h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

And a Happy New Year to you, WFAT!

The first one was one of my favourites - The Darkling Thrush, by Thomas Hardy. The Second was November 1806 by William Wordsworth. I believe the Foe was France, who defeated our allies the Prussians that year.

And Now For Something Completely Different:

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?

All correct, Jabs. The Darkling Thrush is one of my favourites, too.

Your last one was A Silly Poem by the well known typing error, Spike Milligna.

So what's this from and who's it by?

Crown the hair, and come away!
Hear the calling of the moon,
And the whispering scents that stray
About the idle warm lagoon.
Hasten, hand in human hand,
Down the dark, the flowered way,
Along the whiteness of the sand,
And in the water's soft caress,
Wash the mind of foolishness,
Mamua, until the day.
Spend the glittering moonlight there
Pursuing down the soundless deep
Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair,
Or floating lazy, half-asleep.
Dive and double and follow after,
Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,
With lips that fade, and human laughter
And faces individual,
Well this side of Paradise! . . .
There's little comfort in the wise.

the german guns is not 'made up' it has been broadcast to a large audience on the television on several ocations,

think in the legacy of spike milligan if you will,
the time is right, but not the news, crawl on your belly, to follow the clues

This post has been removed.

i have no idea about poetry at all

just saw the poem being performed by the (suposed) author on a tv program and thought it would be a laugh as a guess the poet post

Sounds a bit Blackadderish to me.

This post has been removed.

Is someone having a go at this thread?

My last attempt:



When I was One,
I had just begun.

It's getting a bit rum on here. As it happens, I did see #527 before it disappeared, Jabs - and it was A A Milne's "Now We Are Six".

I'll post another after I listened to The Archers.

Okay, how about this one?

Never am I so alone
As when I walk among the crowd —
Blurred masks of stern or grinning stone,
Unmeaning eyes and voices loud.

Gaze dares not encounter gaze,…
Humbled, I turn my head aside;
When suddenly there is a face…
Pale, subdued and grievous-eyed.

Ah, I know that visage meek,
Those trembling lips, the eyes that shine
But turn from that which they would seek
With an air piteous, divine!

There is not a line or scar,
Seal of a sorrow or disgrace,
But I know like sigils are
Burned in my heart and on my face.

Speak! O speak! Thou art the one!
But thou hast passed with sad head bowed;
And never am I so alone
As when I walk among the crowd.

W4

go on!!

'ere, who are you calling a goon?

Was it Bald Rick? I vaguely remember seeing that, but failed to file it under Poetry.

yes baldrick in blackadder goes forth

all done in baldricks inimitable style

i'll let you all get back to the serious stuff

Taff - I hope you got my apology about your bona fide quotation before the posting was removed.

WFAT - you've defeated me this time - unless you meant Elvis Presley in an offtake on You Tube singing I'm With a Crowd But So Alone, which looks a bit doubtful to me.

So I can't give you another one to ponder - as the winner, it's your prerogatave x prerogitive x turn.

Jabs

Not sure why you couldn't find that one, Jabs. Here's something from the same author which should be easier to find - you may even know it.


It is midday; the deep trench glares….
A buzz and blaze of flies….
The hot wind puffs the giddy airs….
The great sun rakes the skies.

No sound in all the stagnant trench
Where forty standing men
Endure the sweat and grit and stench,
Like cattle in a pen.

Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs
Or twangs the whining wire,
Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs
As in hell's frying fire.

From out a high, cool cloud descends
An aeroplane's far moan,
The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends….
The black speck travels on.

And sweating, dazed, isolate
In the hot trench beneath,
We bide the next shrewd move of fate
Be it of life or death.

Well, WFAT, your first one was The Stranger, by Robert Nichols. I've discovered it at last, thanks to your clue. There are very few references to it that I can find though, (one actually !).

I'll get back to you on Nichols' second one if nobody beats me to it (you never know).

Jabs

Your second one was Battle by Robert Nichols, a minor first world war poet. Some of the imagery is a bit easy and trite for me; the rhyming detracts from the poem too rather than adding to it, (IMO of course).

I can only give you the title of the next poem - 'Censorship', because of our censorship. If you can find it, you'll enjoy it, but it might not be easy with only one word to go on.

Poet please. If you can't find it I'll supply the reference. It certainly underlines the censorship we're under, right here, as if we were children - which of course we've recently experienced. Good luck,

Jabs

I'm inclined to agree with you, Jabs, re the shortcomings of Nichols' poetry, but I thought it might be of some interest.

Censorship right here? I assume some posts have been removed for breach of copyright. That's one reason I tend to quote antique poems. It all seems rather arbitrary, though.

Are you referring to the piece by Ellen Hopkins, used to headline 'Banned Books Week'? It ends with the lines

Ideas are incombustible.
And therein lies your real fear.

Quite thought provoking. Surely the real danger of ideas is that they are combustible?

No, actually, it was Censorship by Peter Reading. I couldn't possibly reproduce its language here. But neither can I give you a reference, because I've looked again extensively and can't find it!

I did locate it through Google the first time - honest! So I'll start again:

Part of one of the most celebrated and deeply-felt love sequences in our language - and you might know that the title of the sequence is a lie. If you don't I'll explain.

Title of sequence and poet please. The title of the poems are their first lines.

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
'I love her for her smile---her look---her way
Of speaking gently,---for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'---
For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may
Be changed,

I think that's from "Sonnets from the Portuguese" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, written to express her love for Robert and with no Portuguese connection whatsoever. But do tell all, Jabs.