Poetry slam

[Harvey]

[Harvey]

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

[Simulist]

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

‘Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”

When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say-
“I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”

But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers’ hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov’d most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.

So the train mov’d slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o’er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill’d all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav’d to tell the tale
How the disaster happen’d on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

— William Topaz McGonagall (1825-1902), widely regarded as the worst English-speaking poet who ever lived

[Harvey]

No, there's one that's worse. But I've deleted the evidence...

[brainpanhandler]

Some Suggestions

in addition to the envy and rancor of some of
my peers
there is the other thing, it comes by telephone and
letter: "you are the world's greatest living
writer."

this doesn't please me either because somehow
I believe that to be the world's greatest living
writer
there must be something
terribly wrong with you.

I don't even want to be the world's greatest
dead writer.

just being dead would be fair
enough.

also, the word "writer" is a very tiresome
word.

just think how much more pleasing it would be
to hear:
you are the world's greatest pool
player
or
you are the world's greatest
fucker
or
you are the world's greatest
horseplayer.

now
that
would really make
a man feel
good.

- Bukowski

[The Consul]

West of Mississippi

One night late in the Ox
He told me as he spilled his drink,
"You are the greatest writer
west of the Mississippi."

"Oh yeah," I responded. Tell me
who is the greatest writer
East of the Mississippi
So I can kick his ass!"

Laughing he gargled his whiskey sage
"What makes you think
that writer is a man?
You gonna rough up Shirley Hazzard?"

Of course he only went on this way
because he forgot where
he parked his car in the blizzard
mostly horizontal outside now.

His Stegner Fellowship only meant
a quarter he didn't have to teach
and there was more time to ramble
with Hugo or whoever.

It took a while but I found his car
And helped him stagger through the white
rushing silence of that dead night
and fit him in the groaning door.

One last question he said
the window half rolled down
Where are my fucking keys?
Somewhere, somewhere, I laughed

Somewhere out here
West of the Mississippi

[Canadian_watcher]

Discalced I find my way through the thorns
Lascivious of one to mend my woe
But diffident I can not bear to go
To that empyrean of endless morn

[Hammer of Los]

...

On holiday recently I found myself reading Keats.

I was looking for Wordsworth, but I always take what I can find, and look for the lesson in it.

Endymion was rather beautiful.

I am currently creating some mixed media pieces.

Perhaps this poem I wrote today will fit in somewhere.

Somewhere there is a place for everything.

Even for one such as I.

So once more, we return to the birds;

Sidekicks

o
One day the Robin came to play,
Affixed me with her eye did she.
She stayed not long, but ere she left,
The Ineffable Way once more was effed.
o

f
For ere the red breast bird did leave,
She showed my Vision Superlative;
Not of fortune, nor of fame,
Nor yet of love of hearth and hame.
f

z
See, as across my plot she flew
The letter zed hove into view.
With this rune she me inspires;
Who to the highest Zenith aspires?
z

...

[Hammer of Los]

...

The one above is in need of editing.

Here is another.

Just for you RI: from the nib of the Pendragon;

...

Sinks

My Synchs may not be Spoken of;
They are not Spoken of Enough.
In Truth I Speak of Nothing Else.
Their Sound be that of Ringing Bells.

Their Peals call me to Reverie.
Like to the Sound of Reveille;
For sometimes when we Dream, we Wake:
To take the Grail our Thirst to slake.

The Good Green Earth I tread like Paper,
The Flick'ring Fire doth Dance and Caper.
The Living Water Ever Floweth.
Dragon Man's Breath inside Me Bloweth.

...

[Hammer of Los]

...

As subtle as Eliot.

Subtler, fer Christ's Sake.

Slam.

Dunk!

The Worm that Turned.

Picking up my Worm Wood Wand,
I Turn it Over in my Hand.
It's Wood is of the Hazel Tree,
Or So it doth Appear to me.

I Lay the Bricks that Raise my Tow'r,
My Four Arms Knotted, like the Rower
Who Pulls along the Midnight Stream.
Who Knows that Life is but a Dream?

I Plumb the Depths with Stone and Line.
Winter's Triangle doth Align.
I Taste the Coldness of the Draught;
Two-Face doth See Fore and Aft.

...

[Hammer of Los]

...

They get better.

Seriously.

...

[norton ash]

early breakup haiku

i went to your blog
read my poetry you said
tell me what you think

[Hammer of Los]

...

Seriously, I got some doozies for those who are following the plot.

It's epic.

When is blog function returning?

I might call mine Ninja Scrolls.

Or perhaps Evocation of the Peerless Origin.

I could likely think of a thousand other titles.

I love your poetry Ash.

Of course You Are Ash.

Gotta catch 'em all!

...

[semper occultus]

....nice pomes HoL....your worm wood wand has more than a touch of the Crowleyan style about it...

surely HOL doth rap
better than that other Hammer chap

[Hammer of Los]

...

....nice pomes HoL....your worm wood wand has more than a touch of the Crowleyan style about it...

Not bloody Crowley again.

He's bin houndin' me fer years.

He was a fair scholar and a fine mountaineer.

But he sure didn't fully resolve his karma.

I don't think.

...