Tag Archives: poems

Four-letter-word

Do you like poems? You’ll like this one – it’s rude, in a very clever way. I found it hand-written on a scrap of paper in an old book. The writing looked like my grandad’s – I wouldn’t be surprised if it originated from his army days.

I’ve no idea who it’s written by originally. But here it is. Enjoy.

C-U-N-T

Those portions of a woman which appeal to men’s depravity,
Are constructed with considerable care,
And what at first appears to be a simple little cavity,
Is really an elaborate affair,
Now doctors who have troubled to examine the phenomena,
In numerous experimental dames,
Have made a little list of things in feminine abdomena,
And called them all delightful little names,
There’s the vulva, the vagina and the jolly old perineum,
And the hymen, in the case of certain brides,
And a host of little things you would love if you could see them,
The clitoris, and god-knows what besides.
Now is it not a pity when the common people chatter
Of the mysteries to which I have referred,
That we use for such a delicate and complicated matter
Such a short and unattractive little word.

Now eminent professors who examine the geography
Of this obscure but interesting land,
Are able to indulge their taste for intimate topography,
And view the scenic details close at hand.
But we ordinary mortals, whilst aware of the existence
Of complexities beneath the human knoll
Are normally content to view them at a distance
And treat them roughly speaking as a whole.
When we probe into the mysteries of virginity,
We exercise the simple sense of touch,
We do not cloud the issue with meticulous lativity
But call the whole affair a such-and-such.
Now men have made this useful but inelegant commodity
The subject of innumerable jibes
And while the name they call it is something of an oddity,
It seems to fit the object it describes.

Advertisements

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings

When I was four years old an RAF Phantom jet crashed on our farm, less than 1/4 mile from our house. They were young, and reckless, flew too low – you can still see the scar in the mountain where their wing scraped down before the plane pinballed along and into the ground, still find tiny slivers of wreckage in the peat and the heather.

My dad built a cairn on the spot, and all year round there are sun-bleached plastic flowers and cellophane bouquet wrappers sitting at its base, worried by sheep and the wind.

At the memorial for the two pilots they read this poem. I was too young to remember, but my dad has always loved it, as a hangliding enthusiast with a passion for planes and flying. I understand it’s a poem that’s often read at aviators funerals, and it’s one of the most beautiful collections of words that I’ve ever heard. So here it is, for National Poetry Day.

High Flight – John Gillespie Magee Jr

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air….

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
– Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.