Spin Doctors for friend alex
In days of yore long, long before
the spoken word took written form.
The Bards, the guardians of the lore.
In Great Men’s halls they would perform.
Their epic tales from history
to entertain the listening host.
With tales of war and mystery
and heroes which their race could boast.
Each teller added something to,
adjusted what they had been told.
By teachers who had altered too
the ancient tales they had retold.
Each myth and legend seems to be
a twisted version of some tale.
Which was quite true originally
Our search for truth is doomed to fail.
There’s little evidence to find.
Although we can extrapolate
from different versions left behind.
These fragments we appreciate.
Contain some truth enwrapt in lies,
Driven by curiosity
embark upon an enterprise,
The ultimate futility.
Though we can guess, we cannot know.
Our theories could be correct
Events which happened long ago
change with each telling I suspect.
03/06/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
I keep my head for Sdi Mahtrow
I
I am a bard with tales to tell
I know my trade I know it well.
I am made welcome when I call
at any manor house or hall.
I have sweet tales of courtly love
which will the ladies spirits move
and epic tales of battle lore
to entertain the men of war
Plus jests and japes of every kind
All carried in my well stocked mind.
I travel round the countryside
collecting news from far and wide.
I try my very best to be
certain of my accuracy
Although sometimes I stretch the truth
some puissant lord’s anger to soothe.
I pride my self on honesty
although some critics disagree.
All bards at times are forced to lie.
There is a simple reason why.
I would much rather live than die
and when my life’s in jeopardy
I lie as well as any bard
to go on living my reward.
10-Jun-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Justice for all storypoem
The bards of old their stories told.
In rhyming verse they had writ,
to entertain the young and old.
Sometimes they stretched the truth a bit.
To please their current lordly host
They would extol his bravery
and of his prowess loudly boast.
Although their words lacked verity.
They spread the news from far and near.
Tailored to suit their audience.
Some news which they were glad to hear.
The bards received in recompense.
The recognition and respect
accorded to them for their skill.
A place to sleep as you’d expect
and food and drink enough to fill.
Always treated as a welcome guest
in manor house or lordly hall
They could fulfil their host’s requests
with stories suitable for all.
Love stories for the ladies ears
and tales of war to suit the men
Old tales for those advanced in years
which could recall their youth again.
The bards were guardians of the lore
which was passed down from bard to bard.
The masters of bryhonic law
Which they had studied long and hard.
It took them one and twenty years
to earn the title of a bard.
Long years of travel sweat and tears.
Authority was their reward.
All men were subject to the law
from kitchen churl to lordly knight
All disputes then were brought before
a bard to judge as was their right.
He listened to the evidence
then made his judgement openly
Applied the law with common sense
but always judged impartially.
But that was then unlike today.
When every man obeyed the law.
But sadly we have gone astray
There is no justice any more.
The laws today are not applied
to rich and poor men equally.
All thoughts of justice cast
aside in our corrupt society.
A guilty man can go Scott free
when clever lawyers twist the laws
and find some technicality.
For which they are well paid of course.
There are no bryhon bards today
and poets get but scant respect
But still we try to show the way
We must protest poetically.
The conscience of society
that has to be our modern role.
To outline with our poetry
Justice for all should be our goal.
2-Feb-09
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Boundless curiosity for friend Thad.
The world is full of mysteries.
Colossal buildings left behind
by earlier societies.
Their purposes still ill defined
Although the archaeologists
advance their favourite theories.
The mysteries will long persist.
Their different hypotheses.
Cannot be proven any way.
They’re based on their experience
Of living in the world to day.
A different frame of reference.
Which cannot possibly apply
They saw the world quite differently.
I do not think we can deny
We’re blinkered in the way we see.
The evidence which we can find,
We can’t interpret properly
The artefacts they left behind
Their uses are a mystery.
Though we attempt to classify
we can’t be sure we are correct.
These relics from past history
aren’t always what we would expect.
Temples and Tombs or Palaces
The truth is that we do not know
Secular or sacred places.
There is no evidence to show.
That we can state with confidence
confirms our modern theories.
We have no point of reference
With which everyone agrees.
The arguments rage to and fro
As experts wrangle bitterly
They daren’t admit they do not know.
Although they don’t quite obviously.
At best an educated guess
Must be the best we can expect.
From experts trying to impress
The other experts I suspect.
It seems to me improbable
That we will solve these mysteries
Our mind sets aren’t comparable
as different as chalk and cheese.
But still we are compelled to try
because these monuments exist.
Our boundless curiosity
will not allow us to desist.
Saturday,24 April 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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What if it were true?
Hector, Ajax and Hercules
and other heroes such as these.
All suffered from the same disease.
They thought they were invincible.
Now every one of them is dead.
I know this from the books I’ve read.
Unlike my ancient Uncle Fred.
Who thought it might be possible.
To find a way to stay alive
a certain method to survive
Towards this end then he would strive
Although it seemed improbable.
A coward too afraid to die.
Although he was clever guy
well versed in ancient history.
He thought he could be comfortable.
If he could find a vampire who
he thought could be persuaded to
make him into a vampire too
and grant him immortality.
I half believed when I was small
My uncle often came to call
but always late after night fall.
Which made me feel uncomfortable.
But now I take a different view.
I don’t believe his tales were true
Nor do I think my siblings do.
I think it is impossible.
By bright sunlight I am certain
but after dark I think again.
What if my uncle Fred did gain
his wish for immortality.
I hoped that he was telling lies
and so it came as no surprise.
To find one single rule applies.
Vampires do not seek publicity.
Real vampires do not advertise
They consider it’s not wise.
Although my uncle really tries
his stories cannot convince me.
I know my uncle’s very old.
And that he cannot stand the cold.
From stories that my parents told
concerning his longevity.
My father says he will not die
My mother says that’s all my eye.
But still I wonder sometimes why.
He’s lived so long. It seems to me.
Just possible he’s told the truth.
The secret of eternal youth
springs from some ancient vampires tooth.
The bite of immortality.
I know that in reality
vampires are just a fantasy.
That people can live naturally.
Far longer than seems possible.
No body knows the reason why.
Examined scientifically.
It seems that everyone must die.
No one can live eternally.
But Uncle Fred refuses to.
I can’t believe his tales are true.
He sleeps all day as vampires do.
at his age it’s permissible.
I tell myself it makes no sense
for Fred to keep up this pretense.
I have to do in self defence.
I find it much preferable.
To believing Uncle Fred
Is exactly as he said
A member of the living dead.
That would be truly terrible.
18/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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It could be for C.P Sharma
We search for truth but would we know
if our quest met with success
Perhaps truth changes as we grow.
We can’t be sure so we must guess.
Maybe there is no absolute
unchanging truth that’s permanent.
So we adopt beliefs to suit
whatever seems convenient
That’s fits in with what we think we know.
Because we fail to recognise
What we’ve been taught my not be so.
Though in due course we realise.
The quest fir truth which we pursue
would seem to be man’s destiny.
Its something we were born to do.
To search for truth continually
Although it seems illogical
I offer you this theory
The truth is something personal.
My truth only applies to me.
Your truth is only true for you.
It’s just another theory
I have no way to prove it true.
although it could be possibly.
26/04/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Realpolitik
A trumpet blared defiantly.
Into a hell of shot and shell,
a gallant charge of cavalry
But few survived their tale to tell.
There is no place in modern war
for such outmoded strategy.
More suited to the days of yore.
Today there is no chivalry.
You must defeat the enemy.
Attempt to take him by surprise
and gain superiority
by any method you can devise.
Improving your technology.
You have to strive to keep abreast,
increasing your ability
To kill more quickly than the rest.
The rules of war are broken by
most nations when its suits their book.
They are prepared to cheat and lie.
They mean to win by hook or crook.
The winners write the history.
Which proves that they were innocent.
They could have been quite possibly
Devoid of any ill intent.
I find it difficult to believe.
Perhaps I am too sceptical
of the facts I can retrieve.
from stories that are typical.
Attempts to prove the enemy
were without doubt the ones to blame.
Proclaim themselves to be guilt free.
All part and parcel of the game.
The winners speak eloquently
The losers are denied a chance
to state their case with clarity.
In the prevailing circumstance.
The tales you read of chivalry.
may serve quite well to entertain.
The tales of friendly rivalry
Cannot be true: I must maintain.
I try to keep an open mind.
When I am reading history.
But the anomalies I find.
Merely serve to convince me.
The first casualty in any war.
Is the plain truth, it has to be.
As the opponents jockey for
their chance to rewrite history.
Lies damn lies and statistics prove
Exactly what the victors choose.
It seem historians approve
Perhaps they have too much to lose.
25/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Old Artefacts Reveal New Facts
This used to be a dwelling place
For members of the human race
Two thousand years or so ago.
The passing years have changed it though.
Today the archeologists
Seek to penetrate the mists.
There’s very little they can see
Which will support their theory.
The evidence lies underground
Buried; waiting to be found
By those equipped to recognise
a broken pot can be a prize.
Which might well prove they were correct
If they can find as they expect
Sufficient evidence to show
that humans dwelt here long ago.
If they are luck they will find
Amongst detritus left behind
Artefacts discarded by
The folks who used to occupy.
The houses that there used to be
Which formed a small community.
They are completely confident
.This was a stone age settlement.
The tools they found all made of stone
Except for needles made of bone.
No signs of metal to be found
Their reasoning seems to be sound.
I think that they have proved their case.
And added to their knowledge base.
I watch the time team on TV
And I am privileged to see.
The work of experts in the field
as they persuade the earth yield
the evidence for which they seek.
Each site they work on is unique.
Each find adds something to the store
Sometimes they find a great deal more.
Than what they can expect to find
They have to keep an open mind.
Sometimes great treasures can be found
Long buried in a funeral mound.
But mostly much more mundane things
a coin or two, brooches and rings.
Each find recorded carefully
Examined scientifically
The use of modern technology
can date the finds more accurately.
Than what they could do in the past
Some times the findings overcast.
Theories long held to be true
replacing them with something new.
I find the programme satisfies
My avid curiosity.
When can watch before my eyes
unfolding of a mystery.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Bardic tradition
The yarns I spin to entertain
are never wholly fictional
I let sufficient truth remain
so they can seem quite factual.
Sometimes I find readers accept
My narratives as being true.
Although it’s not what I expect
it makes me proud to think they do.
From the feed back which I receive
It seems I unintentionally
create something they can believe.
It’s highly complimentary.
Though fashions change, bards can still spin
a likely tale to take you in.
Saturday,30 January 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Illogicality
In the beginning was the WORD.
So we are told but not who spoke
Which seems to me to be absurd.
I m forced to treat it as a joke.
No one to speak no one to hear
Which seems to be improbable
and fails to satisfy I fear.
I find it to be impossible
I would prefer a logical
explanation, I can
believe just might be true
But fairy stories will not do.
I’m sceptical, I need proof.
I can’t accept on faith alone
That what we’re taught must be the truth.
I think the truth remains unknown.
I can respect what you believe
I only ask you do the same.
Because I happen to perceive
A different start to the game.
Who was it spoke from whence came he?
Who created the creator.
Was he in fact pure energy?
that sprang from some stars molten core.
I only know I do not know
and I refuse to speculate.
About what happened long ago.
I am content to indicate.
I don’t believe, don’t even try.
I cite the lack of evidence.
The theory seems to fly
Into the face of common sense.
Although I do not claim to be
anything but a simple man
I must reject entirely
The claims of those who say they can.
Teach the truth because they know.
It must remain a mystery
They have no evidence to show
They have divine authority.
I’m sceptical and cynical.
I have a brain that I can use.
I am convinced it’s logical
to be determined to refuse
to accept what I was taught.
By those who know no more than me.
Although my teachers think I ought.
I will rebel instinctively
Friday,20 November 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Telling Tales To Tattle
Tales tattled and told to sell or barter,
Are not the ones recommended to be eager to keep.
Not if the telling of them make the innocent weep.
Since resentments kept can grow deep.
And the price one pays for telling tales to tattle,
Has a way to come back to rattle one's peace...
In a way that the teller had wished never altered,
To utter as told to sell to be sold.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wells Of Truth
Tell me
tales of truth.
Truth is as
elusive as water
in oceans of
Arabian desert sand.
Truth may be
soaked up totally
in a desert of
whispered words.
Truth may be
washed away totally
by a torrent river of
well told lies.
Truth may be
blown away totally
in a blizzard storm of
orchestrated misinformation.
Tell me tales of truth
told throughout history!
I will listen well
intently to your stories of
culturally half sun baked
studied scholastic lies.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Accident.experiment or something meant.for M lady Ernestine.
I sometimes wonder why I ponder
on questions I cannot answer.
Why do I sit and wrack my brain
when there is nothing I can gain.
My endless curiosity
constantly compelling me.
To try and solve the mystery,
which has plagued man through history.
Did God create the race of man
for reasons known to him alone?
Is there an underlying plan
Which lies beneath all that is known.
Or were we just an accident
which has no purpose or intent.
The question which I put to you.
Which do you believe is true?
It’s not a case of either or
there could be many, many more,
explanations I suppose,
the truth is nobody knows.
You do not even have to choose,
you are entitled to refuse.
Though personally I shall still muse
and try to clarify my views.
Tuesday,11 May 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The threat Remains story poem
As twilight fall across the sea.
A fog was drifting steadily
Towards the shore and threatening
that it would swallow everything.
A clammy cold persistent mist
which seemed unnatural to me.
Some evil which should not exist
which was approaching rapidly.
I’m not afraid, I’m terrified
that in the fog strange creatures hide
.I have a strong presentiment
I’m certain it’s malevolent.
The local legends linger on.
Strange tales from times which are long gone.
Stories I held to be untrue
but now I’m not sure that I do.
I am no longer confident
that modern man is competent
to deal with angers he can’t see.
Lured into false security
reliant on technology.
But we still sense subconsciously
When something does not seem quite right
and we prepare for flight or fight.
I would much rather run away
but something forces me to stay
I am entranced or hypnotised
my limbs completely paralysed.
And as I watch it comes ashore
as it has often done before.
To wreak the vengeance of the sea
upon the land so silently.
That no one knows until it’s gone
that it has been and what it’s done
Whole villages have disappeared
because the fog has commandeered.
The population forcibly
and carried them beneath the sea.
Leaving no witnesses behind
no evidence for men to find.
to try and solve the mystery.
Abandoned houses by the sea
but not one living soul remains,
no single witness to explain.
But this time it is different
I’m forced to watch the whole event.
Although there’s nothing I can do
the village disappears from view.
The mist engulfs it easily.
The silence is what frightens me.
No cries of distress or alarm
just an all pervading calm.
Was it by luck, pure happenstance
an accidental circumstance.
I chose to take a moonlight stroll
to watch the breakers as they roll.
Towards the shore from out at sea
in procession ceaselessly.
I do not know but I believe
I was intended to perceive.
The creeping fog come from the sea
engulf the village silently.
So I could then bear witness
to the fact the ancient tales are true.
Though when I try to testify
they think I’m mad or that I lie.
Why should I lie what could I gain
I ask but they cannot explain.
Interviewed by psychiatrists
my “delusion” still persists
I stick to what I know I saw
I will remember evermore.
But they insist on treating me
as I if had some malady.
Some mental illness they can cure
and so they keep me in secure
accommodation I don’t need.
In case one day I might succeed
in proving that my story’s true
and that of course would never do.
They dare not check past history
which would resolve the mystery.
If they researched the local lore
they’d find the fog has struck before
though not in living memory.
They are afraid to set me free.
I know they know I’m not insane
but that I will repeat again.
The story which I know is true
a story they don’t want me to.
They much prefer to rationalise
to justify their blatant lies.
They have no explanation
of where the villagers have gone.
So they misuse authority
because they do not want be
seen to lack efficiency
So they sit back complacently.
Convinced they have successfully
prevented all publicity.
But they will find it is not so
for relatives will want to know.
What happened to their kith and kin
and then the witch hunt will begin.
Eventually they’ll get to me
I will regain my liberty
I will be allowed to tell my tale.
Despite their efforts they will fail.
I will repeat my evidence
just what I saw no more no less.
Although it seems to make no sense.
It is the truth nevertheless.
Authorities claim to protect
the public as they ought to do
It is a claim which I reject
If you believe me you will too.
16-Feb-09
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A simple man.
I am not a Christian
Nor a Muslim or a Jew
I am just a simple man.
Who has a different point of view.
I can't believe the fairy tales.
Which I was taught in my youth.
Because the evidence fails
to convince me of their truth.
I am prepared to listen to.
What you believe with due respect.
But I expect respect from you.
Though you're entitled to reject.
What I believe as being false.
A matter of selection
I dance a jig you choose to waltz.
A different dance for everyone.
Sunday,12 February 2012
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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You are Mistaken! !
The arguments range far and wide.
Opinions held stubbornly
will be adhered to by each side
Because we do not want to see.
That we may be wrong possibly.
Brain washed by what we have been taught.
By teachers who most probably
had not expended too much thought.
Passed on the tenets of their creed
for which they had no evidence.
They merely listened and agreed
which shows a lack of competence.
A teacher should be confident
that what he teaches is the truth.
Mere words are insufficient
when you are educating youth.
Challenge all you have been taught.
Although in fact it may be true
Do not accept without much thought.
The currently prevailing view.
Each creed will claim they are correct.
It ‘s human nature so to do
This will not change. I don’t expect
We’ll ever know which one is true.
12/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Access Denied
Ofttimes enwrapt in reverie
I have a distant memory
but I cannot be sure it’s true
Of my mother who I barely knew.
She died so very long ago.
There is so much I do not know
I only know what I’ve been told
and that recedes as I grow old.
Although I try I can’t recall
her face: bring it to mind at all.
I feel I should be able to
but there is nothing I can do.
Sometimes I wake to find I’ve wept.
But I can do nothing but accept.
That time’s erased the memory
of the face I long to see.
Some faded photographs remain
which I look at, try to regain.
The memories I have repressed
It may be that it’s for best.
I was so young when mother died.
My wants and needs were satisfied.
By father and the family
and I grew up quite happily.
Would mother have been proud of me?
I she’d lived long enough to see.
The man her little boy grew into.
My mother who I barely knew.
Then I remember guiltily
my mother lost much more than me.
The grandchildren she’d never know
the chance to see her children grow.
But I still pursue selfishly
that one elusive memory.
That’s buried somewhere deep inside
A need that can’t be satisfied.
Perhaps because I’m growing old
and only have what I was told
to remember mother by.
I know I’ll fail but I still try.
24/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A little Extra for M'lady Ernestine
I am the hostess with most.
I even boast a family ghost.
Who haunts the family estate.
Of course you must appreciate
she is quite free to come and go.
You never know if she’ll appear.
She’s been around for centuries
and she is rather hard to please.
She will not mix with commoners.
It is the gentry she prefers.
Just who she was nobody knows.
A titled lady we suppose.
A snob or course she is my dear
Her actions make that very clear.
Her history a mystery.
You have to be well bred to see
The ghost I like to brag about.
That she is real, please do not doubt.
If you should see her you can boast
that you have seen the family ghost.
Which seems to prove you are well bred
although the lady’s long since dead.
She recognises quality
the upper class like you and me
If you don’t see her though you try.
The answer is to simply lie
Just like the vast majority
of people who have claimed to see.
A non existent family ghost
A fable dreamt up by your host.
Which seems to prove as she contends
that people pose to please their friends..
They lie about the lie she told.
She lied to show that she was bold
enough to make her story seem quite true.
And you believed the more fool you.
24/06/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Dead Men Tell No Tales
They say that dead men tell no tales!
Except of barges with red sails
And sailors mad for nightingales;
Except of jongleurs stretched at ease
Beside old highways through the trees;
Except of dying moons that break
The hearts of lads who lie awake;
Except of fortresses in shade,
And heroes crumbled and betrayed.
But dead men tell no tales, they say!
Except old tales that burn away
The stifling tapestries of day:
Old tales of life, of love and hate,
Of time and space, and will, and fate.
poem by Haniel Long
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Paradox of Truth
The most subtle lies art the greatest truth
Like the fairy tales of our imaginative youth
Each truth a paradox, a lie does tell
A truth somewhere in mythical spell
When one lies, truth still speaks
For in everything doth truth seek
To express itself to hearts to behold
The truth of life in every lie told
Told in such eloquent song
There is truth in something especially wrong
Rhetoric, myths, ignorance and lies
Truth in all, every truth belies.
If thou don't believe it is certainly true
For to believe is true to me and you
And in this poem if you believe no truth
Let this poem be truth's own proof….
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Sceptical
In the beginning was the word.
A statement patently absurd.
This is the message we receive
from priests who think we should believe.
If there were none to speak or hear.
It is not credible I fear.
The myths and legends multiply
but always fail to satisfy.
My avid curiosity
I simply can’t believe you see.
I think the truth is no one knows
nor ever I will I must suppose.
Why can’t these learned men confess?
they know no more and often less.
Than those who they attempt to teach.
Some knowledge is beyond their reach
and must remain a mystery.
This is the only certainty.
To which I have become resigned
but I will keep an open mind.
I’m sceptical that is quite true
but so I think my friend are you.
18-Dec-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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