Favourite Poem

MTA · Favourite Poem

Reading an article in the latest 'Steam Railway' magazine about TPO's, I remembered the famous poem used in the 1936 GPO film of the name 'Night Mail'. With a soundtrack by Benjamin Britten, it followed the overnight TPO (Travelling Post Office) service between London and Glasgow. Although rather than containing factual narration, it evoked the spirit of a steam hauled TPO. So here, in full text, is 'Night Mail' by W H Auden. My favourite poem:

Night Mail

This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, the climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

W H Auden

No doubt our in house poet SM and our scottish members will have a few comments! BTW, you have to read the first and fourth verse quickly to get the feel of an engine at speed

Lewis

aye thats one of the best ive heard to mate

looks and sounds better when it has the movie though

MTA

Lewis

hope you find it

Chris

A mate of mine bought that on video, it is pretty good.

Another friend reads this very well, but being by Burns I have no idea what is going on!

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Lewis

MTA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gmq6mFAEqNQ

MTA

Lewis

James

You ain't allowed to drink, MTA

MTA

Graham-Jilly

good one Lewis thanks for that we enjoyed it
G-J

James

Yeah I am!

I always drink Spitfire and Guinness at home.

You're 16 and you ain't allowed

SPOKESMAN · Re: Favourite Poem

MTA

They are re-releasing it on DVD for £17.50 now

I might get it

Mamodman123

Beans, beans the musical fruit,

the more you eat

the more you toot

MTA

Mamodman123

SPOKESMAN

I thought it was:

Beans, beans good for your heart,

The more you the more you fart.

Lewis

classic

Mamodman123

SPOKESMAN

Lewis

i dont know that one tell me it

Graham-Jilly

Some interesting things Night Train
This poem was written by W.H. Auden (1907-1973) to be a commentary for a documentary film made in 1936, and also called Night Mail. Near the end of the 24-minute film this poem is read by Auden to the accompaniment of music composed by Benjamin Britten.

WH Auden also wrote "The Funeral Blues " -- was in "Four Weddings and a Funeral."

"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."

Cheers Jilly

SPOKESMAN

If I had the wings of a sparrow,

If I had the arse of a crow,

I'd fly up to City tomorrow,

And sh*t on the b*stards below!

Sandman

Jeez

He was a bundle of laughs.

Mamodman123

Lewis

SPOKESMAN

Mamodman123

Lewis

aye

James

We're Doncaster City
And our lasses are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow
Up streets broad and narrow
Singing *clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap clap*

ROVERS

Build a bonfire
Build a bonfire
Put the Iron on the top
Put the Cod Heads in the middle
And burn the f*cking lot

Rovers Til I Die
I'm Rovers Til I Die
I know I am
I'm sure I am
I'm Rovers Til I Die

SINGA SONGA SINGA SONGA
DONCASTER
R
O
V
E
R
S

ROVERS

*clap alot of times*

I could go on?

Mamodman123

James

Oh Doncaster
Oh Doncaster
Is wonderful
Is wonderful
Oh Doncaster is wonderful
It's full of tits, fanny and chips
Oh Doncaster is wonderful

tarbyonline

I had to look twice there, thought the topic said favourite porn!!!!! Not the type of thing you expect to see round here

anyways, not strictly a poem but i like it none the less:

Forever and Ever,
We'll follow the Glens,
Glentoran forever,
We'll follow you,
We'll capture the gold cup,
The City Cup too,
If we don't win the league,
The Irish Cup will do,
So its Glentoran, Glentoran forever,
We'll win the league once again,
We'll tell the World of our Great Forward Line,
Forever and Forever they will shine

Wallace

My favourite poem could be one I have never heard the full version of.

From the Simpsons. Something like

There was a Young Man from nantucket.

That's all, never heard the rest. But it started good.

Failing that, I recently visited this Website

http://www.blokeystuff.com.au/index.php

The Poem (or Ballad rather) on the site is very Aussie, and true. I love it. Worth printing out and putting up in the shed/garage

The bloke stood in the garden shed,
surrounded by his things,
It was a Sunday morning and the missus had had a whinge.
"You've got to clear that clutter out
and make it clean and neat,
How you can find a thing in there has really got me beat!"

He pondered on his treasures,
no-one really understood,
The years he’d been collecting them,
the screws and bits of wood,
The cut off length of guttering from when he fixed the roof,
The paint from the youngest's bedroom
and for making the boat waterproof.
Piled up in the corner were the things that he would fix,
The rocking horse,
the garden gnome,
the mixer that wouldn't mix,
The beta video player,
a classic from the past,
The motor from the lawnmower,
with new valves it should last.
He loved the missus dearly
and thought the kids were grouse,
But there were times when he'd go crazy
just to get out of the house.

His stuff was full of memories,
times spent with his mates,
Of beers and golf and bad advice
for hanging garden gates.

The bloke he sighed and scratched the dog,
his motivation low,
He thought about the places that
were no longer his alone;
The pub had turned to pokies,
his barber cut girls' hair,
The hardware shop sold textured paint
and offered child care.

"I need a place all of my own,
to which my mates can come.
Where I can keep the stuff I love,
and play and have some fun.
A special place for fellas, where a man can be a man,
A place for blokes to spend some time,"
away his fancies ran.

"I'll build a shop where all can come,
blokes both young and old,
To find the stuff that meets their needs,
stuff to have and hold.
There'll be gadgetry and gimmicks,
games and things of use,"
(And when your birthday comes around,
just let the sheila loose.)
"I'll get pocket knives and coffee mugs,
and Star Wars games of chess,
Model cars, books on Mars and puzzles hard to guess.
There'll be bugs in boxes, wintersockses, robots made of tin,
Telescopes and knotting ropes,
a case to put things in."

The bloke sat down and poked the dog,
snoring at the door,
His mighty plan was underway,
but there was one thing more,
What could he call this blokey store,
a name both strong and tough,
His eyes lit up,
loud he exclaimed,
"I'll call it Blokey Stuff!"

So if you care to take a walk,
down Parramatta way,
You'll find this shop tucked down
the side of Civic's old Arcade.
There’ll be outdoors stuff and indoors stuff and very friendly folk,
But if you're really lucky,
you just might meet The Bloke.

Blokey Stuff, 2003

Chris

The Blokey stuff shop reminded me of a shop in Newbury. I assume it is still there.

It sells cameras and photography stuff at the front of the shop, and single malt whisky (some rare and very expensive) at the back of the shop.

Seems they are the managers two hobbies.

Graham-Jilly

Now wallace thats real poetry not that puntcy foootball crap

SPOKESMAN

Favourite Poem

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