Poetry competition/thread

pickarooney

This is probably a stupid idea but as it seems every forum is being inundated with posts about the economic crisis, IMF bailout, budgets and the whole shamozzle so I thought as a pre-emptive step why not try and harness the rage in some literary form. So if anyone wants to knock together an ode to the IMF, some doggerel about Cowen or a limerick with a judicious use of rhyming about bankers, feel free. Prizes in the form of eternal admiration of your peers expressed through the medium of the thanks button.

SAMurphy

A current day take on the Yeats' poem Under Ben Bulben; http://www.solarnet.org/Travel/IRE/BenBulben.htm

I
Here the rushing waters meet
To wash the weary mountain's feet
Where everyone will stop to greet
The stranger passing in the street

Although they may be friend or foe
To know they must acknowledge so
that passing time can soon decree
The mind's compatability

I came across the wooden bridge
As I approached the yellow ridge
Whose civil folk I duly found
Encaptured by their hallowed ground

II
To many places man must go
From faceless streets to empty roads
Through inner journeys of the soul
In stifling heat and bitter cold
If travelling but by the self
Those learning shall inherit wealth
Who need not false modernities
To cradle insecurities
Who fears but they be feared may find
The secrets of the human mind
Exposed in fields of fertile bliss
Where Spring has washed and Summer kissed

III
He whose vision of this land
In passing left the deftest hand
Upon the shoulders passion felt
In those who prayed and whom so knelt
Not at the covered altar there
But long before in open air
Whose heavens needed not a roof
To convalesce in their reproof
Whose ocean in the distance roared
'I'll comfort all who dare adore!'
So dare they did and there the gates
Stood open for the minds embrace

IV
I come in sadness to reply
That man ignored his battle cry
Where life but now computered mind
Has changed the face of humankind

Of Ireland's old, the remnants few
Still walk to smell the honeydew
Before the break of morning comes
Through concrete fields of damage done
We sacrifice, this mortal curse,
Our peace of mind for fattened purse
Whose Eden governed by the snake
Has hissed and cried 'The West's Awake!'
Allowing Adam and fair Eve
To profligate at which they please
And said 'Live life at liberty
Look not for what the future sees
But bask in these prosperities!'

By our consent the corporate shift
Came on the North-Atlantic drift
With plastic Gods of chip-and-pin
That gave to all who wanted in
Who never had before nor then
But thus emboldened could pretend
That never would they starve again
A fate that fell on greater men

Now silently they flock once more
The swallows perched to leave this shore
Yet their's is not a Spring return
For many seasons shall in turn
Pass longingly without the song
Of generations come and gone.

V
Upon his grave I lay my word
A gift onto the modern world
Here he lies where horsemen pass
At speed on roads where once lay grass
Their pockets laden seek to buy
The memoirs of this poet's life
Whose Anglo-Irish politic
Survived impassioned rhetoric
Behold the fascist, tourists all
Who walk this rocky, rolling ball
To capture moments with machines
Preserving loss of memories
Now find the peasantry reborn
In wealth the earth is left forlorn
We do not own our lives but owe
Until the winds of death have blown

Under bear Ben Bulben's gaze
The church majestic stands unfazed
Though Yeats in flesh has long decayed
His spirit in the mountain stayed
Outside the gates I stood to see
The fall of free society
Where young and old must pay to breathe
This air of ancient Irishry.

Cast a closed eye
On mind, on breath
Merchant, pass by.

SM '10

off.the.walls

biffo they call me
i'm king of this land
i eat so much i can bearlly use my hands

head of justice they call me
well i'll be outta here soon
I cant grab my dick anymore
artheritis does not mix well with poon

head of health and all my chefs have quit
biffo is still dreaming of having it
but with my chefs gone my cheifs of staff too
**** the public its time for a poo

so all we say to you
is enjoy your new year
we'll be eating ostrich
and you'll be eating cheese toasties

here here!!

my first attempt at a limrick

pickarooney

SAMurphy wrote: »

A current day take on the Yeats' poem Under Ben Bulben; http://www.solarnet.org/Travel/IRE/BenBulben.htm

I
Here the rushing waters meet
To wash the weary mountain's feet
Where everyone will stop to greet
The stranger passing in the street

Although they may be friend or foe
To know they must acknowledge so
that passing time can soon decree
The mind's compatability

I came across the wooden bridge
As I approached the yellow ridge
Whose civil folk I duly found
Encaptured by their hallowed ground

II
To many places man must go
From faceless streets to empty roads
Through inner journeys of the soul
In stifling heat and bitter cold
If travelling but by the self
Those learning shall inherit wealth
Who need not false modernities
To cradle insecurities
Who fears but they be feared may find
The secrets of the human mind
Exposed in fields of fertile bliss
Where Spring has washed and Summer kissed

III
He whose vision of this land
In passing left the deftest hand
Upon the shoulders passion felt
In those who prayed and whom so knelt
Not at the covered altar there
But long before in open air
Whose heavens needed not a roof
To convalesce in their reproof
Whose ocean in the distance roared
'I'll comfort all who dare adore!'
So dare they did and there the gates
Stood open for the minds embrace

IV
I come in sadness to reply
That man ignored his battle cry
Where life but now computered mind
Has changed the face of humankind

Of Ireland's old, the remnants few
Still walk to smell the honeydew
Before the break of morning comes
Through concrete fields of damage done
We sacrifice, this mortal curse,
Our peace of mind for fattened purse
Whose Eden governed by the snake
Has hissed and cried 'The West's Awake!'
Allowing Adam and fair Eve
To profligate at which they please
And said 'Live life at liberty
Look not for what the future sees
But bask in these prosperities!'

By our consent the corporate shift
Came on the North-Atlantic drift
With plastic Gods of chip-and-pin
That gave to all who wanted in
Who never had before nor then
But thus emboldened could pretend
That never would they starve again
A fate that fell on greater men

Now silently they flock once more
The swallows perched to leave this shore
Yet their's is not a Spring return
For many seasons shall in turn
Pass longingly without the song
Of generations come and gone.

V
Upon his grave I lay my word
A gift onto the modern world
Here he lies where horsemen pass
At speed on roads where once lay grass
Their pockets laden seek to buy
The memoirs of this poet's life
Whose Anglo-Irish politic
Survived impassioned rhetoric
Behold the fascist, tourists all
Who walk this rocky, rolling ball
To capture moments with machines
Preserving loss of memories
Now find the peasantry reborn
In wealth the earth is left forlorn
We do not own our lives but owe
Until the winds of death have blown

Under bear Ben Bulben's gaze
The church majestic stands unfazed
Though Yeats in flesh has long decayed
His spirit in the mountain stayed
Outside the gates I stood to see
The fall of free society
Where young and old must pay to breathe
This air of ancient Irishry.

Cast a closed eye
On mind, on breath
Merchant, pass by.

SM '10

So good I read your blog. And if there's one thing I like less than poetry, it's blogs. Actually, there are a lot of things I like less than either, but it seemed churlish to bring up celery and earache. Point being, this is pretty, pretty pretty, pret-ty good.

SAMurphy

thanks for that. I'm not great at dealing with compliments but it makes me happy that people can relate to the work.

Feel free to send me on a million quid so i can retire to my own island and write about my beloved ireland a safe distance away from the devi...sorry, i mean, the i.m.f. Or better yet, do you have any idea of a publication accepting submissions in poetry? The difficulty with these things is that it can be difficult to break through the established cliques in terms of publication, irrespective of the perceived quality of the work itself.

I've read so much published bull****, it makes me wonder what the target market is these days. Although the x-factor social networking status updates say it all I guess.