Your are viewing a read-only archive of the old DiS boards. Please hit the Community button above to engage with the DiS !
Andrew Motion can fuck right off.
his rap for wills' birthday. uuuuugh. it was the closest i ever came to joining the black panthers.
me and my friends were in a pub where you could surf the internet and what you were surfing was for some reason projected onto giant screens mounted on the walls throughout the pub.
the link above featured heavily.
Surely whoever came up with that projector idea must have known it would end in tears. Tears and scat.
my mate put a sample video from that site on repeat for 20 minutes before the dullard barstaff noticed
I didn't click that.
I need to lie down.
I clicked it. :(
you can never resist. DIRTY WOMAN.
eating a poo right now
I actually feel sick now.
Don Paterson (a bit of a prick in real life, too)
Carol Ann Duffy
Most of the bollocks that got printed in Bloodaxe's awful 'New Blood' anthology
Most translation of Latin poetry, especially misguided attempts by academics to funk it up by adding clunky swearing and inappropriate exclamation marks
It's the language. I know he's been savaged on here before, though, so I don't really fancy the argument.
I dislike Heaney for the same reason you like him. But I'm not about to argue. He's still better than Somerset de Chair.
Who the fuck is Somerset de Chair? A link to the works of this great bard, if you please...
is a fine biographer and he gave a phone interview to my girlfriend for her dissertation on Philip Larkin, so he is EXEMPT
but as a poet he can suck my balls.
A very nice man though
This was a book I found in a second-hand shop, and it dates from 1970.
SONGS FROM ST. OSYTH - The COLLECTED VERSES OF SOMERSET DE CHAIR
(here's the back:)
'Somerset de Chair is in Elizabethan figure; soldier, poet, historian, novelist, painter, collector. Like Hilaire Belloc, he was also a Member of Parliament for twelve years. He has owned and lived in some of the most romantic houses in BRITAIN - the Island of Gigha in Scotland, Chilham Castle in Kent, Trerice Manor in Cornwall, Blickling Hall in Norfolk and latterly St. Osyth's Priory in Essex, which he owns now and opens to the public. As a soldier, 'one of those terrible cornets of horse' while still in the House of Commons, he was severely wounded before the desert fortress of Palmyra, "that splendid affair amid the noble ruins" as Churchill described it to him. One is reminded of Sir Philip Sidney, also a poet, of Penshurst in Kent "Hurt giving charge before Zutphen whereof he died".
'de Chair had previously crossed the waterless desert from the Mediterranean to the Tigris as intelligence officer to the British relief column and was taken blindfold at dawn into the city of the Caliphs to rescue the Ambassador and carry the good news to the beleaguered British Community. His famous book on this romantic episode "The Golden Carpet" was immediately bracketed by Sir Ronald Storrs in the Sunday Times with "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom" and Doughty's "Arabia Deserta". But it is as a poet that de Chair will probably be remembered best. Although his output is small, the quality is high and we believe that it has an enduring place in the mainstream of English Lyric Poetry. In particular there is a continuing thread between James Elroy Flecker, Ernest Altounyan and Somerset de Chair because of the spice-laden contribution of the Levant to their poetry'.
Excerpt from the introduction:
'With the publication of the Waste Land by T.S.Eliot, the pellucid stream of English poetry, which had been tinkling along in the same channel for 400 years, suddenly biforkated and part of it plunged over a precipice, in a waterfall, whose cascading roar has deafened the world to the more melodious strains of the remaining part of the stream, still browsing along on the upper level, past water-meadows...'
The Growth of the Power of the Press
I met a man from the Golden Hind,
A merry tar.
He was chewing a piece of lemon rind
But his eyes looked far.
I asked him to tell me of Francis Drake.
He spat on the stones.
'Drake was a devil; a bit of a rake,
God rest his bones'.
'What was he like? Was he dark? Was he fair?
Was he taller than me?'
'He carried himself like a man without care.
He was deep as the sea'
'What did you see of the Spanish Main?
Galleons of gold?'
'We didn't see much. And the tropical rain
Made us feel bloody cold.'
'Yes, but didn't you see any Spaniards at all?'
'We saw plenty of brine.'
'But surely the ship weathered many a squall?'
'We went south of the Line.'
'What was it like when you rounded Cape Horn?'
'Yes, I know. Was it light? Did you pass it at dawn?'
'This is enough!'
'I'm sorry,' I said, 'But you see, it's so rare
To meet someone who knew
Francis Drake, sailed the Main, round the world and was there
when Armada was due.'
'Well, why in the hell should I trouble for you?
Why should I care?
They paid us damn all. You can tell them that too.
Get the hell out of here.'
I met a man from the Victory.
He was long since dead.
I asked him what Nelson was like at sea.
He scratched his head.
'The Admiral was frail as a girl. He was thin,
With a patch on his eye
And a stump of an arm. But he knew how to win
Battles and die.
'If I went to his cabin, as likely as not,
He was kneeling at prayer.
(When the weather was cold I hung red-hot shot
To warm the air.)'
'Were you there when he died in the thick of the fight?'
'I was there,' said he.
'Where were you standing? Describe me the sight.'
'I was making his tea.'
I met a man from the Iron Duke.
He was shot in the head.
'I was there on the bridge, by a bit of a fluke.
That's why I'm dead.'
'What did Jellicoe do? Was he much of a fool?
Did he show any strain?'
'He was quiet and small, and he kept very cool.
He used his brain'.
'He lost half his ships. And the BOSCH [The Club Secretary] went free.
Can you call it a win?'
'He may have lost his ships. But he kept us the sea.
And the BOSCH [The Club Secretary] stayed in.'
'Do you mind if I quote your remarks in the press?'
'Not at all, not at all.
You may copy that photograph done in full dress
Just before the Court Ball.'
where it says 'BOSCH' it should say German. And there should be no [The Club Secretary] either. (I copied that from another forum where they have an irritating, xenophobic auto-censor which everyone hates).
These are incredible. And to think he's escaped ridicule while William McGonagall's good name is trampled.
He does crappy free verse as well ('cancarous' is how the word was written):
'Old and New Love'.
My old love is like an old dog
Rheumy and cancarous.
Unable to lift his hind legs off the floor
With mournful large eyes
Not to be put down
After a lifetime's fidelity.
But there is no future in him,
Only misery and pain.
Yet I cannot bear to contemplate his end.
My new love is like a young puppy
Gambolling in the snow,
Full of delight
And artful tricks;
And digging them up again
To show me,
Running after thrown sticks,
Licking my face,
And making messes everywhere.
But all the future is in him,
Happiness and pure joy!
Unbelievable. It's like the kind of crap that gets published in the Wilts and Glos Standard.