buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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Oct 6, 2016 21:53:22 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 6, 2016 21:53:22 GMT 7
The Argument of His Book Robert Herrick, 1591 - 1674
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, Of April, May, of June, and July flowers. I sing of Maypoles, hock carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes. I write of youth, of love, and have access By these to sing of cleanly wantonness. I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece, Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris. I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write How roses first came red and lilies white. I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing The court of Mab and of the fairy king. I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.
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buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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Oct 16, 2016 22:49:53 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 16, 2016 22:49:53 GMT 7
LUCY
by: William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
I. TRANGE fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved look'd every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon. Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopp'd: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropp'd. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! 'O mercy!' to myself I cried, 'If Lucy should be dead!' II. HE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me! III. TRAVELL'D among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among the mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy play'd; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd. IV. HREE years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. 'Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse; and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. 'She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. 'The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. 'The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. 'And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.' Thus Nature spake -- The work was done -- How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. V. SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.
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Deleted
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Oct 17, 2016 4:49:06 GMT 7
Post by Deleted on Oct 17, 2016 4:49:06 GMT 7
Personal 'in the frame of the present' poems beat any of this old clag
Show yourself from the inside, post a poem from the ether as the words arrive within.
I will follow suit when in the correct frame of mind.
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Deleted
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Oct 17, 2016 4:51:41 GMT 7
Post by Deleted on Oct 17, 2016 4:51:41 GMT 7
I'm not having a dig with that comment, but I think you may well excel the greats of history.
They were from the past though, one day we all will be.
Lets hear some real Buhi
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geronimo
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Post by geronimo on Oct 17, 2016 7:28:02 GMT 7
Here's one of mine
A life
It starts with a whisper
In her little ear
It’ll be alright
There’s nothing to fear
Nine months later
Look at her girth
She’s hours away
From giving birth
A boy or a girl
It doesn’t really matter
As tiny feet
Get ready to patter
Children are strange
Their habits are funny
Peeing and pooing
And asking for money
They have to be fed
Cleaned and dressed
Shirts tucked in
Trousers neatly pressed
Now it begins
Forget the pretense
You’d better get ready
For loads of expense
Daipers and towels
Powders and lotions
Creams and wipes
And midwife’s lotions
A slap on the botty
A big gulp of air
The first scream of many
And smellies to share
The first months are easy
Not much to do
Keep putting the milk in
And mopping up the poo
Then it gets harder
For some but not all
As the little infant
Learns how to crawl
Moving around
Makes it so much fun
Imagine the damage
When he learns how to run
The twos and threes
Are said to be trying
Teeth start appearing
And so does the crying
The first day at school
The crying comes back
Soon sort that out
With a bloody big smack
You will go to school
And you’ll learn to be good
Now eat up your veg
Is that understood?
The teens are a tough one
Hormones are abound
Spots come out
When no one’s around
With the opposite sex
We soon become obsessed
Look there’s a girl
Let’s help her undress!
Then it’s college or Uni
And that should be great
Drinking and partying
And getting up late
And so it goes on
Four years of enjoyment
Then comes the time
To look for employment
The work grind begins
To give you a notion
Ten years of this
And you’re up for promotion
So you struggle and cope
For thirty five years
Dulling the pain
With whisky and beers
Until comes that day
That gets your attention
It’s time to collect
Your old age pension
Now there’s nothing to do
But wash your old socks
Until finally
You’re laid in your box!
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buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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Oct 17, 2016 15:01:34 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 17, 2016 15:01:34 GMT 7
buhi doesn't exist' how can he/she write for you?
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buhi
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Oct 17, 2016 15:18:27 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 17, 2016 15:18:27 GMT 7
The Lucy poems express far more than I can Of abandoning a child, a lover; of eternal remorse for selfishness. Not old clap trap. I share my feelings on here. Not in verse. I am not presumptuous.
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buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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poems
Oct 17, 2016 15:40:24 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 17, 2016 15:40:24 GMT 7
There lies the problem with poetry, the need not to explain, of free thoughts which the writer alone knows that which underpins them. Doggerel, ok, verse, rhyme, metre,allusion, disciplined structure. But is that poetry?
My existence (not buhi's) is the only poem I could write. I am not dead yet.
"Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
That is a T S Eliot quote.
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buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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Oct 17, 2016 22:06:11 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 17, 2016 22:06:11 GMT 7
To update that, I quoted that which a very close friend quoted to me. And when I write I quote; who has never done so? Bt that expects prior knowledge and I write in English. No, not anglo saxon or victoriian. So , what the hell do I write? Shit, before you have a chance to answer.
Musical? interlude:
For trump and his supporters ; yes those who gave a plus to him, you know who:
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buhi
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Oct 17, 2016 22:36:02 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 17, 2016 22:36:02 GMT 7
And the answer is, was there a question? Well I have no answer. Is that an answer?
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buhi
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Oct 20, 2016 17:22:03 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 20, 2016 17:22:03 GMT 7
Strange, I used to write at my desk. The old one, a one time clerks' I suspect. I could live in another room The house is large. I stay in here. It is my sanctuary. My son conceived here. My whole life, Yes memories, Are within this room. Down is now safe. For a while Strange
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buhi
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Oct 20, 2016 17:40:52 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 20, 2016 17:40:52 GMT 7
^^^ That was a first draft, spontaneous It came from the soul, do not know how. I give it to the good mangos. Cheers.
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buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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Oct 21, 2016 19:12:27 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 21, 2016 19:12:27 GMT 7
There is a poem I treasure. I will not post it here. Not written by me. The strangest of all strange nights, I've had a few. Somehow she and I went back to my house, long ago. How we got there I have no idea, we were bothha tad inebriated. She kew of me, being a psychiatric nurse, not one I knew. Howling Wilf started our conversation, no not a mis spelling, Howling Wilf. She was with her friends and we decided to go back to my place, a long walk at one in the morning. Friends gave up and we were left alone. She came with me. I thought this might be the start of something, little did I know she was leaving England the next day. We talked, listened to music, I went from the room, to the bathroom. Well all that beer has to end up somewhere. When I returned, she lay there naked with her poem, saxophone. We went to bed, no, there was no intercourse. We knew of a special moment that needed no expression, just sleep. She left next morning and flew away. I have never seen or heard of her since. Saxophone.
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buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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Oct 21, 2016 20:28:28 GMT 7
Post by buhi on Oct 21, 2016 20:28:28 GMT 7
^^^ That's a first draft and all true. It is in the book I rarely open.. I might work on that one. Her name was Ann. Strange and beautiful night.
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buhi
Crazy Mango Extraordinaire
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Nov 22, 2016 19:12:20 GMT 7
me likes this
Post by buhi on Nov 22, 2016 19:12:20 GMT 7
A Thanksgiving Prayer:
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