Author Topic: Poetry  (Read 695 times)

Return of the Mac

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #30 on: June 29, 2017, 10:28:33 PM »
I had to beat the shit out of him to get him to come here, also he visited his solicitor to make arrangements in case his belonging here upset Mrs Barbar. I kid you not Mac he told me this in confidence.

Tell him, if Mrs Barbs gives him an earful...I am willing to defend him  and offer my services !!! 

bababarararacucucudadada

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #31 on: June 29, 2017, 11:29:26 PM »
Je Barbar is a lovely bloke I am just bantering with him. He once threw threw me in front of a bus, so he deserves all he gets from me here ;)
He didn't even show me the courtesy to throw some bread in the road, thinking I was some kind of a sea gull.

I have looked Barbar and I am sorry to say I can find nothing. There is a movie out there I would love to pin down. Can't find it :(
I know what you could be going through, frustration I think they call it.

I did?

Bloody hell.

You'll have to remind me.

bababarararacucucudadada

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #32 on: June 29, 2017, 11:30:25 PM »
I had to beat the shit out of him to get him to come here, also he visited his solicitor to make arrangements in case his belonging here upset Mrs Barbar. I kid you not Mac he told me this in confidence.

Quite.

Sven

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #33 on: June 29, 2017, 11:31:43 PM »
Visitor is a coward.

He is worse than Frankie Howard.

When bravery calls, Visitor falls, and changes his name to Noel (Coward)

Sorry that it is terrible! I am tired.

bababarararacucucudadada

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #34 on: June 29, 2017, 11:39:10 PM »
https://archive.org/stream/TheFirstPunjabWar-ShahMohammedsJagnamah/TheFirstPunjabWar-ShahMohammedsJagnamah_djvu.txt

?

googled poem about the First Sikh War and how the Rani led the mighty Khalsa

I'd obviously been Googling the wrong things.

It is far longer than I recalled (but I missed the start when it was on the radio hence not knowing anything about it).

Many thanks.

Q13.1

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #35 on: June 30, 2017, 12:00:48 AM »
Visitor is a coward.

Fuck vis, I have him covered. ;) Lets get back to Barbar's poetry it is far more fucking entertaining :)

Over to you my friend, this evening's recitation?
« Last Edit: June 30, 2017, 12:03:24 AM by Q13.1 »

bababarararacucucudadada

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #36 on: July 03, 2017, 11:43:09 PM »
Inspiration. That's the problem.

Earlier I happened across a poem about pies so I thought I would write one about Pasties.

Quote
PASTIES

To start with there has to be love, desire (not the same thing at all)
And time without either that which must assuredly follow
Cannot. From there artisanal skills once considered
Too mundane for mention take precedence. Sifted flour
Must meet butter and as the powdery dust entombs
Gold they become becrumbed. A dash of cold water
And a sprinkling of salt is all that before
The dough needed is kneaded, worked and set aside to chill
Like a guilty pleasure that you know you will not only
Return to through choice but also because you must.

Potato, swede and onion follow each stripped of identity
Equally by blade of steel and steely determination as spheres
Become dice that will never be rolled. Skirt, sliced
And dusted with a little seasoned flour, edges the concoction
Towards completion. Salt. Pepper. Stir. Be generous! Salt. Pepper. Stir.

The pastry is now as cold as the jar of mayonnaise that
Patiently, fruitlessly awaits its moment in the fridge
And should be rolled until no thicker than a football programme
On a well-floured surface until it has spread enough for
A plate to be used as a circular template for the disc we ultimately
Require. Sharpened steel easily, pleasingly trims away the excess pastry,
For now anyway, with delicious finality. A small mound
Of skirt, onion, swede and potato clown the circus ring, a
Knob of butter provides the music and the skirt soars above it all;
Crimp the moistened pastry edges, pierce the pastry with a small
Hole to allow the steam to elope as the pasty bakes
And paint liberally with beaten egg just as Rothko once
Applied his bespoke oils to canvas. Place the pasty carefully, lovingly
On to a baking tray lined with greaseproof paper and put the tray
Into a pre-heated (gas mark 5) oven for about an hour.

Our work is done. The oven has control now and patience must
Reign beyond it. Maybe you should clear up or have a cup of tea?
Either way you will soon be aware of the delicious aroma that assaults
Your senses creating a yearning almost indecent in its urgency.
Just as Pavlovís dogs once salivated in anticipation then so too do you now.

But our hour is up! Allow the pasty to rest for 10 minutes, if you can!,
Before you devour it. A little anticipation, as though the last hour hasnít
Tantalised enough, never hurt anybody and itíll be all the better for
Cooling slightly. It will. Honest. Now! At last! It is yours! Tuck in! Enjoy!
And if you ignored my advice about cleaning up and having a cup of tea
Earlier and made even more pasties thereíll be more than one
For you to enjoy. Or, better still, give a pasty to somebody you love
and they will repay you in kind because anybody who makes a pasty
For you can show you no deeper, truer love (not the same thing as desire at all -
As asserted at the start of this poem).

Q13.1

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #37 on: July 05, 2017, 03:23:07 PM »
Violets are blue
Pictures of my arse are rude
on facebook.

Roses are red
I am tracked by the feds
on facebook......

Q13.1

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #38 on: July 05, 2017, 03:24:37 PM »
Inspiration. That's the problem.

It is all about you!!!

Write a poem about a wall !

Q13.1

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #39 on: July 05, 2017, 11:54:00 PM »
Fuck that bloody wall
It is there for all
to see.

Fuck it I don't want it next to me.

Painted in pastel shades
I don't want it to parade
my identity.

What shall I do with you
I ask me?

Paint you blue, what kind of hue?
Just something straight foward
I ask you.

Oh wall, you have upset me
I have undertaken an epiphany about thee.

Do you want some wallpaper?
I know I am a mover and shaker.

Perhaps I should just ignore you
but that would bore you

So carry on I will
with my poem

Perhaps I may not be your doyen.

What colour do you want to be?
Black blue or some kind or orangey?

SOrt of of works. A poem about a wall.

Next.................

Q13.1

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #40 on: July 06, 2017, 12:46:26 AM »
Not bad for a pisshead
I know I should be dead
It fills me with me dread

My heart
It is very dark
I fear for what may hark

I listen to music
I find it somewhat elusive

How can this stuff
be enough
to help me out of my malaise?
I know it will take days.

I could carry on
it is easily done

Doesn't take me much effort
comes naturally
Did I take too much LSD?

Well for now
I have to dwell
Do I go and top my glass
or of myself
will I continue you to make an ass?

Your poetry thread
keeps me from bed

Thank you Barbar,
Do you have an arger?

Q13.1

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #41 on: July 06, 2017, 12:55:18 AM »
Want some more?
I may implore
no thank you Paul
there is the door!

Q13.1

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #42 on: July 06, 2017, 01:09:18 AM »
Sorry Barbar,

For some god forsaken reason I can now rhyme off the cuff.

It is not a bluff,
comes to me more naturally
than dentistry.

I must stop now.
It is beginning to gnarl
You must be thinking
Good grief gal!

I know I should not have had LSD
I should have taken tea instead.

Just a reminder from the past
I wonder how long it will last?

:)

bababarararacucucudadada

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #43 on: July 06, 2017, 11:00:35 AM »
Good work, son.

I particularly like the inclusion of an invented word ("arger") and the structure too, although inconsistent, pleases.

When the muse takes you it is relatively easy to knock one out, as it were.

My wall has been taken away
Although I call it "mine" I did not ask for it
Somebody else put it there
But nonetheless it was real

I never really focussed on it
Nor was I able to forget it
It just loomed asking a question of me
For which I had no answer

Now it is gone I am free
To ponder without restraint
On matters defined only to myself
And serendesipity.


bababarararacucucudadada

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Re: Poetry
« Reply #44 on: July 08, 2017, 08:16:52 AM »
PROPER JOB

An evening out with the wife
Old school Skinheads, real ale, Indonesian beef rendang
Beedelly beedelly beedelly

A stroll down the hill
Ears caressed by birdsong of thrush, blackbird and sparrow
Above deserted streets

The first #8 of the day
Standing room only which came as a surprise
Tho' it is well before 8

Another stroll along Mutley's Plain
England's Skinheads now vanquished by British Lions
I get into my car

Proper job.