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Dead Poets Society Do not go gentle into that.... Goodnight.


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#1 Godot

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 05:21 PM

Poetry, poets, dead ones, dying ones, deathly ones. Spy corner has demonstrated that there is more than a passing interest among deathlisters in poetry and poets as TF suggested some time ago.

Stanley Kunitz is one among many. Who will be next? Louis Simpson? Gunter Grass, the SS poet? Lawrence Ferlinghetti?

A thread for favourite poems, discourse on all things poetic and, of course, poets who are potential deathlist material. Ernesto Cardenal, Henri Chopin, Robert Creeley, Hans Enzensberger, Tuli Kupferberg, Noel Edmonds: names you are not likely to find in the Big Brother House.

Dedicated to Emily Dickinson, the matriarch of deathly verse.
Ring down the curtain, the farce is over

#2 maryportfuncity

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 05:33 PM

I'm hoping Edward Upward - 101 years old - will be the next 'name' in the Dead Poets Society, he's a name on my CPDP theme team.
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Maryport is a disappointment for which there is no cure, but the annual Deathrace thread hereabouts provides welcome distraction.

#3 Tempus Fugit

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 06:03 PM

The trouble with poets is very few of them are well known enough for DeathList.

Nobel prize winner Seamus Heaney though certainly is, but he's only 67 and no illnesses.
"I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time."

It's been over 18 months since I was last 100% sober, not a day I want to repeat.

#4 The Pooka

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 06:24 PM

View PostGodot, on Oct 8 2006, 06:21 PM, said:

Poetry, poets, dead ones, dying ones, deathly ones. Spy corner has demonstrated that there is more than a passing interest among deathlisters in poetry and poets as TF suggested some time ago.

Stanley Kunitz is one among many. Who will be next? Louis Simpson? Gunter Grass, the SS poet? Lawrence Ferlinghetti?

A thread for favourite poems, discourse on all things poetic and, of course, poets who are potential deathlist material. Ernesto Cardenal, Henri Chopin, Robert Creeley, Hans Enzensberger, Tuli Kupferberg, Noel Edmonds: names you are not likely to find in the Big Brother House.

Dedicated to Emily Dickinson, the matriarch of deathly verse.
Godot - how good of you to raise the tone. Here's a simple favourite from my neck of the woods. I believe it was a 'chart-bound sound' in 1913.


In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations'
Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow, silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half-asleep as they stalk.

Only thins smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
Though Dynasties die.

Yonder a maid and her wight
Come whispering by;
War's annals will fade into night
Ere their story die.


Thomas Hardy

Bring 'em on.

#5 Tempus Fugit

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 06:33 PM

For all dog lovers,

Dog by Harold Monro

You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff,
Asking for that expected walk,
(Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
And almost talk.

And so the moment becomes a moving force;
Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark;
The sticks grow live in the stride of their vagrant course.
You scamper the stairs,
Your body informed with the scent and the track and the mark
Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares.

We are going out. You know the pitch of the word,
Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog
And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard)
The four-legged brain of a walk-ecstatic dog.

Out in the garden your head is already low.
(Can you smell the rose? Ah, no.)
But your limbs can draw
Life from the earth through the touch of your padded paw.

Now, sending a little look to us behind,
Who follow slowly the track of your lovely play,
You carry our bodies forward away from mind
Into the light and fun of your useless day.

* * * * *

Thus, for your walk, we took ourselves, and went
Out by the hedge and the tree to the open ground.
You ran, in delightful strata of wafted scent,
Over the hill without seeing the view;
Beauty is smell upon primitive smell to you:
To you, as to us, it is distant and rarely found.

Home . . . and further joy will be surely there:
Supper waiting full of the taste of bone.
You throw up your nose again, and sniff, and stare
For the rapture known
Of the quick wild gorge of food and the still lie-down
While your people talk above you in the light
Of candles,and your dreams will merge and drown
Into the bed-delicious hours of night.

"I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time."

It's been over 18 months since I was last 100% sober, not a day I want to repeat.

#6 Banshees Scream

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 06:45 PM

Words. They speak softer than actions.

Actions are loud and outrageous, words are in tune and direct.

#7 The Pooka

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 06:46 PM

In Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee


#8 Tempus Fugit

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 06:51 PM

My favourite piece by Mr. Kipling (not the cakes)

The Way Through the Woods

THEY shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again;
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods . . .
But there is no road through the woods

"I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time."

It's been over 18 months since I was last 100% sober, not a day I want to repeat.

#9 The Pooka

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 06:55 PM

View PostTempus Fugit, on Oct 8 2006, 07:51 PM, said:

My favourite piece by Mr. Kipling (not the cakes)

The Way Through the Woods

THEY shut the road through the woods

. . .
But there is no road through the woods

... he did write exceedingly good poems.

#10 Tempus Fugit

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 07:24 PM

The Cricketers of Flanders by James Norman Hall (an American, ne'er a baseball in sight).


The first to climb the parapet
With cricket balls" in either hand;
The first to vanish in the smoke
Of God-forsaken No Man's Land;
First at the wire and soonest through,
First at those red-mouthed hounds of hell,
The Maxims, and the first to fall, --
They do their bit and do it well.


Full sixty yards I've seen them throw
With all that nicety of aim
They learned on British cricket-fields.
Ah, bombing is a Briton's game!
Shell-hole to shell-hole, trench to trench,
"Lobbing them over" with an eye
As true as though it were a game
And friends were having tea close by.


Pull down some art-offending thing
Of carven stone, and in its stead
Let splendid bronze commemorate
These men, the living and the dead.
No figure of heroic size,
Towering skyward like a god;
But just a lad who might have stepped
From any British bombing squad.


His shrapnel helmet set atilt,
His bombing waistcoat sagging low,
His rifle slung across his back:
Poised in the very act to throw.
And let some graven legend tell
Of those weird battles in the West
Wherein he put old skill to use,
And played old games with sterner zest.


Thus should he stand, reminding those
In less-believing days, perchance,
How Britain's fighting cricketers
Helped bomb the Germans out of France.
And other eyes than ours would see;
And other hearts than ours would thrill;
And others say, as we have said:
"A sportsman and a soldier still!"

"I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time."

It's been over 18 months since I was last 100% sober, not a day I want to repeat.

#11 in eternum+

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 09:27 PM

Can I have fifty pounds to mend the shed?

Can I have fifty pounds to mend the shed?
I'm right on my uppers.
I can pay you back
When this postal order comes from Australia.
Honestly.
Hope the bladder trouble's getting better.
Love, Ewan.

-The Poet McTeagle
Proud to be Old Skool

#12 maryportfuncity

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 09:48 PM

View PostTempus Fugit, on Oct 8 2006, 07:03 PM, said:

The trouble with poets is very few of them are well known enough for DeathList.

Nobel prize winner Seamus Heaney though certainly is, but he's only 67 and no illnesses.

Aye Tempus but I still think we should look to Eddie Up for next year, assuming he lasts that long. He WAS well known and the only reason for his decline is that the world passed him by years ago. In other words, like Fay Wray, he's a living relic. He will get broadsheet obits.
Posted Image


Maryport is a disappointment for which there is no cure, but the annual Deathrace thread hereabouts provides welcome distraction.

#13 Lady Grendel

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 09:52 PM

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky
I left my vest and socks there - I wonder if they're dry?

Spike Milligan

#14 maryportfuncity

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 10:01 PM

When a man is tired of London,
then he is tired of life.
When a man is tired of Cleator Moor*
he's only tired of shite!


From 'Raiders of the Low Forehead' by Stanley Manly



* A town in West Cumbria, near Maryport.
Posted Image


Maryport is a disappointment for which there is no cure, but the annual Deathrace thread hereabouts provides welcome distraction.

#15 DevonDeathTrip

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Posted 08 October 2006 - 10:07 PM

If I had a newt
I'd have a pursuit
Sometimes when we see the eyes- those horrible times when we see the eyes,eyes that ... that have no soul - then we know a darkness.

#16 Tempus Fugit

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Posted 10 October 2006 - 09:54 PM

Snooker loopy Not exactly a poem, but rather appropriate given what's been happening.

Snooker loopy nuts are we
Me and him and them and me
We'll show you what we can do
With a load of balls and a snooker cue

Pot the reds then, skrew back
For the yellow green brown blue pink and black
Snooker loopy nuts are we
We're all snooker loopy

Now ol' Milo as we all know's
Got loadsa dappa suits
London bred and he keeps his head
'Though he's got Italian roots
Emotional but he keeps his cool
'Til he reaches the finals
And whether he wins or whether he don't
'I always bite me eyeballs'

Now our friend Den, hours he spent
Down the snooker hall
On the old green baize his mates seem amazed
At skills with a snooker ball
And them long shots, he never ever got
Why? The old mind boggles
But nowadays he pots the lot
'Cos I wear these goggles'

Snooker loopy nuts are we
Me and him and them and me
We'll show you what we can do
With a load of balls and a snooker cue

Pot the reds then, skrew back
For the yellow green brown blue pink and black
Snooker loopy nuts are we
We're all snooker loopy

Now Terry the taff was born in a gaff
In the valleys of the land of song
And as the reds he puts to bed
He likes to sing along
And if I win he says with a grin
It can only help me can't it
I'll celebrate, I'll buy another eight
'Hairbrushes for me barnet'

Now old Willy Thorne his hair's all gone
And his mates all take the rise
His opponent said cover up his head
Cos it's shining in my eyes
When the light shines down on his bare crown
It's a cert he's gonna walk it
It's just not fair giving off that glare
'Perhaps I ought to chalk it'

Snooker loopy nuts are we
Me and him and them and me
We'll show you what we can do
With a load of balls and a snooker cue

Pot the reds then, skrew back
For the yellow green brown blue pink and black
Snooker loopy nuts are we
We're all snooker loopy

Now Steve last year come very near
To winning the snooker crown
But he never got to put it on his ginger nut
Cos the black ball wouldn't go down
His manager of all said 'Sod that ball'
But it helped him make his mind up
Now he don't care who wins this year
'Cos he's got the rest of us signed up'

Snooker loopy nuts are we
Me and him and them and me
We'll show you what we can do
With a load of balls and a snooker cue

Pot the reds then, skrew back
For the yellow green brown blue pink and black
Snooker loopy nuts are we
We're all snooker loopy

Snooker loopy nuts are we
Me and him and them and me
We'll show you what we can do
With a load of balls and a snooker cue

Pot the reds then, skrew back
For the yellow green brown blue pink and black
Snooker loopy nuts are we
We're all snooker loopy

Snooker loopy nuts are we
We're all snooker loopy

Snooker loopy nuts are we.....
We're all snooker loopy


"I have a new philosophy. I'm only going to dread one day at a time."

It's been over 18 months since I was last 100% sober, not a day I want to repeat.

#17 The Pooka

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Posted 10 October 2006 - 10:01 PM

View PostTempus Fugit, on Oct 10 2006, 10:54 PM, said:

Snooker loopy Not exactly a poem, but rather appropriate given what's been happening.

Snooker loopy nuts are we

Cracking TF. And topical.

#18 Godot

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Posted 08 November 2006 - 07:37 PM

Stumbled on Charles Bukowski's web site and thought he might be a good candidate until I found he was long dead. But what a marvellous timeline. It mentions all his major illnesses and even when and to whom he lost his virginity. If only deathlist candidates published such usefully ordered information about themselves.
Ring down the curtain, the farce is over

#19 DevonDeathTrip

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Posted 06 October 2007 - 12:18 AM

Edwin Morgan, Scotland's poet laureate, is suffering from terminal prostate cancer.

Prostate cancer is a bit of a slow burner, but he was first diagnosed in 1999 and he is 88 years old, so I doubt he's going to with us for an awful lot longer.
Sometimes when we see the eyes- those horrible times when we see the eyes,eyes that ... that have no soul - then we know a darkness.

#20 TAFKAG

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Posted 09 August 2008 - 08:20 PM

The 'most recognised Palestinian poet in the world', Mahmoud Darwish, is dead. I probably walked right past him one fine day, but failed to recognise him.

~ O Sting, where is thy death? ~





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