Poetry thread anyone?

just wanted to share this fart lymerick.. gas is an issue we deal with.  A colon surgeon sent this to me for fun.

There was a young farter from Sparta,
A really magnificent farter,
On the strength of one bean
He'd fart "God Save the Queen",
And Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

He could vary, with proper persuasion,
His fart to suit any occasion.
He could fart like a flute,
Like a lark, like a lute,
This highly fartistic Caucasian.

He could whistle, could warble and hum,
By constricting the hole in his bum,
And make animal sounds,
Or fire artillery rounds,
With the force of a field cannon gun.

The fabulous farter from Sparta,
Performed at command by Royal Charter,
Did Brahms, Grieg and Mozart,
For 'piano and fart',
And for an encore he did Bach's Toccata.

His repertoire ranged from classics to jazz,
He achieved new effects with bubbles of gas.
With a good dose of salts
He could fart a waltz
Or swing it in razzamatazz.

He's accompanied Oasis and Blur,
And done backing music for Cher,
Though his style is obscene,
It's been used on big screen,
In sound effects on the movie Ben Hur.

He'd fart a gavotte for a starter,
And whiffle a fine serenata.
He could play on his anus
The Coriolanus:
Ood, boom, er-tum, tootle, yum tah-dah !

His basso profundo with timbre so rare
He rendered quite often, with power to spare.
But his great work of art,
His fortissimo fart,
He saved for the Marche Militaire.

When Sparta's farter was truly on form,
His asshole could outplay a French horn,
He'd give all day recitals,
With the air from his vitals,
After a large plate of leeks and some corn.

This sparkling young farter from Sparta,
His fart for no money would barter.
He could roar from his rear
Any scene from Shakespeare
Or Gilbert and Sullivans Mikado.

He could imitate jets supersonic,
Or play compositions symphonic,
He played Handel's Messiah,
He reached top C and higher,
But only after a mammoth colonic.

A family size can of baked beans,
Could fuel the main movie themes,
Star Wars and some westerns,
Were most often requested,
Though the odour was somewhat obscene.

Spurred on by a very high wager
With an envious German named Bager,
He'd proceeded to fart
The complete oboe part
Of a Haydn Octet in b-major.

He could play Holst's Mars and Uranus,
By expelling the air from his anus,
He did Copacabana,
But his Carmina Burana,
Was proclaimed a cantus profanus.

This man with the musical arsehole,
Was asked to perform at a castle,
He ignited his gas,
Near exploded his ass,
And the Count cried out 'Once more, you rascal!'

One day he was dared to perform
The William Tell Overture Storm,
But naught could dishearten
Our spirited Spartan,
For his fart was in wonderful form.

The Count hosted the concert with style,
And the queue to get in was a mile,
The farter ate leeks,
Lived on beans for two weeks,
Knowing his farts were on trial.

He practised by farting some tunes,
Till his arsehole made sounds like bassoons,
Symphonies, sonatas,
Serenades and cantatas,
And the theme from The Mouse on the Moon.

He played The Ride of The Valkyries,
And brought the whole crowd to their knees,
Women fainted and screamed,
At The Dambusters theme,
And The Flight of the Bumblebee.

He farted on feeling quite merry,
Did the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies,
His farts echoed and swelled,
(And so did the smell),
And his face went as red as a cherry.

With a smell like a heap of manure,
He began the William Tell Overture,
They gasped as it started,
Cheered the farter from Sparta,
And soon they were screaming for more.

It went off in capital style,
As he farted it through with a smile,
Then, feeling quite jolly,
He reached the Finale,
Blowing double-stopped farts all the while.

The selection was tough, I admit,
But it did not dismay him one bit,
Then, with arse thrown aloft
He suddenly coughed....
And collapsed in a shower of ****.

One mammoth turd blocked up his arse,
Around it no fart could be passed,
His bowel filled with farts,
From his arse to his heart,
And inflated his belly with gas.

All at once the poor farter exploded,
His expanding bowel overloaded,
The room filled with screams,
As gas-filled intestines,
Rose up to the ceiling and floated,

Like a string of long brown balloons,
His innards were strung round the room,
The odour was ripe,
So the Count lit his pipe,
And the whole place went up with a BOOM!

His bunghole was blown back to Sparta,
Where they buried the rest of our farter,
With a gravestone of turds
Inscribed with these words:
"To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."

Hi,

Love this thread, and totally agree with you Apple, a thread like that can't die with a fart!!

This is an amazing poem by Audre Lorde that I always found very inspiring

 

A Litany for survival

For those of us who live at the shoreline      

standing upon the constant edges of decision                                                                      

crucial and alone                                                                                                                

for those of us who cannot indulge                                                                                       

the passing dreams of choice                                                                                            

who love in doorways coming and going                                                                                 

in the hours between dawns                                                                                                

looking inward and outwards        

at once before and after                                                                                                 

seeking a now that can breed                                                                                        

futures                                                                                                                              

like bread in our children's mouths                                                                                          

so their dream will not reflect                                                                                                 

the death of ours:

For those of us                                                                                                                       

who were imprinted with fear

like a faint line in the center of our foreheads

learning to be afraid with our mother's milk

for by this weapon

this illusion of some safety to be found

the heavy-footed hoped to silence us

For all of us

this instant and this triumph

We were never meant to survive.

An when the sun rises we are afraid

it may not remain

when the sun sets we are afraid

it may not raise in the morning

when our stomachs are full we are afraid

of indigestion

when our stomachs are empty we are afraid

we may never eat again

when we are loved we are afraid

love will vanish

when we are alone we are afraid

love will never return

and when we speak we are afraid

our words will not be heard

not welcomed

but when we are silent

we are still afraid

So its better to speak

remembering

we were never meant to survive

AUDRE LORDE

                                                                                                

maybe if this thread include haikus it would be active for a while.

goodbye twenty ten
hello twenty eleven
the year is two days

i believe the flatulence poem was written by someone else.. for the record.  I am not that clever.

Don't know how strict the rhythm is of a haiku. Here's another one:

how long will you wait

arms outstretched with waiting hands

lonely souls need grace

Sandy, I think you captured a moment in this journey so well. Fear, courage, hope, defiance. I especially like the last line.

Here's another haiku about how solitary we can feel in this process.

Cypress tree stands proud

Alone on a high seacliff

The wind will not break

Hi all,

I am loving the poetry thread. Here's my contribution, also posted it on my blog...

I understand now that life is short
that forty is young
that now matters
that later is tantamount to never
that I am temporary
and so are you.

I keep coming back to the desire
to give all my gifts
to orchestrate my life's energy
around giving
both personally and professionally
and to practice
on myself.

Amy and Sandy, so happy to have you here sharing your hearts with your powerful words. I wrote this tonight to share with you all, about my struggle with depression. It's so therapeutic to be able to. Thanks for being here.

Dragon of Despair, you will not win

For light that transcends will reveal your plan

You may try to wrestle me into your pit

But my Rescuer is the one who finds the lost lamb

I am so much more, Dragon, than merely my flesh

I am more than my skin, my bones, and my blood

I have Hope inside that you cannot touch

For I seek higher places than mire and mud

Go back to your pit, hideous beast

Extinguish yourself with your own flame

Your agents of darkness in careful disguise

Will ensnare themselves with their own wicked game

Sowing Seeds

Did I not, Lord, take care of the body You gave me?

I ate from Your garden, Your clean foods

I abstained and did not indulge in vices

I moved my body, pushing it for miles at a stretch

I took good care of what you gave me

I have been a good steward

Did I know I should be vigilant against my own flesh?

NO!

You gave me eyes, should I fear blindness?

You gave me ears, should I fear silence?

You gave me a heart, should I fear it stop beating?

You gave me limbs, should I fear they stop moving?

The flesh that satisfied my baby

The breasts that dripped with life sustaining milk

Should I have feared them?

To grow death inside still in my youth

I have trusted that You have wanted the best for me

I have a plan for you, Your scripture says

Not for calamity but to prosper you, for a future and a hope

Have I not sown the good seeds

Seeds for harvest, not for lack

Seeds for good health, not for illness

Seeds for love, not for heartbreak

Seeds for a future, not to count my days

Let Your Harvest day come, Lord!

Let me see Your bounty for your faithful

Let my soul sing a Hallelujah other than a Broken one

Thanks so much, Daniela. I'm glad to have found this thread, and to be able to share where I am at with this journey, with words that just don't seem to fit elsewhere. Thanks for reading! Please join me ladies. Just pull up the blank post and see what comes out.

Yes, MissBianca, your Sowing Seeds poem IS very powerful and lovely.

i love your last verse sandymess. here's to your future.

I am so glad this thread is experiencing a revival.

Thanks so much, Apple. I am so glad that you revived this thread! I like to send out the Sparta poem in emails! I have a friend who sang tenor in a choir that performed Carmina Burana. My dad used to politely refer to his escaped "chamber music"! LOL

Sandymess, I love your metaphor. You find yourself fighting with strength you did not know you had, against a ferocious, yet silent beast. May summer greet you with warmth and beautiful abundance.

I love this thread - words have been (and continue to be) very imortant to me for expressing the sometimes overwhelming thoughts in my mind.

Here are a few words which contrast so much to diagnosis and treatment, and note how good it is to be in a different place over a year later.

The sound of thankfulness

Classical guitar

playing

under the lakeside stars

harmonising

with gentle evening birdsong.

The sounds of water

lapping

as the sun creeps over the horizon

harmonising

with chatty sunrise birdsong.

Blessings

truly

simply

counted.

 

 

 Infinity

Star bright, star light

Endless skies I see tonight

Galaxies of wonder

My troubles are usunder

I am stardust

And I am filled with awestruck wonder

One day I will return to dust

Yet I am loved, so very loved

And in this Love I hold my trust

That one day I'll see the holy dove

I am exquisitely created

And so are you, and you, and you

By a mindful, loving Power

By the Hand that made the flower

By the Light

That glistens in the morning dew

 

Star Nebula pic taken by Hubble Telescope, courtesy of NASA