Birds, Batsmen and Bowlers
The throstle now in English lanes
Bids Summer strew her dear delights. . . .
But we, intent on cricket gains,
Watch well our valiant willow knights.
With eager eyes on cabled news,
We watch each bravely mounting score;
With ears half frozen, we refuse
To go to bed; but crane for more
From out the ether, as we sit
And 'listen-in,' tho' midnight's gone.
While glorious centuries they hit
(And if it isn't Bradman, it's Ponsford;
and if it isn't Ponsford, it's Woodfull;
and if it isn't Woodfull, it's McCabe;
and if it isn't McCabe, it's Chipperfield;
and if it isn't Chipperfield -)
Gosh! Can this sort of thing go on?
Our hope lies not alone in Don;
Others remain to carry on.
The Merry Mavis, fluting free
In England now by wood and weald,
Calls from the edge of Arcady. . . .
But, as our bowlers take the field,
We mark them with a mental eye,
Striving against the mimic foe,
Despite one Shaw. (Let Mavis cry,
The foolish fowl.) We see them mow
The wickets down; this way and that,
Turning the ball. Rare joy we sup
To mark their cunning beat the bat -
(And if it isn't Wall, it's O'Reilly;
and if it isn't O'Reilly, it's Grimmett;
and if it isn't Grimmett, it's Fleetwood-Smith;
and if it isn't Fleetwood-Smith -)
Oh Gosh! Can our men keep this up?
The Test? Alas, what bitter cup -
Hey! Shut that kookaburra up!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Sporting Australia
Since Archer won the first two
Melbourne Cups in 1860 and 61
The Stawell Gift debuted in 1875
We beat England at cricket in 1877
Sport has played a major role
In our lifestyles and leisure time
Harrison and Wills down in Melbourne
Developed a football code in 1858
That became a national passion
Only fairies play aerial ping pong
Said the blokes from the north
Through broken teeth and noses
The Don, Sir Donald Bradman
Heads a list of batsmen
Who terrorised the World's best bowlers
Lillee and Thompson scared many openers
While Warnie mesmerised many others
As Australia ruled World cricket
Alan Bond put up the bucks
Ben Lexcen designed a winged keel
The Boxing Kangaroo was born
John Bertram a skilled captain
Together they wrestled the Auld Mug
Out of Newport for the first time
Immigration in the fifties
Brought many new things to Australia
One of these things saw men kicking a netball
Soccer was up against other codes
These migrants didn't care
They flocked to their games
Form the motherland they brought rugby
The game they play in heaven
A gentleman's game so they say
Flat noses and cauliflower ears
Was the only reward in union
For defending our honour Worldwide
Many sports have tried
Many sports have failed
Trying to lure Aussies
Away from cricket and football
It's hard to get a kid
Out of his dad's footsteps
A piece of wood and a ball
In a paddock park or backyard
A cricket match is born
So proud of our sporting history
Edwin Flack won gold in 1896
Yeah mate, we've been to all the games
poem by Phil Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mavis and Beryle.... Refined
Mavis and Beryl
(a couple of war wives out the front of their houses)
(Please note fag is cigarette and aye is yes)
So whilst the golden fire displayed nature in her prime
And oak trees stood proud and good in a regimental line
Dancing silhouettes tinkered, creating a wondering swaying scene
Mavis clad in rollers, upon her mop, she had chose to lean
A smelly fag she held in hand as a lady at a ball
Dreaming of Sherry and taffeta, turning the heads of all
Fingers extending as though she were the aristocracy
When up popped Beryl the girl next door
'Dya wanna a cuppa Tea? '
Mavis took a puff, then a breath, then left her world of mind
Said 'oh aye duck, I'd like that'
'you are so very kind! '
She stubbed it out, laid her mop then trotted up the path
Round to Beryles for a cuppa tea and a
Ruddy good laugh!
poem by Karen Sinclair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
McCabe's Law: Nobody has to do anything.
quote by Charles McCabe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Listener
Why, certainly. Let's listen to the cricket.
Oh, I'm quite keen. Test match, I understand.
At... What's that? Oh, Australia's at the wicket.
South Africa - a most intriguing land.
Yes, I was there in - nineteen - let me see
In nineteen - Dear me! Memory is so tricky.
Met Cecil Rhodes, you know. He said to me,
I recollect - eh? Oh. The wicket's sticky.
Great Cecil Rhodes. There was a master mind,
A dreamer, yet so practical, creative.
South Africa, Well, well. Today I find
Their urgent problem doubtless is the native,
Zulus, you know. Basutos. In the war
With Kruger - Eh? Oh, sorry. Are they playing?
Really? What's all the caterwauling for?
Eagleton out? Pity... What was I saying?
Of course, yes, Africa. I've seen it all,
From Jo'burg up thro' Kenya to Fashoda.
One night in Cairo I plainly recall
(Oh, thanks. A very small one. Heaps of soda)...
That day I brought my first big lion down -
Wounded, you know. I thought my time had ended.
Just then Smith fired - Beg pardon? Brown? Who's Brown?
Oh, hit another fourer did he? Splendid!...
...So then the old witch doctor made his magic.
Ghastly! Incredible! Yet, who could doubt?
That's Africa, mysterious primal, tragic,
Those voodoo rites ... McCabe? Is he yet out?
What? Finished, have they? Thought I missed the din.
Twenty to two? It can't be! Shocking! Shocking!
Thanks for allowing me to listen in.
Enjoyed it, too. Well, I shan't need much rocking.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Murrow Turning Over In His Grave
All the sainted sinners
They pay handsomely
And eventually?
They make the weapons
And they run the prisons
And they sell the justice
Cause being guilty is
Just good business
And well be standing on
The borderline
Aint no one there gonna
Stop it now
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
Half-closed eyes
And the countrys deadly
Do you feel the ooze as your brain drains out
From your pneumatic drills and sharpening knives
Blood in the sky
Are you dead or alive?
All the restless people and the bitter green
Well it fakes this gold, makes the spirit mean
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Smith
A smith was of words with a splendid death,
The main presence of death meant nothing.
Words are for deeds as the fish in the sea
Escalate and provide for their impoverishment.
The island of an ending close to the very edge
Is of maximum importance, and the ultimate sacrifice
Is yet to come.
This heavenly world resides in the heavens as well,
Hard efforts require cheaper diseases of the pen,
Hard are the gains of a forever summer and winter
As they dance among your moments one time to come.
The smith with words is a smith to gain remedies for himself,
These phrases are from him and him alone.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Belief Of The Merry Go Round
it is another beginning
we do not know exactly where we shall mark it
this is a ring
a circle a sphere
turning and turning
round and round
in ecstasy
and pain
there is no end
we do not exactly know where we shall mark it
this is a ball
round and bouncing
this is the Ferris wheel
the May pole
this is another ride for another year
merry, merry, merry go round
how shall we feel it?
when we are too preoccupied
with what we are
and what shall we become?
this is the circle of love
and hate and love and hate
a plain of concern
and indifference
these are dances of many lifetimes
and cycles and repetitions
i see a face and make love with a body
i live in a house and walk on a path
who are you now? what place is this?
and why are we here?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The man who lost his soul
The man who lost his soul had a hole for a heart,
And so, wherever he went, there was a draught
Until one day he met his 'better half'
And feeling complete
He could thaw his sad frozen feet, at last
At the fire of love
And all loss was a thing of the past!
yvette m smith jan 09
poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Game of Cricket
Cricket is a game of fun
Throughout the television is on,
Especially when Sachin and Sehwag are
Making run.
It is worth to watch cricket,
When Pathan brothers are taking wicket.
When Rohit is going out on zero,
Mahendra Singh Dhoni is declared as the hero.
When Tanveer and Gul are in fix,
Dhoni and Yuvraaj are hitting six.
When Raina is hitting a four,
Rival team can do nothing to check the score.
When by Harbhajan the ball is caught,
Entire team of opponent are in thought.
When there is a big target to chase,
Every player is enthusiastic to win the craze.
When Sehwag is double digit score,
Heart beat of every captain is increasing
More and more.
When salman Butt is dropping an easy catch,
Ishant and Sreesanth awarded man of the match.
So in short, cricket is a fun,
But only when India has won.
poem by Prabhudatta Kar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard -
With a crib to read it with -
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?
In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Exeunt
Piecemeal the summer dies;
At the field's edge a daisy lives alone;
A last shawl of burning lies
On a gray field-stone.
All cries are thin and terse;
The field has droned the summer's final mass;
A cricket like a dwindled hearse
Crawls from the dry grass.
poem by Richard Wilbur
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Here, where the vine and fig bask hand in hand
Here, where the vine and fig bask hand in hand,
And the hot lizard lies along the wall,
Blinded I shrink where cypress shadows fall,
And gaze upon the far-off mountains bland:
Then down the dusty track Lorenzo planned
Watch the slow oxen oscillating crawl
Sleek in the sultry glare, and feel withal
Half alien still in a familiar land.
But when from out the stone-pine slopes that rise
In the clear ether, black against the blue,
The cuckoo suddenly calls, I close mine eyes
In visionary rapture, think of you,
Hear the home-music of your Kentish skies,
And dream that I am drenched with English dew.
poem by Alfred Austin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
5. Friends
I remember in the fifties we didn’t have a lot
We were always pleased with everything we had
I remember how we utilised the things that we had got
Making things we knew would make each other glad
I remember sticks of rhubarb were red but mainly green
Tasting sour it would shrivel up your face
I remember hide & seek we tried hard not to be seen
Or running fast and calling it a race
I remember playing football in the middle of the road
Using jackets as a makeshift sort of goal
I remember by the pond on the day we found a toad
Where the tadpoles swam around it in a shoal
I remember in the summer playing out till it was dark
Made up games from almost anything we found
I remember bits of wood that we took down to the park
Wickets, bats a ball we had a cricket ground
I remember setting standards for other kids to beat
Always being there to set the latest trends
I remember summer sun that gave out a pleasant heat
But I remember most those very special friends
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Cricket Ball
A ball spends its time with Time,
Spilling agony, waste and collisions so rightly found;
By this we spoke too loudly of the ball I’m
Spinning like in cricket, and all this sound!
The field caught my ball this over,
Expensive play! Expensive day of my sport.
There needs a container
For this cricket ball, my real important sort.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I sort of missed one big thing, to touch first base. I hope I didn't act foolish, but this is history.
quote by Mark McGwire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Knifes Edge
On a knife edge razor day
If you listen long enough theyve got nothing to say
Its a time warp place dont change
The rhythm of the night, the beating rain
You move fast to get off of that merry-go-round
Theres one gun, probably more
And the others are pointing at our backdoor
At the best hotel of all
Put my name on the wall, put my bed on the floor
You get much less well it seems like more
Hearts still sore
Word crimes
Bitter lies
Bitter crimes
Government lies
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The making of an Atheist implies a mental stimulation and training which brings into play the primary factors of social progress.
quote by Joseph McCabe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Fear Held Dear
Listen
Listen To Me
Listen
Listen To Me
Listen
You Left Your Mark
Like A Handprint In Wet Cement
To Make Sure These Regrets I Won't Forget
You Tried To Divide
Dissect Me Of My Pride
But I Refuse To Fold Into Your Arms
Media's' Ventriloquist
Anglo Saxon Evangelist
I Find It So Ridiculous
The Fears That We Hold Dear
Listen
Listen Please Won't You Listen
Anybody
Won't You Listen To The Things That We Hold Dear.
song performed by by Mushroomhead from Superbuick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Antichrist, or the Reunion of Christendom: An Ode
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F. E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard --
With a crib to read it with --
"Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford answered."
Really, Smith?
In the lands where Christians were,
F. E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples...
Chuck it, Smith!
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Beirut
Rosamund Pike, Jon Hamm, Shea Whigham, Dean Norris, Jon Hamm, Mark Pellegrino, Kate Fleetwood, Jonny Coyne, Leïla Bekhti
by Tony Gilroy from Beirut (2018)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!