A country of poets and not a single one here ?? shame on you my fellow countrymen. Here's a first one: [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ubz94c4SyJU&feature=related"]TROVA DO VENTO QUE PASSA - Manuel Alegre com Carlos Paredes, e Amália Rodrigues - YouTube[/ame] ballad of the wind that passes, two versions, one declaimed by the poet himself (Manuel Alegre), and then an Amalia Rodrigues (adapted) version. At 3:31 there's a picture of Alegre and Amalia. Enjoy.
Afghanistan is in the news a bit lately, thought that this from Kipling would be appropriate. When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
I called that guy out on his reading of Byron's "The Destruction of Sennacherib" several years ago. He got all huffy with me that I found his slow, labored reading... well..... slow and laborious.
Live is fine by Langston Hughes I went down to the river, I set down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn't, So I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered! I came up twice and cried! If that water hadn't a-been so cold I might've sunk and died. But it was Cold in that water! It was cold! I took the elevator Sixteen floors above the ground. I thought about my baby And thought I would jump down. I stood there and I hollered! I stood there and I cried! If it hadn't a-been so high I might've jumped and died. But it was High up there! It was high! So since I'm still here livin', I guess I will live on. I could've died for love-- But for livin' I was born Though you may hear me holler, And you may see me cry-- I'll be dogged, sweet baby, If you gonna see me die. Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
I read an interesting book last week entitled "Fair Stood the Wind for France" the first line of the Drayton poem we read in school. Drayton a contemporary of Billy Shakespeare. Michael Drayton. 1563–1631 Agincourt FAIR stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnish'd in warlike sort, Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopp'd his way, Where the French gen'ral lay With all his power. Which, in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide Unto him sending; Which he neglects the while As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, 'Though they to one be ten Be not amazèd: Yet have we well begun; Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raisèd. 'And for myself (quoth he) This my full rest shall be: England ne'er mourn for me Nor more esteem me: Victor I will remain Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. 'Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell: No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopp'd the French lilies.' The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped Among his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there; O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen! They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake: Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces! When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly The English archery Stuck the French horses; With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went— Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruisèd his helmet. Gloster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry. O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen? Or England breed again Such a King Harry?
Thnx for what appears a great thread here folks and folkies. I just stumbled on it's first page ..... it'll be a place to head for as the dark winter of El Nino comes down around ....... Meanwhile - ya gotta love this .... all hail John Cleese. Ode to Sean Hannity by John Cleese Aping urbanity Oozing with vanity Plump as a manatee Faking humanity Journalistic calamity Intellectual inanity Fox Noise insanity You're a profanity Hannity
This kind of thing strikes me as more prose than poem..... but, most likely, there is no line of demarcation that can be definitively drawn. Everyone's will be different......