Dead Poets Society

The Worst That Man Can Do

2006-08-08T16:16:56+02:00

'The Worst That Man Can Do'

Sent to die in a rusting cart,
degraded and degraded until they fell apart,
burning bushes could no longer save them,
that’s why an ode I must pen.

Unknowing in a state of gross naivety,
“How could anyone ever do this to a civilization?”

Tears are only tears that keep us alive,
and our fears are only things of which we’re deprived,
deprived of life it just wasn’t fair,
sickening stockpiles of beautiful hair.

Unaware of things that might come,
“Surely this is some sort of bad dream?”

Praying for mercy at the wailing wall,
of mankind this was the fall,
red and black obscenities branded into minds,
little boys afraid to fluff their lines.

Dreading how God might judge,
“It was only our duty, it was only our duty.” Warmongers.

Shivering in ashaméd nakedness,
the good Lord could protect us,
they queued up to die for a matter of chance,
no jolly or morbid ballet dance.

Don’t you worry harmless Jew,
“It was them and was not you.”

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Sonnet of the Man in the Background

2006-08-08T16:15:51+02:00

'Sonnet of the Man in the Background'

In such finite time what hath I achieved?
I have not look’d upon the great wonders,
Or found my feet in what I do believe,
All I am is but a mute observer.
Maybe I have not found love in this place,
Yet my soul still sings to heavens above,
Formulating a passion for good grace,
All I am is but a mute observer.
My life is an expanding theory,
Forever moving and thinking throughout,
I have yet found shrouded secrets clearly,
Rendered dead by tides of cruel oceans.
I don’t understand the socialite,
All I am is but a mute observer.

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Pathetic Fallacy

2006-08-08T16:13:36+02:00

'Pathetic Fallacy'

If there will ever be a day,
when we don’t like what you say,
when your emotions are at bay,
then maybe things will change,
perhaps change into lanes.

All the things we’ve been through now,
doubts, love, hate, the good, bad and the row,
then maybe they might allow,
for just one last recital,
of which I will choose the title.

When Oscar wrote about the portrait,
I don’t think he meant us to stay up late,
talking about what music can create,
we never quite decided,
instead in hot summer we glided.

Plucking therapeutically away,
all the torments of that dreadful day,
notes formed the words that would not obey,
as the dew settled on the grass,
we decided humanity was at its last.

So as the dusk turned into thick night,
we got round to our desperate plight,
what was wrong, what was right,
the dust settled on the floor,
and the elegant hand was written raw.

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Drunk on Reality

2006-08-08T16:12:00+02:00

'Drunk on Reality'

Self-delusion wrapped in a lie,
you can pretend,
pretend and hide.

Ice melts in the cold light of day,
washed in a basin,
choose to ignore and choose to obey.

Only theories where we once craved,
drenched in repulsive light,
trust in the waters where you bathed.

Hate is too common for us to intake,
fractures in your “social bliss”,
tension like this will soon break.

You can’t escape any of this idiocy,
listen to the voice,
then wash away in the sea.

Pieces of eight in your vendor,
greed got the better of you,
only half-written notes will you send her.

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A Matter of Chance

2006-08-08T16:11:02+02:00

'A Matter of Chance'

Let me look inside,
my life is faded,
let me stand beside.

I know it’s hard,
but you have to realise,
life isn’t as easy as you think,
don’t let it get you down.

Look at me,
I’ve swerved out of control,
can’t you see?

I need to get away,
help me run,
they said crime would pay.

Time is ticking softly,
an ageless metronome,
oh so softly.

You’re stuck on the inside,
but you’re going up,
this is the day my personality died.

Come on now,
you can make it,
here’s your chance now take it,

All the while your spirit dies,
be quick to find your star,
in a far-off place her mother cries,
my life is faded.

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Remembrance

2006-08-08T16:09:44+02:00

'Remembrance'

Don’t grow old my man,
just find surplus love at the bottom of a can,
you don’t want to die from old age,
don’t want to write to the bottom of the page,
you want to remain forever sixteen,
without burdens as a free libertine.

Age cannot weary the most infant of hearts,
cannot dismantle such complex parts,
dying for pride may not be such a sin,
but did you think about the next of kin?
In the end we cannot get away,
tied to the wheel until our dying day.

Now we’re at the going down of the sun,
and it looks like you’ve lost and nature’s won,
look back to the hope of a new morning,
you can hear the past forever calling,
over the parapet of a trench made from bone,
I stare at your name etched on a stone.

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Rag and Bone

2006-08-08T16:08:34+02:00

'Rag and Bone'
Did you ever hear about the man,
who got caught up in the blast and the ban?
He was poor,
poor as I’ve seen,
shaking and shaking like I’ve never been.
The crazies would turn their noses upwards,
and call him the ‘fool’.
No you’re right it wasn’t cool,
I struggled to find the words,
but they came to me in a dream,
swirling round in an academic stream.
The man,
they said he sold rag
and bone,
but his voice was lost in Rome,
where his friends were blown up.
Eyes wild like a desperate beast,
his stomach cried out for some food,
a feast.
A few coppers in an old coffee cup,
he sank into a bag and slept,
away from prying eyes he wept.
Caught up in hard winter nights,
ears boxed in during drunken fights.
Ignored by the general populous
some women as fat as a hippopotamus,
and he starved.
Forgotten by everyone except himself,
grey hairs in a beard of black.
as he wrote on a wall,
‘If I could I would attack!’
But his bones were weary,
under a slate sky it looked dreary.
And he was going to die.
He never quite made it home,
but got further than friends in a far-off Rome.
Never destined to be king,
only ruler of a ghostly parking lot,
never any gold in a beggars pot.
Eyes glazed over like I don’t know,
a stray dog in a stray place,
if only he could find life.
They never liked what he said,
from society they did ban,
this humble soul,
this rag and bone man.

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Mornin' all

2006-08-08T16:02:41+02:00

Hello there, welcome to my blog, why don't you relax for a while, pour yourself a G&T and kick back to some 'classic chillout' on the stereo. I'm Chris, a seventeen year-old public schoolboy from a sleepy village in South Wiltshire (sorry, that sounds unbelievably bourgeouise!) Anyway my loves are sport and writing, and I have set up this blog in order to display some of my poetry for others to read and (hopefully) enjoy. Please leave a comment with your thoughts on my writing, I'd be pleased to hear from you. I have recently had one of my poems called 'No Bravado' published in an anthology, and that will appear on here in due course.

Thanks, Chris.

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