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david mcgee

Poetry

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david mcgee

I have recently been consumed with a passion for poetry.

 

It all started with the " unknown soldiers" verse.

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle Autumn rain.

When you awaken in the mornings hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

 

I mistakenly thought that others would share my passion.

So i gave the Centurion Bar my full rendition of Rudyard Kiplings, "IF", -

another of my favourites.

 

Well,

 

I got a healthy kickin!

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The Doctor

I love If.

 

I bought Norman MacCaig a Laphroig and water once, lovely man and a brilliant poet.

http://www.jacobite.org.uk/maccaig/xpoems/assisi.html

 

Poetry is the most underrated form of expression, every body rates good prose, studies it, holds it up, but poetry is horribly neglected, like it's only for children and good writers should progress to novels.

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david mcgee

The red peat gleams a fiery kernel,

Enhusked by a fog infernal:

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,

I sit and count my sins by chapters;

For life and spunk like ither Christians,

Im dwindled down to mere existence,

Wi nae converse but Gallowa bodies,

Wi nae kenn'd face but " Jenny Geddes",

Jenny, my Pegasean pride!

Dowie she saunters down Nithside,

And ay a westlin' leuk she throws,

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!

Was for this, wi' cannie care,

Thou bure the Bard through many a shrine?

At howes or hillocks never stumbled,

And late or early never grumbled?-

O had I power like inclination,

I'd heeze thee up a constellatoin,

To canter with the Sagitarre,

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;

Or turn the pole like any arrow;

Or,when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,

Down the zodiac urge the race,

And cast dirt on his godships face:

For I could lay my bread and kail

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail,-

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief,

And sma', sma' prospect of relief,

And nought but peak reek i' my head,

How can i write what ye can read?-

Tarbolton,twenty-fourth o' June,

Ye'll find me in a better tune;

But till we meet and weet our whistle,

Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

 

 

Rabbie Burns.

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cosanostra
The red peat gleams a fiery kernel,

Enhusked by a fog infernal:

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,

I sit and count my sins by chapters;

For life and spunk like ither Christians,

Im dwindled down to mere existence,

Wi nae converse but Gallowa bodies,

Wi nae kenn'd face but " Jenny Geddes",

Jenny, my Pegasean pride!

Dowie she saunters down Nithside,

And ay a westlin' leuk she throws,

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!

Was for this, wi' cannie care,

Thou bure the Bard through many a shrine?

At howes or hillocks never stumbled,

And late or early never grumbled?-

O had I power like inclination,

I'd heeze thee up a constellatoin,

To canter with the Sagitarre,

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;

Or turn the pole like any arrow;

Or,when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,

Down the zodiac urge the race,

And cast dirt on his godships face:

For I could lay my bread and kail

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail,-

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief,

And sma', sma' prospect of relief,

And nought but peak reek i' my head,

How can i write what ye can read?-

Tarbolton,twenty-fourth o' June,

Ye'll find me in a better tune;

But till we meet and weet our whistle,

Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

 

 

Rabbie Burns.

 

That's quality Dave, I like it.

 

I take it that's "to a horse"?

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