Philip Larkin (1922-1985)
The Mower
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
Very poignant… Lovely.
Good lesson there for all those counties waiting in the long grass.
But what if kindness is thrown back in your face, mate?
At what point do you say, “Fuck that liberty taking cunt”?
Or indeed, ah shur it was only a fucking hedgehog like, at the end of the day.
The Mower
By Fagan ODowd
She was nagging the fuck out of me to cut the grass
It will be raining soon and it hasn’t been cut in a fortnight
There was a match on the telly
Alright, alright, give it a rest.
I took it out of the shed and pulled the lead,
Fuck it anyway, no petrol
Cunt of a thing. It can wait till next week.
See if I care.
That poem spoke to me. I suppose that really is the gift of poetry.
Most acts of aggression or unkindness are about the other person and their issues. Rarely about you.
Terrible things happen good people. Our only defence is kindness.
So keep being kind to a cunt who’s mugging you off? Will that not lead to them mugging you off FOREVER? Surely you should stop being kind to them and tell them to fuck off being a gimp? Please advise.
We lost the championship match. They blamed
The groundsman with the excess iron in his blood
I blamed him too. But in a funny way it should
Never have come down to the last
Gasp. But then life always does.
That’s the trouble with grass, it never stops growing,
But sadly, I have tired of mowing.
Be like water. Fluid. Roll with it. Find your way into their crevices and weaknesses. Water is soft but it corrodes rock. Softness is not weakness.
But go out of your way to be kind to somebody else. Don’t match aggression towards you with aggression elsewhere. Match it with kindness elsewhere. Yin and yang.
Zen.
Bit of formatting required there mate but solid effort
So keep being kind, to a cunt,
who’s mugging you off?
Will that not lead to them mugging you off?
FOREVER
Surely you should stop being kind to them
and tell them to fuck off being a gimp?
Please advise.
What do you think Shelly is saying??
I MET a Traveler from an antique land,
Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings.”
Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!
No thing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
I charge €200 an hour to do poetry assignments Joe
no assignment. Shelly is talking about mortalit and what we LEAVE BEHIND
Is it Paul Shelly?
Ozmandias was some boy all the say, he would have been unbeatable on the INTERNET.
“The Winter Commute”
by Iron Moth (2015)
Driving sheets of freezing rain come sideways yet again;
December and its short, dark days - winter you cruel bitch.
Enough of desks and hiding behind printers
Clutch my coat and run to the station
Cars splashing water, rotten leaves stuck to the pavement
Force me to run like a freak, leaping left, slipping right.
The train - it truly disgusts me. What a collection of cunts.
I know one person - my neighbour. A prick.
I’d rather site beside the tramp. At least he’d be genuine.
“Is that seat taken?” Yes - I’m keeping it for Henry Kissinger.
He also travels to Port Laoise, don’t you know.
Jesus - that tramp is very smelly. Possibly dog shit, poor guy.
Looking out the window, at nothing but reflected faces of passengers.
Glum, buried in laptops, phones and avoiding conversation.
The relief when I get to the car. It feels like an escape,
As I start the engine and blast the air to de-mist.
The smell of dog shit starts to waft - I look down, slowly, in anticipation.
It wasn’t leaves I skidded on. Who’s the smelly tramp now?
