Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Sunday, 27 December 2009
Friday, 25 December 2009
Thursday, 24 December 2009
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
Monday, 21 December 2009
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Friday, 18 December 2009
This be the Verse, Philip Larkin
This is one of my favourite poems ever. I'm going to send it to a pregnant friend.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Friday, 11 December 2009
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Thursday, 3 December 2009
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Monday, 30 November 2009
Sunday, 29 November 2009
Friday, 27 November 2009
Thursday, 26 November 2009
You can do anything if you set your mind to it.
This is why we see so many people who can fly. Clearly.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Monday, 23 November 2009
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Monday, 16 November 2009
Sunday, 15 November 2009
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Friday, 13 November 2009
I think we consider too much the good luck of the early bird and not enough the bad luck of the early worm.
Franklin D Roosevelt for Friday the 13th.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
The Last Post
(a poem by Carol Ann Duffy reproduced for Armstice Day)
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud...
but you get up, amazed,watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home -
mothers, sweethearts, sisters,younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- no- Decorum- no- Pro Patria mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, WIlfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
and shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alove,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening,healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammedwith love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud...
but you get up, amazed,watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home -
mothers, sweethearts, sisters,younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- no- Decorum- no- Pro Patria mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, WIlfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
and shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alove,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening,healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammedwith love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Monday, 9 November 2009
Sunday, 8 November 2009
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