Poet Les Murray - Clerihew
The Australian poet Les Murray
When in Surry.
Always recites his ballad
Whilst eating salad.
poem by Khadim Hussain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Les Murray (The Australian Poet) - Clerihew
The poet Les Murray
Loves hot curry.
Always recites his sonnet
Wearing a bonnet.
poem by Khadim Hussain
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Poetless
I don't think I'm the type to write poems
I don't know a stanza from Mario Lanza
Or an assonance from a disco dance
A ballad is neat like salad without meat
Syntax-Cadence just give me half a sixpence
Dactyllic meter or Metaphor what are these for.
My writings are as far from this as a mile
But I'm a poet if I can make someone cry-laugh-or smile.
poem by Craig Anderson
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The Squatter Of The Olden Time
I'll sing to you a fine new song, made by my blessed mate,
Of a fine Australian squatter who had a fine estate,
Who swore by right pre-emptive at a sanguinary rate
That by his rams, his ewes, his lambs, Australia was made great
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
His hut around was hung with guns, whips, spurs, and boots and shoes,
And kettles and tin pannikins to hold the tea he brews;
And here his worship lolls at ease and takes his smoke and snooze,
And quaffs his cup of hysouskin, the beverage old chums choose
Like a fine Australian squatter, one of the olden time.
And when shearing time approaches he opens hut to all,
And though ten thousand are his flocks, he featly shears them all,
Even to the scabby wanderer you'd think no good at all;
For while he fattens all the great, he boils down all the small
Like a fine old Murray squatter, one of the olden time.
And when his worship comes to town his agents for to see,
His wool to ship, his beasts to sell, he lives right merrily;
The club his place of residence, as becomes a bush J.P.,
He darkly hints that Thompson's run from scab is scarcely free
This fine old Murray settler, one of the olden time.
And now his fortune he has made to England straight goes he,
But finds with grief he's not received as he had hoped to be.
His friends declare his habits queer, his language much too free,
And are somewhat apt to cross the street when him they chance to see
This fine Australian squatter, the boy of the olden time.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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I Hear Voices...
And from the graves, where names were carved in
stone, came a mournful Ballad, of life gone by.
A Ballad sang by mothers, whose children left behind,
and left to sing their ballads, of tears that did remain.
And what of Fathers Ballad, whose job was not complete,
who died and sang his song, of things that could not be.
In a smaller voices, still weeping and confused, the children
sang their Ballad, of parents never knew.
And in some far off place, a Ballad did come fourth, of all
the deaths that happened, that wasn't meant to be.
A soldiers painful Ballad, did seemed so unjust, of the
war that finally killed him, in a land he never knew.
The Ballad, of unknown, thou human, none the less,
were buried here alone, with not a one to care.
In the quiet of a cemetery morn, the Ballad of
the dead, echoes silently across green grass,
and through the granite stones.
It makes one wonder, about the Ballad of the dead,
and what will be our song...when we are finally gone.
Well, I'm half Australian, half English and I live in London. That is the only reason I came upon this story. My Australian mother, Meredith Hooper, was invited in late 2007 by some Australian friends to make up a token Australian audience in a tiny fringe theater play reading of an unproduced, unrehearsed play called 'The King's Speech.'
quote by Tom Hooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.
quote by Lord Byron
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Hamburgercheeseranchbacoburger
Sitting back taking a break
Staring at this stale piece of cake.
I ponder what to eat for lunch
Or shall I call it brunch?
Tacos, pizza, or a salad
This is one crazy ballad.
I usually don't go out to eat
Walking that far would hurt my feet.
Finally it has been decided
a
Hamburgercheeseranchbacoburger
poem by Kilee Burton
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To Mr. Murray (For Oxford And For Waldegrave)
For Oxford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave;
Which is not fairly to behave,
My Murray.
Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,
A live lord must be worth two dead,
My Murray.
And if, as the opinion goes,
Verse hath a better sale than prose--
Certes, I should have more than those,
My Murray.
But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'd,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd,
My Murray.
Ballad Of Nice & Easy
And so we ride on
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
We're coming along
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
Two of these kids grew up on the same street
And though some folks blow it, there's no smoke in their eyes
They're tying their dreams with doubled up laces
Falling, free falling, tangled up 'til they die
And so we ride on
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
We're coming along
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
'Cause everyone knows they'll get their hands dirty
Ripping at seams and smoking hot knives
But sooner or later there's an end to this candle
We'll burn it at both ends and switch on the lights
And so we ride on
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
We're coming along
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
And so we ride on
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
We're coming along
The ballad of nice and easy
Young and carefree
song performed by by Gomez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Facility
So easy 'tis to make a rhyme,
That did the world but know it,
Your coachman might Parnassus climb,
Your butler be a poet.
Then, oh, how charming it would be
If, when in haste hysteric
You called the page, you learned that he
Was grappling with a lyric.
Or else what rapture it would yield,
When cook sent up the salad,
To find within its depths concealed
A touching little ballad.
Or if for tea and toast you yearned,
What joy to find upon it
The chambermaid had coyly laid
A palpitating sonnet.
Your baker could the fashion set;
Your butcher might respond well;
With every tart a triolet,
With every chop a rondel.
Your tailor's bill . . . well, I'll be blowed!
Dear chap! I never knowed him . . .
He's gone and written me an ode,
Instead of what I owed him.
So easy 'tis to rhyme . . . yet stay!
Oh, terrible misgiving!
Please do not give the game away . . .
I've got to make my living.
poem by Robert William Service
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To Mr. Murray (Strahan, Tonson Lintot Of The Times)
Strahan, Tonson Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unedged MS. authors come;
Thou printest all - and sellest some--
My Murray.
Upon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,--
But where is thy new Magazine,
My Murray?
Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine,
My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the 'Navy List,'
My Murray.
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without 'the Board of Longitude,'
Although this narrow paper would,
My Murray.
Venice, March 25, 1818.
Streaking The Australian Way
Streaking
Do we do on a lonely campus night
Tvs a drag and theyre turning off the city lights
I remember the days of the party raids
And sitting on combs was a silly craze
We got a new one
And its called
Streaking the old australian way
Streaking
Were bringing back the age
Streaking
The old australian way
Streaking
Its not what you call your regular high school course
Its a little like lady godiva without the horse
You just need a crowd and some confidence
Theres nothing special to wear so theres no expense
Everybody can do it
So lets go streaking
The old australian way
Were bringing back the age
Streaking
The old australian way
Me and my lady are going to get away
Then go streaking night and day
We felt for awhile there was nothing new to try
You dont have to smoke it but it still gets you high
You just need a mg to get away
And maybe a nice warm sunny day
Anybody can do it
So lets go streaking the old australian way
Were bringing back the age
Streaking
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Barefoot Ballad
(words & music by fuller - morris)
I want a barefoot ballad yes a barefoot ballad
Wont you play for me a down home country song
cause when I kick my shoes off and I kick my blues off
With a barefoot ballad you just cant go wrong
Give me a honk-tonk fiddle with a guitar in the middle and a melody
Humming like a fountain swinging out on smokey mountain
I want a barefoot ballad yes a barefoot ballad
Wont you play for me a down home country song
cause when I kick my shoes off and I kick my blues off
With a barefoot ballad you just cant go wrong
Now the big toes connected to the two toe
And the two toes connected to the three toe
And the three toes connected to the four toe
And the four toes connected to the five toe
And the five toe and away we go
I want a barefoot ballad yes a barefoot ballad
Wont you play for me a down home country song
cause when I kick my shoes off and I kick my blues off
With a barefoot ballad you just cant go wrong
Now the big toes connected to the two toe
And the two toes connected to the three toe
And the three toes connected to the four toe
And the four toes connected to the five toe
And the five toe and away we go
I wanna barefoot ballad yes a barefoot ballad
Wont you play for me a barefoot ballad song.
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Word Salad
Like veggie salad tossed here and there
Random words mix up good meaning
Spiced up musings everywhere
The taste of which is quite confusing.
So I looked and read classic poetry
Perchance there find some gourmet score
Hoping my diligence gets the recipe
For the word salad I am looking for.
Salads taste nice with a little dressing
And thrown about words may hit some cue
I guess I could never do salad writing
So I stick to rhyme in the poems I do.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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My Winter Ballad- Saved by a Salad
Snow falling through my chimney, putting out my fire
Children throwing snowballs at my window, causing my ire.
To chase them away- I step outside
On the icy ground, my feet do slide.
But wait-
Behold my vegetable patch- my misery slips
Red juicy tomatoes and peppers with red tips.
I pluck them all and make a tasty salad,
And this my friends, is my winter ballad.
poem by Eybob Album
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A Coincidence
Every critic in the town
Runs the minor poet down;
Every critic--don't you know it?
Is himself a minor poet.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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In my opinion, Al Moritz may be the best poet of his generation in Canada.
quote by George Murray
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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