Louis MacNeice - Prayer before Birth

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

Dublinesque

Down stucco sidestreets,

Where light is pewter

And afternoon mist

Brings lights on in shops

Above race-guides and rosaries,

A funeral passes.The hearse is ahead,

But after there follows

A troop of streetwalkers

In wide flowered hats,

Leg-of-mutton sleeves,

And ankle-length dresses.There is an air of great friendliness,

As if they were honouring

One they were fond of;

Some caper a few steps,

Skirts held skilfully

(Someone claps time),And of great sadness also.

As they wend away

A voice is heard singing

Of Kitty, or Katy,

As if the name meant once

All love, all beauty.

Philip Larkin

Church Going

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Philip Larkin

Pull My Daisy

"Pull My Daisy" is a poem written by three of beat poetry's most famous sons; Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady.

It is said to have been written with one person writing the first line, the other writing the second, and so on sequentially with each person only being shown the line before.

I like the poems discordant nature, surrealist imagery and powerful use of alliteration. Childish language, combined with sexual innuendo, leave one dizzy with contemplative wonder.

Pull my daisy
tip my cup
all my doors are open
Cut my thoughts
for coconuts
all my eggs are broken
Jack my Arden
gate my shades
woe my road is spoken
Silk my garden
rose my days
now my prayers awaken

Bone my shadow
dove my dream
start my halo bleeding
Milk my mind &
make me cream
drink me when you're ready
Hop my heart on
harp my height
seraphs hold me steady
Hip my angel
hype my light
lay it on the needy

Heal the raindrop
sow the eye
bust my dust again
Woe the worm
work the wise
dig my spade the same
Stop the hoax
whats the hex
where's the wake
how's the hicks
take my golden beam

Rob my locker
lick my rocks
leap my cock in school
Rack my lacks
lark my looks
jump right up my hole
Whore my door
beat my door
eat my snake of fool
Craze my hair
bare my poor
asshole shorn of wool

say my oops
ope my shell

Bite my naked nut
Roll my bones
ring my bell
call my worm to sup
Pope my parts
pop my pot
raise my daisy up
Poke my pap
pit my plum
let my gap be shut

Mike

A Nine Minute Beat Poem

Haiku Review- Mastodon 'Crack the Skye.'

Diamond bright music,
Mystic messenger deliveres;
Sonic message absorbed in full.

Mike

Daytime

Palm trees sway under the afternoon sun's glare,
not a care in the world, aimlessly dancing, freedom abound.

The air is alive with the sounds of birds,
singing songs of life, good fortune, simplicity all around.

The sky struggles to stay blue in the light of the day,
shedding it's skin, revealing everything, wondrous rebirth.

Lonely geckos scuttle with with reckless abandon,
hastening the pace, on the move, flightless workmanship.

Peoples' moods remain cool despite natures intensities,
their hearts are chilled, beaming smiles, feathers unruffled.

Pikey

Slievemore

Slievemore the slug, slouches contently, casting sliver tinged shadows
Picture book style,

Her dark seal skin stretched tightly, a sleekness uniform, pristine on the eye,
Cross-roads in bloom,

Sentinel white face attentive, squint-eyed, deciphering intensely,
Skyline calculus,

Imperious skirmisher stands to attention, oozing, colours,
Electric intensity,

Army of yellow units, poised, energised for engagement
Watching, waiting,

Swirling green guards, frenzied, unbalanced in commotion,
Brooding inevitability,

Up turned remains, from a by gone age,
Relics of the past to come.

Pikey

The Room

The orange glow gives the room a tinge of the orient,

An erect iron butterfly stands tall, laughing towards the magnificent sunset,

Its shadow cast on the wall is not that of a friendly being,

Not pleasant, revealing, animated, possibly living,

Light blast from a lone candle casts up images of hot Moroccan evenings,

Dense cinnamon fills the air full of delight, wafting over the starry lantern,

The evening is full of wonder and energy so intense that it can almost be tasted,

This is an experience. One of those beautiful moments in life, an unforgettable

snapshot of the mind,

A moment of abstract bliss.

So ripe for picking only if we look with both eyes focused,

Sadly we often miss opportunities to enjoy the simple,

We shy away, hide our face from the light, squint in its obvious majesty,

Blinded by the reality of nowness.

Pikey