General Chat

Wonder ----------- The wonder is that time is that space is that life is that you are that I am that we are that sun is that moon is that stars shoulder the wheel of night and it turns it turns! Henry Noyes

MY FAVOURITE OF ALL TIME IF ONLY ALL BOYS READ THIS, WHAT A PLATFORM IN LIFE TO START WITH. IF by; Rudyard Kipling. If you can keep your head when all about you, Are loosing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowances for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired of waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies Or being hated, don't don't give way to hating, And yet don't look upon too good, nor to wise. If you can dream and not make dreams your master, If you can think and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those to inposters just the same, If you can bear to hear the truth youve spoken, Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build em up with worn out tools. If you can make one heap of all your winnings, And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss, And lose and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your lose, If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew, To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you, Except the will which says to them hold on If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill sixty seconds worth of distance run, Yours is the earth and everything thats in it And which is more, Youll be a man my Son. Fantastic.

Hi Geoff, how strange that you have chosen a Kipling, as we were discussing him today at college, in reference to the Boer War. That's why I decided to add the poem we were discussing Rudyard Kipling Tommy I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, 'We serve no red-coats here.' The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 'Tommy, go away'; But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 'Tommy, wait outside'; But it's 'Special train for Atkins' when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's 'Special train for Atkins' when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 'Tommy how's yer soul?' But it's 'Thin red line of 'eroes' when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's 'Thin red line of 'eroes' when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints: Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 'Tommy, fall be'ind,' But it's 'Please to walk in front, sir,' when there's trouble in the wind, There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's 'Please to walk in front, sir,' when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 'Chuck him out, the brute!' But it's 'Saviour of 'is country,' when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees! It is so true Dee x

What a wonderful thread Maz. I've chosen a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. One of my working class ancestors named her first son Percy Bysshe. I will never forget my amazement when I found his birth. I later found her on the 1871 census as a servant to three sisters, one of whom was a headmistress and the other two governesses. I have a very romantic picture of these three ladies reading poetry aloud to their uneducated servant and the impression it must have made on her. Incidentally I love Shelley and Byron. The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of Heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine In one spirit meet and mingle - Why not I with thine? See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea - What are all these kissings worth If thou kiss not me? Jean x.

Pam Ayyres is my favourite. I think her husband posts on this board.... They Should Have Asked My Husband by Pam Ayres You know this world is complicated, imperfect and oppressed And it's not hard to feel timid, apprehensive and depressed. It seems that all around us tides of questions ebb and flow And people want solutions but they don’t know where to go. Opinions abound but who is wrong and who is right. People need a prophet, a diffuser of the light. Someone they can turn to as the crises rage and swirl. Someone with the remedy, the wisdom, and the pearl. Well, they should have asked my husband, he’d have told’em then and there His thoughts on immigration, teenage mothers, Tony Blair, The future of the monarchy, house prices in the south The wait for hip replacements, BSE and foot and mouth. Yes they should have asked my husband, he can sort out any mess He can rejuvenate the railways he can cure the NHS So any little niggle, anything you want to know Just run it past my husband, wind him up and let him go. Congestion on the motorways, free holidays for thugs The damage to the ozone layer, refugees and drugs. These may defeat the brain of any politician bloke But present it to my husband and he’ll solve it at a stroke. He’ll clarify the situation; he will make it crystal clear You’ll feel the glazing of your eyeballs, and the bending of your ear. Corruption at the top, he’s an authority on that And the Mafia, Gadafia and Yasser Arafat. Upon these areas he brings his intellect to shine In a great compelling voice that’s twice as loud as yours or mine. I often wonder what it must be like to be so strong, Infallible, articulate, self-confident …… and wrong. When it comes to tolerance – he hasn’t got a lot Joyriders should be guillotined and muggers should be shot. The sound of his own voice becomes like music to his ears And he hasn’t got an inkling that he’s boring us to tears. My friends don’t call so often, they have busy lives I know But its not everyday you want to hear a windbag suck and blow. Encyclopaedias, on them we never have to call Why clutter up the bookshelf when my husband knows it all!

I love that poem Bob - took my Mum to see Pam Ayres last year and she was fantastic - very funny:)

How about one of my own.... Genes United - A Cautionary Tale By Bob When first I came to this board, I thought that I would find a hoard Of rellies that would make my tree As big and strong as it could be. Parents, siblings; that was easy Then to Grandma bright and breezy To mine her fading memories Of Granddads, Nephews, Cousins and Aunties Gaily I entered those folks related My tree grew big; the branches tangled But then some stories made me doubt Made me check those rellies out Alas my tree’s much smaller now. This story serves to show us how The info gleaned from aged Ps Needs checks before it’s put in trees The good news is from all this pain Some on-line friends to keep me sane With witty chat on Genes United My trees don’t grow but I’m contented

Like Jill M we lost a daughter very young. In fact she was only 3 months old. It is hard to believe that her 30th birthday would be this year. I also used poetry to try to release the grief. For Esther We had a child so beautiful that God would not agree To let her stay and suffer in this world like you and me; So He has called her home to be a sunbeam in his town, A flower in His garden, and a jewel in His crown. We were very sad to lose her, but we know that He knows best, And thank Him that our faith stood up to this bitter test. We know that He will call us too to see His town, The flowers in His garden and the jewels in His crown. If we’ve been true and faithful through our allotted span, And served our Master faithfully in every way we can, It’s then He will return to us that rainbow from His town. That flower from His garden, that jewel from His crown. Throughout all eternity we’ll share our life with her With all our children, and our dear and loved ones who’ll be there; To share with Him who made us the beauties of His town, And each one have a garden, and each one wear a crown. From Daddy with love.

Jim .... that is lovely. Very moving. Jean x.

Dee - I wonder if verse 5 of your Kipling one is where the very modern expression 'having it large' comes from ??!! How strange that Geoff has added 'If' by Rudyard Kipling when I had been planning to add the following. It's taken from The Nation's Favourite 20th Century Poems, and in the foreword Griff Rhys Jones says 'The BBC Commissioned a modern version of the poem 'If-' to be read on television when the results of the poll were announced. It is called 'What If' and was written by Benjamin Zephaniah. I wonder if anyone remembers hearing him recite it?? What If by Benjamin Zephania If you can keep your money when governments about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you. If you can trust your neighbour when they trust not you And they be very nosy too; If you can await the warm delights of summer Then summer comes and goes with sun not seen, And pay so much for drinking water Knowing that the water is unclean. If you seek peace in times of war creation, And you can see that oil merchants are to blame, If you can meet a pimp or politician, And treat those two impostors just the same; If you cannot bear dis-united nations And you think this new world order is a trick, If you've ever tried to build good race relations, And watch bad policing mess your work up quick. If you can make one heap of all your savings And risk buying a small house and a plot, Then sit back and watch the economy inflating Then have to deal with the negative equity you've got. If you can force your mind and body to continue When all the social services have gone, If you struggle on when there is nothing in you, Except the knowledge that justice cannot be wrong. If you can speak the truth to common people Or walk with Kings and Queens and live no lie, If you can see how power can be evil And know that every censor is a spy; If you can fill an unforgiving lifetime With years of working hard to make ends meet, You may not be wealthy but I am sure you will find That you can hold your head high as you walk the streets. Maz. XX

Hi Bob - yes I agree with you about Pam's husband - there are male AND female version on here!! I also very much like the one you wrote - sums it up perfectly! Maz. XX

You might be right Maz We were contrasting 2 war poems at college, the other one I am adding but it is not really my cup of tea Vitaï Lampada There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night -- Ten to make and the match to win -- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote 'Play up! play up! and play the game!' The sand of the desert is sodden red, -- Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -- The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks, 'Play up! play up! and play the game!' This is the word that year by year While in her place the School is set Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind -- 'Play up! play up! and play the game!' Sir Henry Newbolt

A grim reminder that schoolchildren were going straight from school to the front line. They were lucky if they lived to be 25.

Maz, much prefer Kiplings original, uplifting. ps nice photo's

This is one of my favourite poems, originally written in Gaelic by Sorley Maclean, this is his own translation. Its about The Clearances on his home island of Raasay, near Skye. Its full of typical Gaelic imagery, the deer represents time and timelessness, the Rowan, Birch and Hazel trees are natives, the Pines are the non -native woods, the invaders. Hallaig 'Time, the deer, is in the wood of Hallaig' The window is nailed and boarded through which I saw the West and my love is at the Burn of Hallaig, a birch tree, and she has always been between Inver and Milk Hollow, here and there about Baile-chuirn: she is a birch, a hazel, a straight, slender young rowan. In Screapadal of my people where Norman and Big Hector were, their daughters and their sons are a wood going up beside the stream. Proud tonight the pine cocks crowing on the top of Cnoc an Ra, straight their backs in the moonlight – they are not the wood I love. I will wait for the birch wood until it comes up by the cairn, until the whole ridge from Beinn na Lice will be under its shade. If it does not, I will go down to Hallaig, to the Sabbath of the dead, where the people are frequenting, every single generation gone. They are still in Hallaig, MacLeans and MacLeods, all who were there in the time of Mac Gille Chaluim: the dead have been seen alive. The men lying on the green at the end of every house that was, the girls a wood of birches, straight their backs, bent their heads. Between the Leac and Fearns the road is under mild moss and the girls in silent bands go to Clachan as in the beginning, And return from Clachan, from Suisnish and the land of the living; each one young and light-stepping, without the heartbreak of the tale. From the Burn of Fearns to the raised beach that is clear in the mystery of the hills, there is only the congregation of the girls keeping up the endless walk, coming back to Hallaig in the evening, in the dumb living twilight, filling the steep slopes, their laughter a mist in my ears, and their beauty a film on my heart before the dimness comes on the kyles, and when the sun goes down behind Dun Cana a vehement bullet will come from the gun of Love; and will strike the deer that goes dizzily, sniffing at the grass-grown ruined homes; his eye will freeze in the wood, his blood will not be traced while I live. Sorley MacLean (1911-1996)

Many years ago when I was studying childcare I came across a book For The Love of Children. It is a book of meditations on growing up with children, by Ulrich Schaffer. I have chosen one of the verses I have always found very relevant as I feel we probably have all ‘been there’ Unpleasant scene This mother is inviting an unpleasant scene by not being firm with her child The child wishes to know boundaries and hopes to be told and shown limits that will give him security The mother does not want to be hard and continues to try words that have lost their meaning The child sensing the emptiness of the words, pushes on, driving his mother to near despair And finally the sad and bitter scene from which everyone turns: the screaming child, the broken mother The irony of it: both want limits, both want order and respect, both want peace and security, yet can’t help each other to get there

To The Hills Then By Rod Mckuen The sky Is the forehead of the morning passing the sun along the day Distributing the clouds that move above us And ride with us till nightfall And your eyes are the bottom of the day Set on fire by words made to move by sighs and the rustling of the trees. We'll go to the hills then, take our time Climb until we find one closest to the sky I'll spread a blanket on the ground and make a picnic of your body. You'll face the sky and count the clouds And when the counting stops I'll take you home again, down a dozen hills Under a hundred skies I know the ground is not yet green all over But trust me, I'll find The greenest hill of all And your red dress will be the single flower That grows against the grass. Me and the day We care for you Without the rivalry of common lovers And we'll be careful as the rain, gentle as the clouds. Not for those who like their poetry to rhyme but to me full of feeling. Ann Glos

Ann.... thankyou... when I was much younger I had an LP of Sinartra singing Rod McKuen... everyone a poem in itself.

Jean I still have an LP of Rod Mckuen which hubby has put onto CD for me. Saw him live a couple of times in the early 70s too. Ann Glos

Under strict instructions from Gwynne lol My favourite animal :-))) The Tyger by William Blake Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright In the forest of the night What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And What shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? And what dread feet? What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? Maz. XX