For all poetry lovers

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Gearce
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For all poetry lovers

Post by Gearce » 16 Jul 2012, 03:27

Everyone and anyone who likes poetry should take a look at http://www.poetrybyloree.com/ which contains over 430 poems on a vast number of subjects and the music is a pleasure to listen to.

I came across it while googling for Christmas verses for Christmas cards.
To quote ANONYMOUS
I know the voices in my head aren't real..... but sometimes their ideas are just absolutely awesome!

Callunna

Re: For all poetry lovers

Post by Callunna » 23 Jul 2012, 13:04

We (Bernulf acoustic band) have been asked to do a 30-minute spot in the interval of the forthcoming musical based on Wilfred Owen’s story. It comes to the ACE Centre, Nelson on 18 October and has already sold out in London.

http://www.wilfredowenstory.com/bulletsanddaffs.html

The reason I mention it here is that in conjunction with this, there’s a poetry competition and the winner will be asked to perform their poem at this event.

http://www.pendlewarpoetry.com

So why not have a go? All the details and entry requirements can be found via the website link above.

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Bodger
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Re: For all poetry lovers

Post by Bodger » 23 Jul 2012, 16:40


Gearce
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Re: For all poetry lovers

Post by Gearce » 10 Jun 2013, 10:18

Here's an inspirational poem I came across while Googling


The Race
attributed to Dr. D.H. "Dee" Groberg

Whenever I start to hang my head in front of failure’s face,
my downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
A children’s race, young boys, young men; how I remember well,
excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn’t hard to tell.
They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race
or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son,
and each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire,
to win, to be the hero there, was each young boy’s desire.
One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,
was running in the lead and thought “My dad will be so proud.”
But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip,
the little boy who thought he’d win, lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace,
and midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn’t win it now.
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.

But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,
which to the boy so clearly said, “Get up and win that race!”
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all,
and ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
his mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
“I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.”

But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face
with a steady look that said again, “Get up and win that race!”
So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last.
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought, “I’ve got to run real fast!”
Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten...
but trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye.
“There’s no sense running anymore! Three strikes I’m out! Why try?
I’ve lost, so what’s the use?” he thought. “I’ll live with my disgrace.”
But then he thought about his dad, who soon he’d have to face.

“Get up,” an echo sounded low, “you haven’t lost at all,
for all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
Get up!” the echo urged him on, “Get up and take your place!
You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!”
So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit,
and he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.
Three times he’d fallen stumbling, three times he rose again.
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.

They cheered another boy who crossed the line and won first place,
head high and proud and happy -- no falling, no disgrace.
But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line, in last place,
the crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.
And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud,
you would have thought he’d won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, “I didn’t do so well.”
“To me, you won,” his father said. “You rose each time you fell.”

And now when things seem dark and bleak and difficult to face,
the memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.
For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
And when depression and despair shout loudly in my face,
another voice within me says, “Get up and win that race!”
To quote ANONYMOUS
I know the voices in my head aren't real..... but sometimes their ideas are just absolutely awesome!

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SPR676
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Re: For all poetry lovers

Post by SPR676 » 11 May 2018, 00:35

BLUEBELL POLKA
(Florence Stanley/Paddy Roberts)

Pickin' a bluebell in the merry month of May,
And suddenly I saw him strolling on his way,
Pickin' a bluebell just the same as I was too,
I thought I could be happy with a boy like you.

And as he turned and smiled at me my heart stood still,
I never knew a smile could give me such a thrill.
He was a handsome laddie and he looked so good,
I promised that I'd meet him in the bluebell wood.

Half past seven by the old oak tree,
I was waiting anticipating
What would happen to a girl like me
When he came along?

Pickin' a bluebell in the merry month of May,
And suddenly I saw him strolling on his way,
Pickin' a bluebell just the same as I was too,
I thought I could be happy with a boy like you.

He looked wonderful, oh so wonderful,
How was I to see he would make a fool of me?
Two dark flashing eyes looked like paradise;
My heart flickered like a flame.

What was I to do? Met my Waterloo.
There I stood for him, waiting in the wood for him;
I'm confessing, I learned my lesson
And now I'll never be the same.

Pickin' a Bluebell in the merry month of May
Is something I'll remember when I'm old and grey,
And if I live to ninety-two I know darn well,
I never want to see another Scots bluebell
Russ
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