Favourite Poems and Prose.

Bags of Meat

‘Here’s a fine bag of meat,’
Says the master-auctioneer,
As the timid, quivering steer,
Starting a couple of feet,
At the prod of a drover’s stick,
And trotting lightly and quick,
A ticket stuck on his rump,
Enters with a bewildered jump.

‘Where he’s lived lately, friends,
I’d live till lifetime ends:
They’ve a whole life everyday
Down there in the Vale, have they !
He’d be worth the money to kill
And give away Christmas for goodwill.’

‘Now here’s a heifer – worth more
Than bid, were she bone-poor;
Yet she’s round as a barrel of beer’;
‘She’s a plum,’ said the second auctioneer.

‘Now this young bull – for thirty pound ?
Worth that to manure your ground !’
‘Or to stand,’ chimed the second one,
‘And have his picter done!’

The beast was rapped on the horns and snout
To make him turn about.
‘Well,’ cied a buyer, ‘another crown –
Since I’ve dragged here from Taunton Town!’

‘That calf, she sucked three cows,
Which is not matched for bouse
In the nurseries of high life
By the first-born of a nobleman’s wife !’
The stick falls, meaning, ‘A true tale’s told,’
On the buttock of the creature sold,
And the buyer leans over and snips
His mark on one of the animal’s hips.

Each beast, when driven in,
Looks round at the ring of the bidders there
With a much-amazed reproachful stare,
As at unnatural kin,
For bringing him to a sinister scene
So strange, unhomelike, hungry, mean;
His fate the while suspended between
A butcher, to kill out of hand,
And a farmer, to keep on the land;
One can fancy a tear runs down his face
When the butcher wins, and he’s driven from the place.

Thomas Hardy

Winter Night

It snowed and snowed, the whole world over,
Snow swept the world from end to end.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

As during summer midges swarm
To beat their wings against a flame
Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed
To beat against the window pane

The blizzard sculptured on the glass
Designs of arrows and of whorls.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

Distorted shadows fell
Upon the lighted ceiling:
Shadows of crossed arms, of crossed legs-
Of crossed destiny.

Two tiny shoes fell to the floor
And thudded.
A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears
Upon a dress.

All things vanished within
The snowy murk-white, hoary.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

A corner draft fluttered the flame
And the white fever of temptation
Upswept its angel wings that cast
A cruciform shadow

It snowed hard throughout the month
Of February, and almost constantly
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

Boris Pasternak

marvellous work there Netters, one of your very best. Simply divine; so evocative of time and place, not at all understated and with a gorgeous wooden bouquet too.

ya koont !!
:lol:

Porridge

Why is there no monument
To Porridge in our land ?
If it’s good enough to eat,
It’s good enough to stand !

On a plinth in London
A ststue we should see
Of Porridge made in Scotland
Signed “Oatmeal, O.B.E”
(By a young dog of three)

Spike

L M A O – my unadulterated pleasure

** winks at Reason’s missus **

yeah, still……. she’s good to the kids