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

[Whitman wrote a lot of poetry, Jab. Some of his poems will be more appelaing than others. He has a sort of ebullience and enthusiasm that warms the cockles of my heart.]

Hmm, this is an interesting thread, but a mite too obscure for me, I think. I thought that last one was a bit Wendy Copeish, but the spelling betrays it as American - and Google tells me it's by Billy Collins, of whom, I'm ashamed to say, I've never heard. The title apparently is "Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House".

Here's a piece by one of my favourite poets:-

'Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.'

'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem's making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build
Your verse a ladder.'

'You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mind
Groping on its cloudy path.'

'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window
Before it enters a dark room.
Windows don't happen.'

So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.


BTW, I believe 'Daffodils' was really called 'I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud'.

Jabs, yours is Billy Collins 'Another Reason I Don't Keep a Gun in the House.

I still had the tab open from this morning after you introduced him to me (on this thread)

waiting, yours is Ronald Stuart Thomas, Poetry For Supper.

Do I get a prize?


Another one;

'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Get it out with Optrex'

Simulpost that'll teach me for making a brew...

Who's waiting?

Twithead!

For correctly identifying 'Poetry For Supper' you can choose from one of these prizes, Mag -

or or or

But first you have to set the next question.

Maybe I'll get lucky and know this one.

You're right about 'I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud', WFAT

Sorry folks,

Jabs

Sorry it was in post 123, it was only two lines;


'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Get it out with Optrex'

I know it's a bit early but I'll take the

I don't think that one has a title, but it's by Spike Milligan. I would never have suspected him of being a poet.

I'll never forget telling my (then) in-laws that my son could recite poetry at about 3 years old. They didn't believe me. B immediately went and stood on the low table in the middle of the room and recited 'On The Ning Nang Nong'

I don't have the book that the other one was in any more, I think there were more lines, but I'm not sure and I don't think there was a title.

Your turn, Paul.

Here's an old chestnut (literally) of a poem:

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms 5
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can, 10
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezie*

The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Try this one, I love this guy.


Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas
Cos' turkeys just wanna hav fun
Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked
An every turkey has a Mum.
Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas,
Don't eat it, keep it alive,
It could be yu mate, an not on your plate
Say, Yo! Turkey I'm on your side.

*did it at school, and I can still remember it

That sounds like something one of Kliban's cats would come up with. I especially like this one:
"How I love dem mousies.
Mousies what I likes to eat.
Bites they tiny heads off,
Nibble on they tiny feet.

It's Benjamin Zephaniah, gifted rasta performance poet extraordinaire, Talking Turkeys, Magwitch. Now this poem extract. What's it called and who wrote it, anyone? Have an extra point if you can find out why it was written:


JANE, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again;

Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair,
Jane, Jane, come down the stair.

Each dull blunt wooden stalactite
Of rain creaks, hardened by the light,

Sounding like an overtone
From some lonely world unknown.

There is an error in my posting. Although the poem appeared in later editions of 'Facade', (clue), it was not in the first performance and wasn't written for it. So please ignore that part. Simply author and title please.

Thanks

Jabs

And in the interest of 'sharing poems' here is the whole thing, which must just be out of copyright now:


JANE, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again;

Comb your cockscomb-ragged hair,
Jane, Jane, come down the stair.

Each dull blunt wooden stalactite
Of rain creaks, hardened by the light,

Sounding like an overtone
From some lonely world unknown.

But the creaking empty light
Will never harden into sight,

Will never penetrate your brain
With overtones like the blunt rain.

The light would show (if it could harden)
Eternities of kitchen garden,

Cockscomb flowers that none will pluck,
And wooden flowers that 'gin to cluck.

In the kitchen you must light
Flames as staring, red and white,

As carrots or as turnips shining
Where the cold dawn light lies whining.

Cockscomb hair on the cold wind
Hangs limp, turns the milk's weak mind . . .

Jane, Jane,
Tall as a crane,
The morning light creaks down again!


It's not her (clue) best, but it's not bad, and I had to find one that's on the web for you to find. There aren't many, as she's (clue) desperately unfashionable. But I think she's tremendous.

Jabs

I knew the Zephaniah one, but not the Edith Sitwell poem. Googled it earlier on and I think it's called Aubage, or some such. Yet another poet with whose work I'm not familiar - though at least I've heard of her.

How about this one?

Waiting for her in the usual bar
He finds she's late again.
Impatience frets at him,
But not the fearful, half-sweet pain he knew
So long ago.

That cherished perturbation is replaced
By styptic irritation
And, under that, a cold
Dark current of dejection moves
That this is so...