much of it is not in any recognisable language.