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Poetry Meme - Peter Sheil [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
Peter Sheil

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Poetry Meme [Sep. 19th, 2005|01:57 pm]
Peter Sheil
[Current Mood |thoughtfulthoughtful]

When you see this entry, post your favourite poem (or an excerpt) in your own journal.

OK, this is one of my favourite funny ones ...

Sex Is Better Than Poetry by Les Barker

Sometimes I wander down memory lane;
Some things spring to mind straight away;
Sex in the previouis century
Is more vivid than poetry today.

I remember Helen; and Julie was fun,
And evenings with Evelyn were ace;
But Shakespeare and Milton and Wordsworth and Donne?
Disappeared for ever; no trace.

Who here has been rendered ecstatic
By Betjeman, Byron or Scott?
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

Words it was not; it was women
Who took those sweet years of my time;
I never went down to the pub
To see if two sentences rhymed.

Nights down dark lanes in the back seats of cars;
Was it poetry that gave our hearts wings?
Was it poetry that steamed up the windows?
Was it poetry that tested the springs?

Did the thrill of iambic pentameter
Keep the fires of our passion red hot?
Is Poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

Remember the success of the musical "Hair"?
Did the words of its songs make it so?
Was it Glibby glop gloopy nibby nabby nooby
La la la lo lo?

Sabba sibby sabba nooby abba nabba;
Were we gripped by these words of the sage?
I think it had rather more to do
With naked bodies on stage.

Tooby ooby wabba nooby abba naba.
Am I impressed? Not a lot;
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

Does my soul sing out for, say, Shelley?
No; his verses are just so much froth;
Should we have more sex on the telly?
Yes; though I sometimes fall off.

If you were alone in some far away place
And the evening was starting to drag;
If you had to choose, which one would you refuse;
The Lady of Shallot or a shag?

By the latter, in clarification,
I did not mean a guillemot;
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

If poetry was better than sex,
There'd be a torrent of spam sent upon it;
'Brazilian housewives read Shakespeare for you';
'Add an extra four lines to your sonnet'.

There's no: "You are not Long, fellow;
The opposite sex will not like you;
They want a man with a big soliliquy
All you've got is a haiku."

Does it matter how long a man's poem?
No indeed; not a jot;
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

Have I passed long years of pure pleasure
In pursuit of the most perfect rhyme?
Oh no; that to me is no treasure;
Procreation's been the thief of my time.

And when I have something to say,
A passion I need to express,
Do I care overmuch about scansion and rhyme?
No.

Do I preach that we reach for some peach of a word?
No, I lob in some odd apricot;
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree
And would that dome have poets in?
Not if it was up to me;

I get quite confused when I see a hand used
To write verse, whether rhyming or blank;
Some other employment would bring more enjoyment;
That's what I think, to be frank.

The day that I'm cursed with a preference for verse
You can order my hearse on the spot;
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

The odyssey, Illiad; in days far behind,
Did I seek out girls who could quote 'em?
Is the way to my heart through the doors of my mind?
No, like most men, I'm led by the scrotum.

And when the debate has come to a close
And we've filled you with smiles and with laughter
Don't come to us with your poems, my dears;
It isn't your poems we're after.

What are words when two souls might be dancing
That sweet horizontal gavotte?
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.

To keep me amused, I know which I'd choose;
But remind me, in case I've forgot;
Is poetry better than sex?
No, it's bloody well not.


... and this is one of my favourite serious ones ...


Red Kites Les Barker

Dawn was close when I left the motorway;
It was my fancy to walk the Icknield Way.
I met the sun at the top of Shirburn Hill;
I saw the vale, and there was mist upon it still.

Nothing stirred in the early morning calm,
Save the kites over Portobello Farm,
Weaving dreams in the late September skies;
I lay me down and perhaps I closed my eyes.

She said she'd come from Saunderton that day;
Bound for Streatley along the ancient Way;
It was her fancy to leave the beaten trail
To see the kites and partake of bread and ale.

"A thousand years I've been climbing Shirburn Hill;
A thousand years and the kites are flying still."
I made to ask her the meaning of her words;
She kissed me long and she whispered: "Watch the birds."

We ate and drank and we made the sweetest love
Unseen by all but the kites that flew above.
Across the vale I gazed that perfect day,
I swear to God that there was no motorway.

She kissed me then, and her long hair brushed my arm;
There were kites over Portobello Farm,
Weaving dreams in the late September skies;
I lay me down and perhaps I closed my eyes.

Was I dreaming, or did we truly meet?
A thousand years and I'd not find love so sweet.
Across the moon flew a solitary kite;
I took the motorway and drove into the night.

Peace
peter
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