View Full Version : The Poetry thread!


TheHoff!
09-28-2006, 07:46 PM
Lets all be creative bastards and write a darn good poem. Jolly ho I'll start it off.



Images of my screaming demons flicker in the moonlight
Staring through glazed eyes into my putrid soul
They cavern through the guilt and recriminations
Until they are face to face with my past, present and future

Shining brightly under the glare of fiery ghouls
Circling me
Judging me
Analysing my faults and past indiscretions

Laid bare beneath the unforgiving night sky
While vultures pick at my remorse
Wolves with bared fangs chew on my regrets
Anguish, misery and lost moments consume me

Then silence
My demons slide back into the shadows
I am all on me lonesome like
To be comforted by a glimpse of happiness that slyly seeps through





Haha it's a bit cheesy but still. Now it's youse ****ers turn to get all poetic and ****...be inspired *****es!

Piggu
09-28-2006, 07:47 PM
I don't write poetry but I enjoy reading it.

*observing*

TheHoff!
09-28-2006, 07:50 PM
Go on Piggu...have a go.

K-DOGG
09-29-2006, 02:24 PM
Not hi-jacking your thread, G.L.; but I thought I'd post a poem I alway found poignant. Hope you don't mind.


The Night has a Thousand Eyes
And the Day but One;
Yet,the Light of the Bright World Dies
With the Setting Sun.

The Mind has a Thousand Eyes
And the Heart but One;
Yet, the Light of a Whole Life Dies
When Love is Done.


I will contribute to the "community poem" when I've got more time to play on the computer....promise.

K-DOGG
09-30-2006, 01:42 PM
Lets all be creative bastards and write a darn good poem. Jolly ho I'll start it off.



Images of my screaming demons flicker in the moonlight
Staring through glazed eyes into my putrid soul
They cavern through the guilt and recriminations
Until they are face to face with my past, present and future

All I am shines brightly under the glare of fiery ghouls
Circling me
Judging me
Analysing my faults and past indiscretions

I am laid bare beneath the unforgiving night sky
While vultures pick at my remorse
Wolves with bared fangs chew on my regrets
Anguish, misery and lost moments consume me

Then silence
My demons slide back into the shadows
I am alone
To be comforted by a glimpse of happiness that slyly seeps through





Haha it's a bit cheesy but still. Now it's youse ****ers turn to get all poetic and ****...be inspired *****es!


(for the record, that's good stuff....but I'll try, though not poetic by nature, at least not along these lines)..but here goes:

Is it real, or merely a dream;
These nightmares causing me to writhe in self-loathing,
These images that torment my existance?
Why must I feel the sting of their arrows?

Why must I hear the screams of my own shortcomings through other ears?
Who are these demons,
These tormentors,
this court?

As I lay there in the mist with the stars invisible
beyond the earthly veil before me,
The song of the wipperwill screaches in the darkness,
"WEEE!! WEEEE!!! WEEE!!!"

A chill of discontent in my very being
slithers beneath my skin as my eyes turn inward
and my thoughts travel through time,
Envisioning all who walked before me, all who breathed the same air I now inhale.

The Noose
09-30-2006, 02:47 PM
Based on a true story. Not exactly subtle.

Beyond thin whisps of flesh that blind me I hear the skank of my past actions.
A fog of purfume I once flew with now burns and gags me, making my penis shrivel and heart blacken.
I cannot sink into that witches memory, her vison of poison and baited steel vagina still make my scars weep and corrupt my already broken soul.
Still the thought of her overgrown pubic region haunts me.
She never took a blade to that cursed forrest.
My pleads always being mocked.
My tounge caked in her unholy excretions.
Only now from afar can I admire her vulgar positions.
I can see I am a fly.
Buzzing around her spread eagled carcass.
Only the sick are seduced by her tears that she spews out.
Seducing men and money like a plunger seduces **** from a blocked toliet!
DAMN HER!
LEAVE ME ALONE U ****ING PSYCHO *****!!!
etc.

Whoops. Got all personal towards the end. Anger and disgust arent poetic.



Anyone got any less depressing poems?

Exige Jr
09-30-2006, 02:51 PM
Brrrappp.

There once was a man from Darjeiling.
He had an extraordinary feeling.
He slipped down a trap.
Landed on his crack.
...Ended up with a fanny flap.

The Noose
09-30-2006, 02:59 PM
Brrrappp.

There once was a man from Darjeiling.
He had an extraordinary feeling.
He slipped down a trap.
Landed on his crack.
...Ended up with a fanny flap.

The end is meant to rhyme with the beginning u bloody philistine.

Exige Jr
09-30-2006, 03:06 PM
The end is meant to rhyme with the beginning u bloody philistine.
Is it now? So a poem has to rhyme?

K-DOGG
09-30-2006, 03:29 PM
Based on a true story. Not exactly subtle.

Beyond thin whisps of flesh that blind me I hear the skank of my past actions.
A fog of purfume I once flew with now burns and gags me, making my penis shrivel and heart blacken.
I cannot sink into that witches memory, her vison of poison and baited steel vagina still make my scars weep and corrupt my already broken soul.
Still the thought of her overgrown pubic region haunts me.
She never took a blade to that cursed forrest.
My pleads always being mocked.
My tounge caked in her unholy excretions.
Only now from afar can I admire her vulgar positions.
I can see I am a fly.
Buzzing around her spread eagled carcass.
Only the sick are seduced by her tears that she spews out.
Seducing men and money like a plunger seduces **** from a blocked toliet!
DAMN HER!
LEAVE ME ALONE U ****ING PSYCHO *****!!!
etc.

Whoops. Got all personal towards the end. Anger and disgust arent poetic.



Anyone got any less depressing poems?

Anger and disgust are emotions; and therefore, Poetic, by my understanding. And the end, actually is a big explanation point, to me.

Nice. Grotesque; but nice. :D

K-DOGG
09-30-2006, 03:31 PM
Is it now? So a poem has to rhyme?


No; but lymericks do. ;)

Exige Jr
09-30-2006, 03:33 PM
No; but lymericks do. ;)
Mine wasnt a limerick. ;)

K-DOGG
09-30-2006, 03:37 PM
Mine wasnt a limerick. ;)



Oh, then that's fine, then. :D

The Noose
09-30-2006, 04:45 PM
Anger and disgust are emotions; and therefore, Poetic, by my understanding. And the end, actually is a big explanation point, to me.

Nice. Grotesque; but nice. :D

Yea but extreme emotions are beyond the orderly communication of words.
Extremes of emotion are expressed through noises like screams and squeals or grunts and groans.

K-DOGG
09-30-2006, 04:56 PM
Yea but extreme emotions are beyond the orderly communication of words.
Extremes of emotion are expressed through noises like screams and squeals or grunts and groans.

True. My birthmother once wrote to me, that "words are so inept....if only we could comunicate instantiosly through thought....words leave much to be desired for they fail to accurately serve their purpose"....or something to that effect. I probably should have used quotations; but that was the gist of what she wrote.

Still, words are all we have in the written language; and you did a good job incoporating you emotions with the words you used. Well done.

The Noose
09-30-2006, 05:47 PM
True. My birthmother once wrote to me, that "words are so inept....if only we could comunicate instantiosly through thought....words leave much to be desired for they fail to accurately serve their purpose"....or something to that effect. I probably should have used quotations; but that was the gist of what she wrote.

Still, words are all we have in the written language; and you did a good job incoporating you emotions with the words you used. Well done.

Thankyou sir, but i was going for a piss take, not knowing wat i was writing. Then it turned into a nasty rant about a girl i saw this week. Not a good night, as u might be able to tell.

I find alot of poetic poetry contrived poop.
I prefer mock poetry i guess.
Or great lyrics.

phallus
09-30-2006, 08:49 PM
Based on a true story. Not exactly subtle.

Beyond thin whisps of flesh that blind me I hear the skank of my past actions.
A fog of purfume I once flew with now burns and gags me, making my penis shrivel and heart blacken.
I cannot sink into that witches memory, her vison of poison and baited steel vagina still make my scars weep and corrupt my already broken soul.
Still the thought of her overgrown pubic region haunts me.
She never took a blade to that cursed forrest.
My pleads always being mocked.
My tounge caked in her unholy excretions.
Only now from afar can I admire her vulgar positions.
I can see I am a fly.
Buzzing around her spread eagled carcass.
Only the sick are seduced by her tears that she spews out.
Seducing men and money like a plunger seduces **** from a blocked toliet!
DAMN HER!
LEAVE ME ALONE U ****ING PSYCHO *****!!!
etc.

Whoops. Got all personal towards the end. Anger and disgust arent poetic.



Anyone got any less depressing poems?

Yea but extreme emotions are beyond the orderly communication of words.
Extremes of emotion are expressed through noises like screams and squeals or grunts and groans.


very creative bobby, it will haunt me for weeks

if i remember, ginsberg wrote some poems that had just grunts and noises in them, and he's one of the greatest poets of the 20th century

Rockin'
09-30-2006, 09:55 PM
The Lost Love Cemetary

Every night I come out into the cold
to a place thats very dear.
Every night I visit what love is to me,
I cant love again for my heart is buried here.

I found it one day and it was ill
4 years and the pain never passed.
Thats when I knew that my heart was gone
and found that it had loved it last.

My love for her was genuine
and the care was no mistake.
And her being away is no accident
Thats what my heart couldnt take.

The alot of us out there,
millions in one common heartbroken place.
If your hurt come to the lost love cemetary
we have lots of empty space.

Rockin':boxing:

TheHoff!
10-01-2006, 07:42 AM
Super, smashing, great! I was hoping this thread would be blessed by Rockin's soulful eloquence.

Oh and I really liked your poem too Mr Peru...and K-dogg - nice addition mate.

K-DOGG
10-01-2006, 07:52 AM
I awakened in the dawn of an endless day
Dried tears staining my cheeks,
My ribs soar from heaving,
My ears deaf from screaming,
My feet soar from walking an endless road the night before
which still lies before me.

Echoes of a thousand wails still riccochet within my mind
Sobbing, screaming, begging why
All was well before the curtain lifted
All was well when all was black
All was well when all was silent
Damn the sun, damn the truth, damn the veil which was lifted far too soon

Naked and alone in a crowd of people;
All of us awestruck and dumb
At what lies before us,
At what lies behind,
At what was left undone.
Fleeting glances pass over like a cold wind.
So many, so few, so what...so what now?

K-DOGG
10-01-2006, 09:09 AM
Super, smashing, great! I was hoping this thread would be blessed by Rockin's soulful eloquence.

Oh and I really liked your poem too Mr Peru...and K-dogg - nice addition mate.


Thank you. I'm glad it worked. :D

Rockin'
10-02-2006, 02:56 AM
Super, smashing, great! I was hoping this thread would be blessed by Rockin's soulful eloquence.

Oh and I really liked your poem too Mr Peru...and K-dogg - nice addition mate.

I dont remember writing things to them.............Rockin':boxing:

phallus
10-02-2006, 06:56 PM
here's one of mine, a true orignal:

when i rap
the people crap
so have a seat
and watch me beat
i luv to spank
my hairy meat

TheHoff!
10-04-2006, 06:15 AM
^That was beautiful filth.

The Noose
10-04-2006, 07:28 AM
here's one of mine, a true orignal:

when i rap
the people crap
so have a seat
and watch me beat
i luv to spank
my hairy meat

That inspired me...


THE ANTIQUITIES OF VELVET
Two pork chops
Is wat i likes
they taste like pig
Pig's nice to bite
Wen i chew
And i dont mind
Coz pork is good
I chew all night.

TheHoff!
10-04-2006, 07:33 AM
That inspired me...


THE ANTIQUITIES OF VELVET
Two pork chops
Is wat i likes
they taste like pig
Pig's nice to bite
Wen i chew
And i dont mind
Coz pork is good
I chew all night.

May I add on:

I likes the eggs
Runny
To dip me toast in
And I dont mind boasting
That I had two this morning
With a sausage
And bacon too

K-DOGG
10-04-2006, 10:07 AM
May I add on:

I likes the eggs
Runny
To dip me toast in
And I dont mind boasting
That I had two this morning
With a sausage
And bacon too

I don't like eggs
They give me gas
All day long
I wait to pass
Then when together
With all my mates
I knock 'em dead
with brownies I bake.

:ugh: :D

The Noose
10-05-2006, 04:13 PM
I don't like eggs
They give me gas
All day long
I wait to pass
Then when together
With all my mates
I knock 'em dead
with brownies I bake.

:ugh: :D

Aint got no wife
Coz Im real smart
I spend most days
Tryin to fart
Sometimes im good
And let one rip
But often they
silently slip
I get real mad
If they sneak out
They cant just stink
They gotta be loud.

K-DOGG
10-05-2006, 05:25 PM
Aint got no wife
Coz Im real smart
I spend most days
Tryin to fart
Sometimes im good
And let one rip
But often they
silently slip
I get real mad
If they sneak out
They cant just stink
They gotta be loud.

A Good Fart
is like a Fine Wine
Fermenting in it's cellar
Until it is time
To just cut loose
And let 'er rip
Hoping to God
That you don't ****
For nothing's worse
Than straining real hard
To produce the perfect poot
And give birth to a shart.

:ugh:

SonnyG8R
10-07-2006, 02:14 AM
"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

John Donne

K-DOGG
10-07-2006, 04:20 PM
"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

John Donne


Very Nice, Sonny.....ver-ry nice. :fing02:

Oasis_Lad
10-07-2006, 04:25 PM
i was contempt with sucking ****s
shagging sailors down the docks

i thought he was a she but she was a he
**** or not it dont matter to me

Oasis_Lad
10-07-2006, 04:25 PM
i was contempt with sucking ****s
shagging sailors down the docks

i thought he was a she but she was a he
**** or not it dont matter to me

dedicated to blockhead :luvbed:

Rockin'
10-07-2006, 11:51 PM
The Man Behind The Mask

Loneliness sets in as the ruler
hope is something that leaves faster and faster.
Love is a large dark empty room
that wont allow me to join in anyones laughter.

For the last laugh has been directed my way
Human emotions tangled and twisted, I cant explain.
The hollow soul that stands before you now
I may smile but I am enduring the most harmfull pain.

For now I am the man behind the mask
Doing anything to show nothing that I feel.
Broken into minute pieces of myself
no longer knowing what is love or what is real.

The man behind the mask is not fiction
he is real with love as the empty space.
The man behind the mask will remove his shield of protection one day
to again allow sunshine to warm his face.
But not today....................

11/93 Rockin':boxing:

K-DOGG
10-08-2006, 07:12 AM
The Man Behind The Mask

Loneliness sets in as the ruler
hope is something that leaves faster and faster.
Love is a large dark empty room
that wont allow me to join in anyones laughter.

For the last laugh has been directed my way
Human emotions tangled and twisted, I cant explain.
The hollow soul that stands before you now
I may smile but I am enduring the most harmfull pain.

For now I am the man behind the mask
Doing anything to show nothing that I feel.
Broken into minute pieces of myself
no longer knowing what is love or what is real.

The man behind the mask is not fiction
he is real with love as the empty space.
The man behind the mask will remove his shield of protection one day
to again allow sunshine to warm his face.
But not today....................

11/93 Rockin':boxing:


Been there, bro.....well said. Good stuff, hoss...good stuff; well described.

The Noose
10-08-2006, 07:54 AM
Doing anything to show nothing that I feel.


11/93 Rockin':boxing:

Excellent line.

The Noose
11-17-2006, 12:15 AM
A Good Fart
is like a Fine Wine
Fermenting in it's cellar
Until it is time
To just cut loose
And let 'er rip
Hoping to God
That you don't ****
For nothing's worse
Than straining real hard
To produce the perfect poot
And give birth to a shart.

:ugh:

I aint ****
for fourteen days
and stopped fartin
back in May.
But i still eat
every pie i can
cheese for breakfast
and beef wrapped in ham.
I should see a doctor
But id only eat him.
Hes short and chubby
Id cook his chin.
Il just wait here
Till i start ****ting
maybe eat some bacon
and for dessert fried chicken.

* FeistyWench *
11-17-2006, 03:05 PM
somehow i knew this wasn't going to be a respectable poetry thread :nonono:

phallus
11-17-2006, 11:11 PM
somehow i knew this wasn't going to be a respectable poetry thread :nonono:

there once was a a girl from nantucket...

Rockin'
11-17-2006, 11:52 PM
there once was a a girl from nantucket...


wasnt she the one who saved all of her pennies in a bucket?...............Rockin':boxing:

THE REAL NINJA
11-18-2006, 07:42 AM
Who has forsaken who ? Why have you left me ? Punish me for the things I do. Judge me now, judge me not, i've worked for everything i've got . Never stop , no relief, You watch me drop, show no pity, the end is near and it's not gonna be pretty.FORSAKEN ..look how many lives been taken . Blood runs cold, have we been made in your mold ? Only ask what has been asked but do not ask what is asked of you . What are we to do ? Read my text, hear my voice, Son you have choice but you shall not make a choice in which I disagree . Am I to be me, him, or is he me ? BURN ...How can I learn from which that will not speak ? Why are we left so weak ? Disappointment, Sadness, Fear , Do you listen or have you refused to hear ? WHO HAS FORSAKEN WHO ? There can only be you, without image without voice. Yet we shall follow blind ? NAMELESS .. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet." Shakespeare [Romeo and Juliet]RESURRECTION ..I have moved in the wrong direction but have found my path. With or without, I fear your wrath not . True or not open your arms show this love you've got . Free thought ? Please forgive for what I do not understand I feel damaged and left swimming in the sand. Let me move on I trust that I have not been forsaken . Move me to the correct path show me the signs I should have taken .PROSPER & THRIVE .. Whithout you I wouldn't be alive . Till my end I will thrive and cherish what is given . I will move on flourish and try to make the right decision . Break me down, build me up, even a beautiful glass can be made form pebbles of sand. No longer am I mad and angry , Only thankful for what you gave me ..................................................

K-DOGG
11-18-2006, 09:11 AM
Been crushed so many times
I got no love left to give
Been crushed so many times
I got no love left to give
Oh Lord I feels so low down
Don't know if I wanna die or live

Went down to the station
Had my suitcase in my hand
Went down to the station
Had my suitcase in my hand
Until yo woman done left you
You ain't never gonna understand

Ridin' these rails to Chicago
Waitin on the mornin' sun
I'm just riding these rails to Chicago
Waitin' on that mornin' sun
'Cause my woman who said she loved me
Done got another man and run

When I get to Chicago
I'm gonna moan these blues to wind
When I get to Chicago
I'm gonna cry my blues to the wind
They way she done left me
Is a low-down dirty sin

Oh Lord, Oh Lord
Don't know what I'm gonna do
Oh Lord, Oh Lord
I don't know what I'm gonna do
I done got them low down,
My woman left me Bah-lues.


Don't know if that qualifies as a "poem" persay; but hope it doesn't suck too bad. :)

-Antonio-
11-18-2006, 06:58 PM
Anyone ever heard of Dulce Et Decorum by WIlfred Owen? I really like that poem...

TheHoff!
11-20-2006, 09:57 AM
Dedicated to platinummattyboy :luvbed:

Lets fondle flirtatiously
And watch clouds patiently
Matt, I am awaiting thee
To finish your dating spree
Cause blatantly
You should be mating me
Find a girl? Dont try son
I suck better than a dyson
Dont reject me :puppy_dog
That would make me cry some
So what you saying matty boy?
Wanna be my batty boy?
I'll make you happy boy :luvbed:

platinummatt!
11-20-2006, 12:20 PM
Lmao!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Class

The Noose
11-22-2006, 05:37 AM
Been crushed so many times
I got no love left to give
Been crushed so many times
I got no love left to give
Oh Lord I feels so low down
Don't know if I wanna die or live

Went down to the station
Had my suitcase in my hand
Went down to the station
Had my suitcase in my hand
Until yo woman done left you
You ain't never gonna understand

Ridin' these rails to Chicago
Waitin on the mornin' sun
I'm just riding these rails to Chicago
Waitin' on that mornin' sun
'Cause my woman who said she loved me
Done got another man and run

When I get to Chicago
I'm gonna moan these blues to wind
When I get to Chicago
I'm gonna cry my blues to the wind
They way she done left me
Is a low-down dirty sin

Oh Lord, Oh Lord
Don't know what I'm gonna do
Oh Lord, Oh Lord
I don't know what I'm gonna do
I done got them low down,
My woman left me Bah-lues.


Don't know if that qualifies as a "poem" persay; but hope it doesn't suck too bad. :)

Oh that was nice. Made me pick up my guitar. Love the slow blues.

The Noose
11-22-2006, 05:39 AM
Dedicated to platinummattyboy :luvbed:

Lets fondle flirtatiously
And watch clouds patiently
Matt, I am awaiting thee
To finish your dating spree
Cause blatantly
You should be mating me
Find a girl? Dont try son
I suck better than a dyson
Dont reject me :puppy_dog
That would make me cry some
So what you saying matty boy?
Wanna be my batty boy?
I'll make you happy boy :luvbed:

LOL !! A quality gay love poem. Cutting edge stuff.

K-DOGG
11-22-2006, 11:09 AM
Oh that was nice. Made me pick up my guitar. Love the slow blues.


Glad you could put some music to it. :)

BuddyChacon
11-22-2006, 12:28 PM
Rye Whiskey, Rye Whiskey
Rye Whiskey I cry
If I don't get My Whiskey I think I will die
If the ocean were Whiskey and I were a duck
I'd smim to the bottom and never come up

Oasis_Lad
11-27-2006, 08:28 PM
my favourite poem from mr phag ghey himself "oscar wilde"

The Ballad of Reading Gaol


He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby gray;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what haunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty space.

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not feel that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Comes through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the anguish of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass:
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

Oasis_Lad
11-27-2006, 08:29 PM
continued

II

Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard,
In the suit of shabby gray:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step was light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.

For strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.

The oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its alder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is the seat of grace
For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
For weal or woe again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
Two outcast men we were:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare.

Oasis_Lad
11-27-2006, 08:29 PM
cont

III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a warder walked,
For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called,
And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman's day was near.

But why he said so strange a thing
No warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher's doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fools' Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devils' Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the horrid hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
The fellow had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
Went shuffling through the gloom:
And I trembled as I groped my way
Into my numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watchers watched him as he slept,
And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
With a hangman close at hand.

But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept:
So we- the fool, the fraud, the knave-
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.

The warders with their shoes of felt
Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Gray figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad mourners of a corse!
The troubled plumes of midnight shook
Like the plumes upon a hearse:
And as bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savour of Remorse.

The gray **** crew, the red **** crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, the glided fast,
Like travellers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and long they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

"Oho!" they cried, "the world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame."

No things of air these antics were,
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
With the mincing step of a demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison wall:
Till like a wheel of turning steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or to give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way
And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong
The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound the frightened marshes hear
From some leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths that one must die.

Oasis_Lad
11-27-2006, 08:30 PM
cont

IV

There is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or his face is far too wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And then they rang the bell,
And the warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
And that man's face was gray,
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners called the sky,
And at every happy cloud that passed
In such strange freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived,
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The Memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
And Horror stalked before each man,
And Terror crept behind.

The warders strutted up and down,
And watched their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at,
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked, for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bones by night,
And the soft flesh by day,
It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but glow more red,
The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
Christ brings His will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit may not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may but weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

He is at peace- this wretched man-
At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They did not even toll
A requiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
And hid him in a hole.

The warders stripped him of his clothes,
And gave him to the flies:
They mocked the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In which the convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourners be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn

Oasis_Lad
11-27-2006, 08:30 PM
cont

V

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took His brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know- and wise it were
If each could know the same-
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And the do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of things nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the warder is Despair.

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and gray,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat,
And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal.

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

The Noose
11-28-2006, 03:41 PM
I may just read that one day.