Poetry & Culture Thread

[Unleash The Nade]

Unleash The Nade

What the f**k is roasted cheese

Mods, banhammer please

It really is quite simple

And I sure don't mean to boast

But plebs like you frae Dundee

Will call it cheese on toast

[banana]

I'm trying to write a poem

that can hopefully rhyme

yet again I could always just plagiarize,

that can't be too much of a crime.

[Hedgecutter]

I managed to find some of my McGonagallesque poems from a while back, including Hedgecutter classics such as:

The Pittodrie Disaster

'Twas the Scottish Cup quarter final replay,

On the calm night of a great Tuesday,

And fourteen thousand at Pittodrie,

Came to see the Pars and the Dons play.

The Dons they started off quite bright,

And Mackie tried with all his might,

And the Pars defence almost got a fright,

But he spurned the chance because he's shite.

Aluko's shot cleared from the line,

Denied by the defence who were playing fine,

But the attacking force could not combine,

Which made the home fans shout and whine.

And as the ref blowed for full-time,

The away support were quite sublime,

And the game went into extra-time,

For the Pars this was their chance to shine.

But no-one found the back of the net,

Which made the home fans and players sweat,

And even though the Dons late on did threat,

On penalties the game would be set.

The Dons missed two which caused them pain,

And the last pen was scored by Graham Bayne,

Which sent the travelling fans insane,

And popped the cork on the Champagne.

Aberdeen

Oh beautiful city of Aberdeen,

When the sun is out it is most charming to be seen,

With it's sparkling granites despite rock so grey,

Which gives it the name the Granite City,

With its fine location by the sea,

Between the rivers Don and Dee,

With golden beaches which many would agree,

Are far more bonnie than Dundee.

And like Dundee, it recieves a lot on sunshine,

Magnificent for Union Terrace Gardens in the Summer-time,

Due to lack of rain lost over the Cairngorm plateau,

Many meteorologists call it a rain-shadow.

Tis most lovely to see architecture well done,

Thanks to great man called Archibald Simpson,

And other architects too did well,

To build the Castlegate with its citadel.

And Marischal College with its turrets high,

Which seem to reach up to the sky,

And when you see its size you will realise why,

It's the second largest granite building in the world and that's no lie.

And should you visit a baker or cafe,

Be sure to sample a buttery,

Like a croissant but flat and quite salty,

They should be on every breakfast buffet.

But the city has an evil curse,

Just look to the sky, not rain but worse,

You'll see them fly, hover and soar,

Seagulls the size of a small labrador.

They'll sit and watch you walk on by,

Then leave the lampost, spread wings and fly,

Then quickly dive down from the sky,

To try and steal your chips or pie.

But the beautiful 'Deen with it's silvery bay,

'Tis amongst the places I'd like to stay,

And even at the weekends should you wish to get away,

You can walk down and get the boat for a holiday.

For there are ferries to Shetland and to Orkney,

And they even sail from the harbour daily,

And should you wish to go to Norway,

You can catch a plane from the airport at Dyce,

To Stavanger, which like Aberdeen, is rather nice.

Edited February 17, 2015 by Hedgecutter

[Hedgecutter]

Arbroath

Oh! How Sunday was a glorious day,

With the clouds departed and the ocean spray,

Down the esplanade and the cliff-top way,

On our walk from Arbroath towards Auchmithie.

It must have been at least fifteen degrees,

With a brisk refreshing wind off the sea,

Which filled our sunburned faces with glee,

On a beautiful day hard to beat in the summer,

A statement with which most people would agree.

Along the slippy shores we managed to tread

beneath the mighty cliffs so red,

As various seaweeds had managed to spread,

Although had it rained we may have slipped,

and hurt one's head.

But thankfully we were able to walk,

Across the different types of rock,

of various sizes from pebbles, boulders and blocks,

Until we found a lovely secluded spot,

Where we stopped for lunch at round one o'clock.

At the wonderfully sculpted Needle's E'e,

A natural arch made by the sea,

Before heading past the Mariner's Grave,

Where a ship crewed by men so brave,

Were robbed of their lives by the stormy waves.

But as well as taking, nature gave,

the area so many coves and caves,

Along with many a lengthy steep sided inlet,

And as the tide was low you walk right down,

And explore the cliffs without getting wet.

And one could not help observe,

The glorious beauty of the Seaton Reserve,

Of which the many plants and seabirds it was set up to preserve,

Have nested on the many ledges of the rock,

To which many a seabird here did flock.

And one must compliment the Deil's Heid stack,

A bewitching tower of rock half way along the track,

Although an arch joining it to the land it does lack,

Hence why it is called a stack.

As it towers high forming a rare shadow of black,

Across the wonderful wave cut platform continually being attacked,

By the curling blue waves of the sea,

So peaceful yet ruthless and spectacular to be seen.

The Smoo Cave

All pleasure-seekers , where’er ye be,

I pray ye all be advised by me,

Go and visit Durness with it’s waters blue,

And the darkest of passages in the caves of Smoo.

Oh! Beautiful Smoo Cave with your caverns deep,

And ghostly inlet with your walls so steep,

Most dangerous to the most foolish of sheep,

That may fall to their deaths and land in a heap.

A wonderful sight of nature that fills my heart with glee,

And I’m sure that many others would agree,

While witnessing this largest of entrances formed by the sea,

And the inner chambers by a freshwater stream.

Oh! Smoo thou art a fine example of a cave,

But those who wish to explore you must be brave,

As several men now lie in graves,

After being murdered after being thrown into the cave.

And a second tale relates to the wizard Lord Reay,

Who went inside with his dog one day,

But the dog went in and quickly ran away,

And lost all its hair to the lord’s dismay.

For it is said that the Devil lay in wait,

And just as the wizard was about to accept his fate,

He met the Dark Lord which he seems to recall,

Escaped through the ceiling and formed the waterfall.

And what a beautiful example of a waterfall,

That drops into an enormous natural hall,

Although some of the passages are quite small,

Which may require some visitors to crawl.

Oh! Beautiful Cave of Smoo,

Well worth the dark and mysterious trip through,

To see your bizarre formations stuck to the walls like glue,

For thousands of years they grew,

And now several inches thick they have grown,

All just from water and the layers of limestone.

Banchory

In the hills overlooking the silvery Dee

Lies the beautiful old town of Banchory

For this grand rural town I will always admire

cannot be surpassed in Aberdeenshire.

Oh! Beautiful town of Banchory,

Only seventeen miles along the A73,

From the crowds and the noise of the Granite City,

To one of the most glorious places I ever did see.

And the beautiful castle that I must confess,

Few are fairer than that at Crathes,

With the wonderful flora that the gardens possess,

It's a lovely place for a walk when feeling depressed.

And at the Milton of Crathes is the Deeside Railway,

Where one can sit on a train and have lunch at midday,

Westwards towards the beautiful Banchory

Although it doesn't go that far as the track was taken away.

For it once went to Ballater adored by the Queen,

Past other fair villages found in between,

Along Royal Deeside with its hillsides of green,

And its skies filled with blue and aquamarine.

But should there be a walk that you wish to fulfill,

I would not hesitate to recommend Scolty Hill,

As from the top are wide views over river and glen,

And out to the south to the grand Clachnaben.

Oh! Beautiful town of Banchory,

I am so pleased to say,

That with your buildings of granite both pink and grey,

I can see why many come here on holiday,

For too many tourists are often led astray,

To warmer locations such as Italy,

But with it's wonderful hills in such grand array,

God only knows why they don't come to Banchory.

[D.A.F.C]

f**k The Police

NWA

[Hedgecutter]

Reminded me of my favourite Coleridge Taylor poem.

Just a rip-off of Iron Maiden.

[Dee Man]

I'm a fuckin' wrong un,

Selling bitches, selling pollen,

Selling sniff so take a whiff and clear your lines like Jan Vertonghen

[Enigma]

I don't want to see a ghost
It's a sight that I fear most
I'd rather have a piece of toast
And watch the evening news

Edited May 9, 2015 by Enigma

[Enigma]

I managed to find some of my McGonagallesque poems from a while back, including Hedgecutter classics such as:

The Pittodrie Disaster

'Twas the Scottish Cup quarter final replay,

On the calm night of a great Tuesday,

And fourteen thousand at Pittodrie,

Came to see the Pars and the Dons play.

The Dons they started off quite bright,

And Mackie tried with all his might,

And the Pars defence almost got a fright,

But he spurned the chance because he's shite.

Aluko's shot cleared from the line,

Denied by the defence who were playing fine,

But the attacking force could not combine,

Which made the home fans shout and whine.

And as the ref blowed for full-time,

The away support were quite sublime,

And the game went into extra-time,

For the Pars this was their chance to shine.

But no-one found the back of the net,

Which made the home fans and players sweat,

And even though the Dons late on did threat,

On penalties the game would be set.

The Dons missed two which caused them pain,

And the last pen was scored by Graham Bayne,

Which sent the travelling fans insane,

And popped the cork on the Champagne.

Aberdeen

Oh beautiful city of Aberdeen,

When the sun is out it is most charming to be seen,

With it's sparkling granites despite rock so grey,

Which gives it the name the Granite City,

With its fine location by the sea,

Between the rivers Don and Dee,

With golden beaches which many would agree,

Are far more bonnie than Dundee.

And like Dundee, it recieves a lot on sunshine,

Magnificent for Union Terrace Gardens in the Summer-time,

Due to lack of rain lost over the Cairngorm plateau,

Many meteorologists call it a rain-shadow.

Tis most lovely to see architecture well done,

Thanks to great man called Archibald Simpson,

And other architects too did well,

To build the Castlegate with its citadel.

And Marischal College with its turrets high,

Which seem to reach up to the sky,

And when you see its size you will realise why,

It's the second largest granite building in the world and that's no lie.

And should you visit a baker or cafe,

Be sure to sample a buttery,

Like a croissant but flat and quite salty,

They should be on every breakfast buffet.

But the city has an evil curse,

Just look to the sky, not rain but worse,

You'll see them fly, hover and soar,

Seagulls the size of a small labrador.

They'll sit and watch you walk on by,

Then leave the lampost, spread wings and fly,

Then quickly dive down from the sky,

To try and steal your chips or pie.

But the beautiful 'Deen with it's silvery bay,

'Tis amongst the places I'd like to stay,

And even at the weekends should you wish to get away,

You can walk down and get the boat for a holiday.

For there are ferries to Shetland and to Orkney,

And they even sail from the harbour daily,

And should you wish to go to Norway,

You can catch a plane from the airport at Dyce,

To Stavanger, which like Aberdeen, is rather nice.

Do you have a link to that thread? It was a belter.

[banana]

I'm a fuckin' wrong un,

Selling bitches, selling pollen,

Selling sniff so take a whiff and clear your lines like Jan Vertonghen

Beautiful yet outstanding.

[banana]

"The Grey Monk", William Blake

I die I die the Mother said
My Children die for lack of Bread
What more has the merciless Tyrant said
The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed

The blood red ran from the Grey Monks side
His hands & feet were wounded wide
His Body bent his arms & knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees

His eye was dry no tear could flow
A hollow groan first spoke his woe
He trembled & shudderd upon the Bed
At length with a feeble cry he said

When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The Bane of all that on Earth I lovd

My Brother starvd between two Walls
His Childrens Cry my Soul appalls
I mockd at the wrack & griding chain
My bent body mocks their torturing pain

Thy Father drew his sword in the North
With his thousands strong he marched forth
Thy Brother has armd himself in Steel
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel

But vain the Sword & vain the Bow
They never can work Wars overthrow
The Hermits Prayer & the Widows tear
Alone can free the World from fear

For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing
And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King
And the bitter groan of the Martyrs woe
Is an Arrow from the Almighties Bow

The hand of Vengeance found the Bed
To which the Purple Tyrant fled
The iron hand crushd the Tyrants head
And became a Tyrant in his stead

[Bully Wee Villa]

As I slowly drift off late at night in my bed
My body feels weary, my eyelids like lead
There's one thought that keeps going round in my head
"Why is it just poetry in the Poetry & Culture Thread?" 

Edited September 1, 2018 by Bully Wee Villa

[Raidernation]

Penicillin

[Shotgun]

8 minutes ago, Raidernation said:

Penicillin

Yoghurt

[scottmcleanscontacts]

Love a wee bit of Poetry, only just found this thread.

'Neighbours'

There’s the man with the housecoat that he never takes off,
There’s the woman at number four with the permanent cough,
The boy at the corner he worships the devil,
And the lass right next door is right on the level,
The old couple at nine married during the war,
The artist upstairs who's a really fine drawer,
The punk guy at six with his Doc Marten boots,
The businessman in the big house with all his sharp suits,
The lad above the shops who sells drugs for a living,
And his next door neighbour who's not so forgiving,
We all have these neighbours but we don’t really know,
We all seem too busy to say even, hello,
Stop for a second, and take a deep breath,
There’s more to our lives than simply living then death.

[Florentine_Pogen]

They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
“It takes one to know one,” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning
“You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend
You better leave”
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
“Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on pennywhistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains
They’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They’re spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls
“Get Outa Here If You Don’t Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row”

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody’s shouting
“Which Side Are You On?”
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters, no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

[pittsburgh phil]

They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
“It takes one to know one,” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning
“You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend
You better leave”
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
“Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on pennywhistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains
They’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They’re spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls
“Get Outa Here If You Don’t Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row”

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody’s shouting
“Which Side Are You On?”
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters, no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

I listened to this for the first time in years only just last night!

[DAFC.]

Scones
They are quite smashing
They also are delicious
I keep them in the cupboard, there
Right beside the dishes.

[pittsburgh phil]

The Second Coming
WB Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre   

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst   

Are full of passionate intensity.


Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   

The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   

When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   

The darkness drops again; but now I know   

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

[Florentine_Pogen]

First read this poem at school in the 70’s, has always stayed with me. It is the poet’s response after the birth of his own son.

The Almond Tree by Jon Stallworthy.


1

All the way to the hospital
the lights were green as peppermints.
Trees of black iron broke into leaf
ahead of me, as if
I were the lucky prince
in an enchanted wood
summoning summer with my whistle,
banishing winter with a nod.

Swung by the road from bend to bend,
I was aware that blood was running
down through the delta of my wrist
and under arches
of bright bone. Centuries,
continents it had crossed;
from an undisclosed beginning
spiraling to an unmapped end.

2

Crossing (at sixty) Magdalen Bridge
Let it be a son, a son, said
the man in the driving mirror,
Let it be a son. The tower
held up its hand: the college
bells shook their blessing on his head.

3

I parked in an almond's
shadow blossom, for the tree
was waving, waving me
upstairs with a child's hands.

4

Up
the spinal stair
and at the top
along
a bone-white corridor
the blood tide swung
me swung me to a room
whose walls shuddered
with the shuddering womb.
Under the sheet
wave after wave, wave
after wave beat
on the bone coast, bringing
ashore–whom?
New–
minted, my bright farthing!
Coined by our love, stamped with
our images, how you
enrich us! Both
you make one. Welcome
to your white sheet,
my best poem!

5

At seven-thirty
the visitors' bell
scissored the calm
of the corridors.
The doctor walked with me
to the slicing doors.
His hand upon my arm,
his voice–I have to tell
you–set another bell
beating in my head:
your son is a mongol
the doctor said.

6

How easily the word went in–
clean as a bullet
leaving no mark on the skin,
stopping the heart within it.

This was my first death.
The "I" ascending on a slow
last thermal breath
studied the man below

as a pilot treading air might
the buckled shell of his plane–
boot, glove and helmet
feeling no pain

from the snapped wires' radiant ends.
Looking down from a thousand feet
I held four walls in the lens
of an eye; wall, window, the street

a torrent of windscreens, my own
car under its almond tree,
and the almond waving me down.
I wrestled against gravity,

but light was melting and the gulf
cracked open. Unfamiliar
the body of my late self
I carried to the car.

7

The hospital–its heavy freight
lashed down ship-shape ward over ward–
steamed into the night with some on board
soon to be lost if the desperate

charts were known. Others would come
altered to land or find the land
altered. At their voyage's end
some would be added to, some

diminished. In a numbered cot
my son sailed from me; never to come
ashore into my kingdom
speaking my language. Better not

look that way. The almond tree
was beautiful in labor. Blood-
dark, quickening, bud after bud
split, flower after flower shook free.

On the darkening wind a pale
face floated. Out of reach. Only when
the buds, all the buds, were broken
would the tree be in full sail.

In labor the tree was becoming
itself. I, too, rooted in earth
and ringed by darkness, from the death
of myself saw myself blossoming,

wrenched from the caul of my thirty
years' growing, fathered by my son,
unkindly in a kind season
by love shattered and set free.