"Who Goes with Fergus?"

[ow_tiobe_sb]

Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[bearded]

fop.

[bearded]

i'm sorry.  i should clarify.  when you say this:

Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

i hear this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYX_zhlTDr8&feature=related
hence:

fop.

[ow_tiobe_sb]

When you post this

i'm sorry.  i should clarify. ...

i hear this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYX_zhlTDr8&feature=related
hence:

fop.

I hear

Once, when midnight smote the air,
Eunuchs ran through Hell and met
On every crowded street to stare
Upon great Juan riding by:
Even like these to rail and sweat
Staring upon his sinewy thigh.

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and The Prat in the Hat

[randyripoff]

I hear "Turn me on, dead man, turn me on, dead man"

[kkhohoho]

All I hear is a few crickets. :huh:

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

I hear "Turn me on, dead man, turn me on, dead man"

All I hear is a few crickets. :huh:

That's the problem with modern technology, a whole mythology will soon be lost to us. 

And they're not crickets hohoho, but you're not a million miles away.

[Alaric]

I've always thought parsnips and a little butter go very well with Fergus, myself.

[kkhohoho]

I've always thought parsnips and a little butter go very well with Fergus, myself.

I thought Fergus was a piece of grass dipped in human fat and gasoline, and then set ablaze. :huh:

[ow_tiobe_sb]

When you post this

I thought Fergus was a piece of grass dipped in human fat and gasoline, and then set ablaze. :huh:

I hear

And I though never of Ledaean kind
Had pretty plumage once -- enough of that,
Better to smile on all that smile, and show
There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.

...

VI

Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
Soldier Aristotle played the taws
Upon the bottom of a king of kings;
World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras
Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings
What a star sang and careless Muses heard:
Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.

...

VIII

Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[GGiant]

[THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

I thought you were still

The Prat in the Hat

[ow_tiobe_sb]

When you post this

I thought you were still

The Prat in the Hat

I hear

I

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

II

What can I but enumerate old themes?
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride?

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy,
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.

III

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till.  Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

Little more to so sweeten the taste of ash in the mouth has been sung to the eye and ear.

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[bearded]

har!  look at lil lord fontleroy!


(i am liking the yeats, but i'll never admit it.)

[Alaric]

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

[bearded]

"My Humps"

What you gon' do with all that junk?
All that junk inside your trunk?
I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps (Check it out)

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

You know when I first say the thread title here, I must confess (and to my shame) that my mind turned to Deacon Blue rather than to the great Double-You Bee. 

[ow_tiobe_sb]

When you post this

"My Humps"

What you gon' do with all that junk?
All that junk inside your trunk?
I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps (Check it out)

I hear

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

You know when I first say the thread title here, I must confess (and to my shame) that my mind turned to Deacon Blue rather than to the great Double-You Bee. 

Do you still dream of Memphis?

A jab at yours truly:

Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love's despair
To flatter beauty's ignorant ear.

All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?

[threadjack]ἐξίσταται γὰρ πάντ' ἀπ' ἀλλήλων δίχα[/threadjack]

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[randyripoff]

When you post this:

Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

I hear:

ow_tiobe_sb's cranium bounced
Off the ground cracking open with a lovely KE-RACK sound
spraying bits of brain matter in all directions
to be eaten by the SharkMen(TM)
along with the rest of his body
leaving the remains to be ground into absinthe

[ow_tiobe_sb]

When you post this

ow_tiobe_sb's cranium bounced
Off the ground cracking open with a lovely KE-RACK sound
spraying bits of brain matter in all directions
to be eaten by the SharkMen(TM)
along with the rest of his body
leaving the remains to be ground into absinthe

I hear

When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night--
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

When money's tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt--
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say you need a change,
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

When food is scarce and your larder bare
And no rashers grease your pan,
When hunger grows as your meals are rare--
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

In time of trouble and lousy strife,
You have still got a darlint plan,
You still can turn to a brighter life--
A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

Ah Jem Casey... the people's poet, the poet of the pick.  There'd be his nabs, working away at a pome in his head with a pick in his hand and the sweat pouring off his face from the force of his work and his bloody exertions.  Not a man in the whole country to beat him when it comes to getting together a bloody pome and not a poet in the whole world that could hold a candle to him. 

Give them a bloody pick or the shaft of a shovel into their hand and tell them to dig a hole and have the length of a page of poetry off by heart in their heads before the 5 o'clock whistle.  What will you get?  By God but you'd be waiting around for bloody nothing.  Oh I know them and I know my hard Casey too.  By janey he'd be up at the whistle with a pome a yard long, a bloody lovely thing. 

Yes I've seen his pomes and read them and... do you know what I'm going to tell you I have loved them.  I'm not ashamed to sit here and say it; I've known the man and I've known his pomes and by God I have loved the two of them and loved them well too. 

This is a man that can write pomes that you can read all day and all night and keep reading them to your heart's content, stuff you'd never tire of.  Pomes written by a man that is one of ourselves and written down for ourselves to read. 

The Workmans Friend!  Did you ever hear anything like it in your life?  A pint of plain by God, what!  Oh I'm telling you, Casey was a man in twenty thousand, there's no doubt about that. 

There's one thing in that pome, permanence, if you know what I mean.



(With apologies to Flann O'Brien for any abridging or inadvertant typos)

[ow_tiobe_sb]

If I were to search alone
the hills of the brown world,
better would I like my sole hut
in Glen Bolcain.

Good its water greenish-green
good its clean strong wind,
good its cress-green cresses,
best its branching brooklime.

Good its sturdy ivies,
good its bright neat sallow,
good its yewy yew-yews,
best its sweet-noise birch.

...

I do not relish
the mad clack of humans
sweeter warble of the bird
in the place he is.

I like not the trumpeting
heard at morn;
sweeter hearing is the squeal
of badgers in Benna Broc.

I do not like it
the loud bugling;
finer is the stagbelling stag
of antler-points twice twenty.

There are makings for plough-teams
from glen to glen;
each resting stag at rest
on the summit of the peaks...

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[The Phantom Eyebrow]

Ah, mighty God-big Finn. 

The arms to him were like the necks of beasts, ball-swollen with their bunched-up brawnstrings and blood-veins, the better for harping and hunting and contending with the bards.  Each thigh to him was to the thickness of a horses belly, narrowing to a green-veined calf to the thickness of a foal.  Three fifties of fosterlings could engage with handball against the wideness of his backside, which was wide enough to halt the march of warriors through a mountain pass.

The nose of his white wheyface was a headland against white seas with a height to it, in all, of ten warriors man on man and with breadth to it the breadth of Erin.  The caverns to the butt of his nose had fulness and breadth for the installing in their shade of twenty arm-bearing warriors with their tribal rams and dove-cages together with a generous following of ollavs and bards with their law-books and their verse-scrolls, their herb-pots and their alabaser firkins of oil and unguent.

The mouth to his white wheyface had dimensions and measurements to the width of Ulster, bordered by a red lip-wall and inhabited unseen by the watchful host of his honey-yellow teeth to the size, each with each, of a cornstack; and in the dark hollow to each tooth was there home and fulness for the sitting there of a thorny dog or for the lying there of a spear-pierced badger.  To each of the two eyes in his head was there eye-hair to the fashion of a young forest, and the colour to each great eyeball was as the slaughter of a host in snow.  The lid to each eye of them was limp and cheese-dun like ship-canvas in harbour at evening, enough eye-cloth to cover the whole of Erin.


(more apologies etc and so forth for abridging or typos...)

[ow_tiobe_sb]

  Excuse me for a second, interposed Shanahan in an urgent manner, I've got a verse in my head.  Wait now.

  What!

  Listen, man.  Listen to this before it's lost.  When stags appear on the mountain high, with flanks the colour of bran, when a badger bold can say goodbye, A PINT OF PLAIN IS YOUR ONLY MAN.

  Well by God, Shanahan, I never thought you had it in you, said Furriskey, turning his wide-eyed smile to the smile of Lamont, I never thought you had it in you.  Take a look at the bloody poet, Mr. Lamont.  What?

  The hard Shanahan by God, said Lamont.  The hard man.  That's a good one all right.  Put it there, Mr. Shanahan.

  Hands were extended till they met, the generous grip of friendship in front of the fire.

  All right, said Shanahan laughing in the manner of a proud peacock, don't shake the handle off me altogether.  Gentlemen, you flatter me.  Order ten pints a man till we celebrate.

  My hard bloody Shanahan, said Lamont.

  That'll do you now the pair of ye, said Shanahan.  Silence in the court now.

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[Deaths Jester]

Ach.....me 'ead 'urts from all this bloody stuff...stop it!!!!

[bearded]

I am beardedinlair. And I see a whole army of my reborners,
here in defiance of ow tiobe sb! You have come to fight as free men. And
free man you are! What will you do without freedomreborn.net? Will you fight?"

"Yes!" Fight and you may die. Run and you
will live at least awhile. And ko in your bed many missions from now,
would you be willing to melee_idle all the days from this day to that for
one chance, just one chance, to come back here as first level and tell
our enemies that they may take our meshes but they will never take
our freedom force!

(wow.  after i read this aloud my daughter said, "ehhh....delete."  this after yesterday, watching me play nwn, telling me i should call it never winner nights...)

[ow_tiobe_sb]

When you post this

I am beardedinlair. And I see a whole army of my reborners,
here in defiance of ow tiobe sb! You have come to fight as free men. And
free man you are! What will you do without freedomreborn.net? Will you fight?"

"Yes!" Fight and you may die. Run and you
will live at least awhile. And ko in your bed many missions from now,
would you be willing to melee_idle all the days from this day to that for
one chance, just one chance, to come back here as first level and tell
our enemies that they may take our meshes but they will never take
our freedom force!

(wow.  after i read this aloud my daughter said, "ehhh....delete."  this after yesterday, watching me play nwn, telling me i should call it never winner nights...)

I hear

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now,--instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,--
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I,--that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;--
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore,--since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,--
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Mel Gibson should be burned alive, and then his ashes should be given a thrashing they'll not soon forget.

ow_tiobe_sb
Phantom Bunburyist and [THIS SPACE AVAILABLE FOR LEASE TO NEW DUAL TITLE TENANT]

[BWPS]

I am beardedinlair. And I see a whole army of my reborners,
here in defiance of ow tiobe sb! You have come to fight as free men. And
free man you are! What will you do without freedomreborn.net? Will you fight?"

"Yes!" Fight and you may die. Run and you
will live at least awhile. And ko in your bed many missions from now,
would you be willing to melee_idle all the days from this day to that for
one chance, just one chance, to come back here as first level and tell
our enemies that they may take our meshes but they will never take
our freedom force!

(wow.  after i read this aloud my daughter said, "ehhh....delete."  this after yesterday, watching me play nwn, telling me i should call it never winner nights...)

Ha ha ha. This was a funny post.