The Words Thread

I was going to call it the 'Poem' thread but if I did no one would read it.

I quite like words that make you think or make you smile - here's three of the ones I think are good - hope you enjoy them.

The first is by - of all people - a German vicar by the name of Martin Niemöller -



First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn't speak out because I was Protestant.

Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.



When exactly is the right time to stand up and speak out - is there ever a right time?


The next probably bothers me because I am a parent myself - it is by Philip Larkin -

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


Finally Bolton's own poet - Hovis Presley (RIP)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=1J8Mc3f3Djk

There once was a man from Nantucket...

They seek him here.
They seek him there.










But they can't find the Bastard anywhere.

I don't know what to say really.
Three minutes
to the biggest battle of our professional lives
all comes down to today.
Either we heal as a team or we are going to crumble.
Inch by inch play by play till we're finished.
We are in hell right now, gentlemen believe me and we can stay here and get the shit kicked out of us or we can fight our way back into the light.
We can climb out of hell.
One inch, at a time.

Now I can't do it for you.
I'm too old.
I look around and I see these young faces
and I think I mean I made every wrong choice a middle age man could make.
I uh....I pissed away all my money believe it or not.
I chased off anyone who has ever loved me.
And lately, I can't even stand the face I see in the mirror.

You know when you get old in life things get taken from you.
That's, that's part of life.
But, you only learn that when you start losing stuff.
You find out that life is just a game of inches.
So is football. Because in either game life or football the margin for error is so small.
I mean one half step too late or to early you don't quite make it.
One half second too slow or too fast and you don't quite catch it.
The inches we need are everywhere around us.
They are in every break of the game
every minute, every second.

On this team, we fight for that inch
On this team, we tear ourselves, and everyone around us
to pieces for that inch.
We CLAW with our finger nails for that inch.
Cause we know
when we add up all those inches
that's going to make the fucking difference
between WINNING and LOSING
between LIVING and DYING.

I'll tell you this
in any fight
it is the guy who is willing to die
who is going to win that inch.
And I know
if I am going to have any life anymore
it is because, I am still willing to fight, and die for that inch
because that is what LIVING is.
The six inches in front of your face.

Now I can't make you do it.
You gotta look at the guy next to you.
Look into his eyes.
Now I think you are going to see a guy who will go that inch with you.
You are going to see a guy
who will sacrifice himself for this team
because he knows when it comes down to it,
you are gonna do the same thing for him.

That's a team, gentlemen
and either we heal now, as a team,
or we will die as individuals.
That's football guys.
That's all it is.
Now, whattaya gonna do?

HEAL & FIGHT!!!

Sorry - got a bit caught up there.

Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I
may not follow. Do not walk beside me for the path is narrow.. In fact,
just piss off and leave me alone.

I have no parents. I make the heaven and earth my parents.
I have no home. I make awareness my home.
I have no life and death. I make the tides of breathing my life and death.
I have no divine power. I make honesty my divine power.
I have no means. I make understanding my means.
I have no magic secret. I make character my magic secret.
I have no body. I make endurance my body.
I have no eyes. I make the flash of lightning my eyes.
I have no ears. I make sensibility my ears.
I have no limbs. I make promptness my limbs.
I have no strategy. I make "unshadowed by thought" my strategy.
I have no design. I make "seizing opportunity by the forelock" my design.
I have no miracles. I make right action my miracle.
I have no principles. I make "adaptability to all circumstances" my principles.
I have no tactics. I make emptiness and fullness my tactics.
I have no talent. I make ready wit my talent.
I have no friends. I make my mind my friend.
I have no enemy. I make carelessness my enemy.
I have no armour. I make benevolence and righteousness my armour.
I have no castle. I make immovable mind my castle.
I have no sword. I make absence of self my sword.

This is one of the most famous of war poems written by a bloke called Wilfred Owen's who was killed in World War One - the title is written in Latin but it means something like 'how glorious it is to die for your country' – which were what the schools were teaching the kids at the time.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.