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Been doing a lot of thinking these past couple of days, and time and time again I find myself returning to words on paper to try and make sense of things.
There is a dead poet called Charles Bukowski, an American guy that I love to read.
Here are some of my personal favourites:
-------------
The Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him
I say, stay in there, I'm not going to
let anyone see
you
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the wh0res and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you wanna screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes,
when everybody's asleep,
I say, I know that you're there
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing just a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die.
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep,do
you?
-----------
Craney
One of our fattest cats
Craney
Sleeps on his back with
All four legs splayed in the air
He trusts that we will never step on him
But he has no idea how nervous and incomplete
We humans sleep
and live
------------
The Aliens
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well
they are contented with
their family
life
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good,
and when they die,
it is an easy
death, usually in their sleep.
you may not believe it
but such people do exist
I am not one of them
oh no, I am not one
of them
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.
-----
They may not mean anything to anyone but me, but these are the ones I return to time and time again when I need to feel like someone understands
There is a dead poet called Charles Bukowski, an American guy that I love to read.
Here are some of my personal favourites:
-------------
The Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him
I say, stay in there, I'm not going to
let anyone see
you
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the wh0res and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you wanna screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes,
when everybody's asleep,
I say, I know that you're there
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing just a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die.
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep,do
you?
-----------
Craney
One of our fattest cats
Craney
Sleeps on his back with
All four legs splayed in the air
He trusts that we will never step on him
But he has no idea how nervous and incomplete
We humans sleep
and live
------------
The Aliens
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well
they are contented with
their family
life
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good,
and when they die,
it is an easy
death, usually in their sleep.
you may not believe it
but such people do exist
I am not one of them
oh no, I am not one
of them
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.
-----
They may not mean anything to anyone but me, but these are the ones I return to time and time again when I need to feel like someone understands
Been doing a lot of thinking these past couple of days, and time and time again I find myself returning to words on paper to try and make sense of things.
There is a dead poet called Charles Bukowski, an American guy that I love to read.
Here are some of my personal favourites:
-------------
The Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him
I say, stay in there, I'm not going to
let anyone see
you
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the wh0res and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you wanna screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes,
when everybody's asleep,
I say, I know that you're there
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing just a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die.
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep,do
you?
-----------
Craney
One of our fattest cats
Craney
Sleeps on his back with
All four legs splayed in the air
He trusts that we will never step on him
But he has no idea how nervous and incomplete
We humans sleep
and live
------------
The Aliens
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well
they are contented with
their family
life
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good,
and when they die,
it is an easy
death, usually in their sleep.
you may not believe it
but such people do exist
I am not one of them
oh no, I am not one
of them
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.
-----
They may not mean anything to anyone but me, but these are the ones I return to time and time again when I need to feel like someone understands
There is a dead poet called Charles Bukowski, an American guy that I love to read.
Here are some of my personal favourites:
-------------
The Bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him
I say, stay in there, I'm not going to
let anyone see
you
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the wh0res and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you wanna screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes,
when everybody's asleep,
I say, I know that you're there
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing just a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die.
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep,do
you?
-----------
Craney
One of our fattest cats
Craney
Sleeps on his back with
All four legs splayed in the air
He trusts that we will never step on him
But he has no idea how nervous and incomplete
We humans sleep
and live
------------
The Aliens
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well
they are contented with
their family
life
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good,
and when they die,
it is an easy
death, usually in their sleep.
you may not believe it
but such people do exist
I am not one of them
oh no, I am not one
of them
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.
-----
They may not mean anything to anyone but me, but these are the ones I return to time and time again when I need to feel like someone understands
I think I've heard of him.
Couldn't have this topic on its own :-)
Couldn't have this topic on its own :-)
Mr Cooper
Anthony Thwaite
Two nights in Manchester: nothing much to do,
One of them I spent partly in a pub,
Alone, quiet, listening to people who
Didn't know me. *So i told the bl00dy sub-
Manager what he could do with it... Mr Payne
Covers this district- you'll have met before?*
Caught short, I looked for the necessary door
And moved towards it; could hear, outside, the rain.
The usual place, with every surface smooth
To stop, I suppose, the aspirations of
The man with pencil stub and dreams of YOUTH
AGED 17. And then I saw, above
The stall, a card, a local jeweller's card
Engraved with a name, JEWELLER AND WATCHMENDER
FOR FIFTY YEARS, address, telephone number.
I heard the rain falling in the yard.
The card was on a sort of shelf, just close
Enough to let me read this on the front.
Not, I'd have said, the sort of words to engross
Even the keenest reader, nothing to affront
The public decency of Manchester.
And yet I turned it over. On the back
Were just three words in rather smudgy black
Soft pencil: MR COOPER - DEAD. The year
Grew weakly green outside, in blackened trees,
Wet Grass by statues. It was ten to ten
In March in Manchester. Now, ill at ease
And made unsure of sense and judgement when
Three words could throw me, I walked back into
The bar, where nothing much had happened since
I'd left. A man was trying to convince
Another man that somehow someone knew
Something that someone else had somehow done.
Two women sat and drank the lagers they
Were drinking when I'd gone. If anyone
Knew I was there, or had been, or might stay,
They didn't show it. Good night, I almost said,
Went out to find the rain had stopped, walked back
To my hotel, and felt the night, tall, black,
Above tall roofs. And Mr Cooper dead.
---------------
This poem reminds me of current events. How we will forget what has happened in America. How Americans will forget. It's saddening that this will happen but it's already started with some complaining about Spiderman's trailer being pulled. They crave normality; the time when the news will have other stories as the lead headline. Perhaps it's the fault of the "Avalanche Journalism" of today. Seeing a loop of the plane hitting the WTC. Yet 10,000 Mr Coopers are dead and it frightens me that some people already will have forgotten.
It's nice to see some poetry in the forum Goaty.. Why aren't you writing your band's lyrics with such literary leanings? Are we going to witness a Phil Collins-esque transformation in the coming years?
Anthony Thwaite
Two nights in Manchester: nothing much to do,
One of them I spent partly in a pub,
Alone, quiet, listening to people who
Didn't know me. *So i told the bl00dy sub-
Manager what he could do with it... Mr Payne
Covers this district- you'll have met before?*
Caught short, I looked for the necessary door
And moved towards it; could hear, outside, the rain.
The usual place, with every surface smooth
To stop, I suppose, the aspirations of
The man with pencil stub and dreams of YOUTH
AGED 17. And then I saw, above
The stall, a card, a local jeweller's card
Engraved with a name, JEWELLER AND WATCHMENDER
FOR FIFTY YEARS, address, telephone number.
I heard the rain falling in the yard.
The card was on a sort of shelf, just close
Enough to let me read this on the front.
Not, I'd have said, the sort of words to engross
Even the keenest reader, nothing to affront
The public decency of Manchester.
And yet I turned it over. On the back
Were just three words in rather smudgy black
Soft pencil: MR COOPER - DEAD. The year
Grew weakly green outside, in blackened trees,
Wet Grass by statues. It was ten to ten
In March in Manchester. Now, ill at ease
And made unsure of sense and judgement when
Three words could throw me, I walked back into
The bar, where nothing much had happened since
I'd left. A man was trying to convince
Another man that somehow someone knew
Something that someone else had somehow done.
Two women sat and drank the lagers they
Were drinking when I'd gone. If anyone
Knew I was there, or had been, or might stay,
They didn't show it. Good night, I almost said,
Went out to find the rain had stopped, walked back
To my hotel, and felt the night, tall, black,
Above tall roofs. And Mr Cooper dead.
---------------
This poem reminds me of current events. How we will forget what has happened in America. How Americans will forget. It's saddening that this will happen but it's already started with some complaining about Spiderman's trailer being pulled. They crave normality; the time when the news will have other stories as the lead headline. Perhaps it's the fault of the "Avalanche Journalism" of today. Seeing a loop of the plane hitting the WTC. Yet 10,000 Mr Coopers are dead and it frightens me that some people already will have forgotten.
It's nice to see some poetry in the forum Goaty.. Why aren't you writing your band's lyrics with such literary leanings? Are we going to witness a Phil Collins-esque transformation in the coming years?