Red lips are not ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ kissed by the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ dead.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ their love pure.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ eyes ¦¦¦¦ lure
When I behold eyes blinded in ¦¦¦ stead!
Your ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ exquisite ¦¦¦¦ limbs knife-skewed,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ rolling there
Where God seems ¦¦¦ to care;
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ Love they bear
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings ¦¦¦ so soft, --
Though ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ murmuring through raftered loft, --
Your ¦¦¦¦ voice is ¦¦¦ dear,
Gentle, and ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ clear,
As theirs whom none ¦¦¦ hear
¦¦¦ earth ¦¦¦ stopped ¦¦¦¦¦ piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Nor large, nor full ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ made great with shot;
¦¦¦ though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
¦¦¦¦¦ you may weep, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ touch them not.
(Blackout of Greater Love by Wilfred Owen)
Wilfred the wombat
Was really quite fat
Instead of digging holes
He just stared and sat.
He sat in the country
He sat in the town
He sat quite high up
He sat quite low down.
He sat at the beach
While others would surf
He did wombat yoga
While the others dug turf.
He sat in the west
He sat in the east
But no one realised
He was deceased.
Wilfred Owem 'FUTILITY'
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/, \_\||\|/ ,_\,/
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cotton candy floss
Wilfred Gibson 'BAYONET '
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Poet Wilfred Owen won an MC
dying in France to make it free
Creator of 'near-rhyme'
helping verse in English 'chime'
W-riter
I-s
L-etting
F-orm
R-ightfully
E-mploy
D-elight
A-s
S-cribe
U-ses
N-ame
C-omposing
I-mpressive
O-utstanding
N-ote
Topic: Birthday of Wilfred Asuncion (October 08)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
The War Poets
The First World War wasn`t a world war but
a war of dominance in Europe chiefly by the Franc, British and Germany.
World War 2 included most country it was a nasty war
millions of people died, but strangely this war is partly forgotten.
It changed the map and brought forward Israel, which became a torn
for lasting peace in the Middle East.
But the war brought us great American writers like Theodore Dreiser,
Ezra Pound (poet)Ernst Hemingway and many others great writers.
The savagery of that world didn`t include so many poets as
the dispute in Europe also called a world war did,
the reason we remember it so well is thanks to Wilfred Owens and
his intimate friend Frederic Sassoon who ploughed deep furrows
in our mind and did away with flowering poetry, gritty realism
was and still is what poets should strive for.
Dulce et decorum est,
or total hell on Earths past
oh world of many worlds,
how long will this one last,
Wild with all regrets,
though needs dictate
spells of incantations,
realisation of my fate,
The young soldier
with a date to respect
Six o'clock at princes street
his body ready to dissect,
I saw his round mouth's crimson
as I felt my last life's breath,
As your soul slipped
it joins mine at our death.
composed 12/02/2017.
To sing an anthem for doomed youth.
Why did I believe the clergy's untruth
and the politicians who I voted for in a polling booth.
and know i will pay the price in karma's toll booth.
Governments don't worry with arms and the boy.
or the death of a man who just years before was a school boy.
Oh the futility of war its the real Mccoy.
the lords and lady's watch on high as we die, just the hoi polloi.
Lets say no to the next war lets live in peace for ever more.
the only army I am joining is the peace corps.
I'm finished, I am not going to be the politicians war whore.
The last laugh will be mine as I refuse to fight your wars .
comp entry 11/02
poet Wilfred Owen His family once lived in Nantwich ie 5 miles away and it was
his poems that 1st got me interested in poetry.
He came like Tommy’s Cooper
With a pocket in each hand,
Juggling with his boulders
While out humphing ‘cross the land.
It took about a day a week
No more and not much less.
He took his Barry from a hook
And strapped it to his chest.
Next day he shaved his crook’d nose
And washed his crook’d gums.
He combed his crook’d eyebrows
Then he rang his crook’d chums.
‘I am the crook’d Barry!’
He declared along the way.
‘My chin is crook’d as a sock
Not like a rail-way.’
Then like a Wilfred Brambel
On a tandem made for one.
He cursed a little woodbine-
In his head he sang a song.
‘I have a friend called ‘arry,
He’s not crook’d, not like me.
His teeth are straight as diamonds
And he shines them on the sea.’
‘His lips are made of custard
And they taste of apple pie.
His hair is made of rainbows
Growing bald across the sky.’
On the 28th day
of June 2014
I sit alone
in my lounge
smoking a pipe
reflecting that
it was on
28 June 1914
when War
to end all wars
broke out exactly
one hundred years
to this day
now I feel tears
in my eyes for
the great young
Poets it spawned
aye spawned
but also killed
especially I weep
for Wilfred Owen 25
and Charles Sorley
poet extraordinaire
only 20 when killed.
Spread your cherries
be brave; when a man
calls you:
Do the right thing (but have your
Loaded 45 to hand)
Check first his credit;
Does he have lightship
Standing?
Is he a trader?…do terms
Apply?
As an inter-stellar prostitiute
Working for peace, you know
You will be protected
Do the right thing:
What else is there?
Let’s face it; you come
With the apartment.
Dulce est decorum est
(With apologies to Wilfred Owen)
Blake was chosen keeper,
For careful hands had he
Yeats the classic sweeper
And Keats at number three
Whitman wore the five shirt
With Masefield to his right
Thus they had a back line
Of energy and might
Rimbaud had been brought in
At quite enormous cost
To complement the midfield
Of Byron, Burns and Frost
Up front two boyhood heroes
Whom I revere today
The tortured Wilfred Owen,
The brilliant Thomas Gray
And so it became clear to me
When first I entered Heaven
That I would have to go somewhat
To make the First Eleven.
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