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Post by jeffd on Mar 10, 2023 11:48:39 GMT -5
Robert W Service, he of The Shooting of Dan McGrew, wrote this amazing poem. Where have I been all my life!
"Pipe Smoker"
By Robert Service
Because I love the soothing weed
And am of sober type,
I'd choose me for a friend in need
A man who smokes a pipe.
A cove who hasn't much to say,
And spits into the fire,
Puffing like me a pipe of clay,
Corn-cob or briar.
A chap original of thought,
With cheery point of view,
Who has of gumption quite a lot,
And streaks of humour too.
He need not be a whiskered sage,
With wisdom over-ripe:
Just give me in the old of age
A pal who smokes a pipe.
A cigarette may make for wit,
Although I like it not;
A good cigar, I must admit,
Gives dignity to thought.
But as my glass of grog I sip
I never, never gripe
If I have for companionship
A guy who smokes a pipe.
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Post by jeffd on Mar 10, 2023 11:57:05 GMT -5
Just found another Robert W Service pipe poem:
An Ancient gaffer once I knew,
Who puffed a pipe and tossed a tankard;
He claimed a hundred years or two,
And for a dozen more he hankered;
So o'er a pint I asked how he
Had kept his timbers tight together;
He grinned and answered: "It maun be
Because I likes all kinds o' weather.
"Fore every morn when I get up
I lights my clay pipe wi' a cinder,
And as me mug o' tea I sup
I looks from out the cottage winder;
And if it's shade or if it's shine
Or wind or snow befit to freeze me,
I always say: 'Well, now that's fine...
It's just the sorto' day to please me.'
"For I have found it wise in life
To take the luck the way it's coming;
A wake, a worry or a wife -
Just carry on and keep a-humming.
And so I lights me pipe o' clay,
And through the morn on blizzard borders,
I chuckle in me guts and say:
'It's just the day the doctor orders.'"
A mighty good philosophy
Thought I, and leads to longer living,
To make the best of things that be,
And take the weather of God's giving;
So though the sky be ashen grey,
And winds be edged and sleet be slanting,
Heap faggots on the fire and say:
"It's just the kind of day I'm wanting."
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Post by trailboss on Mar 10, 2023 13:34:20 GMT -5
Thanks for the poems!
When my son was in scouts long ago, an old Scoutmaster recited The Shooting of Dan McGrew strictly from memory and the Irish accent was well done by the campfire.
I was impressed.
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Post by Ronv69 on Mar 10, 2023 22:41:44 GMT -5
Good stuff. I like this kind of poetry.
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Post by jeffd on Mar 17, 2023 14:21:43 GMT -5
Oh this is good. The author reads the poem while he smokes. He thoughtfully rambles about many things, like all good pipe smokers.
I am a big time follower of this guy, who some people say I resemble. I don't resemble him nearly enough.
I like pipe smokers. It is a knee jerk reaction. My prejudice is that I would get along famously with all of you.
And so I share this video in that spirit. That we, you and I, can sit together with a pipe, and watch this video, and nod in appreciation. I really believe that what is wonderful about this little video is what is wonderful about pipe smokers. We talk we listen we smoke.
Seriously, lets smoke, lets watch.
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Post by turbocat on Mar 17, 2023 14:25:52 GMT -5
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Post by jeffd on Mar 17, 2023 14:53:08 GMT -5
Malcolm Guites: Smoke Rings From My Pipe
All the long day’s weariness is done
I’m free at last to do just as I will
Take out my pipe, admire the setting sun
Practice the art of simply sitting still
Thank God I have this briar bowl to fill,
I leave the world with all its hopeless hype,
Its pressures, and its ever-ringing till,
And let it go in smoke rings from my pipe
The hustle and the bustle, these I shun
The tasks that trouble and the cares that kill,
The false idea that there’s a race to run,
The pushing of that weary stone uphill,
The wretched i-phone’s all-insistent trill,
Whingers and whiners, each with their own gripe,
I pack them in tobacco leaves until
They’re blown away in smoke rings from my pipe
And then at last my real work is begun,
My chance to chant, to exercise the skill
Of summoning the muses, one by one,
To meet me in their temple, touch my quill
( I have a pen but quills are better still)
And when the soul is full, the time is ripe
Kindle the fire of poetry that will
Breathe and expand like smoke-rings from my pipe
Prince I have done with grinding at the mill,
These petty-pelting tyrants aren’t my type,
So lift me up and set me on a hill,
A free man blowing smoke rings from his pipe.
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Post by sperrytops on Mar 17, 2023 15:23:31 GMT -5
Oh this is good. The author reads the poem while he smokes. He thoughtfully rambles about many things, like all good pipe smokers. I am a big time follower of this guy, who some people say I resemble. I don't resemble him nearly enough. I like pipe smokers. It is a knee jerk reaction. My prejudice is that I would get along famously with all of you. And so I share this video in that spirit. That we, you and I, can sit together with a pipe, and watch this video, and nod in appreciation. I really believe that what is wonderful about this little video is what is wonderful about pipe smokers. We talk we listen we smoke. Seriously, lets smoke, lets watch. I follow Malcolm Guide myself. He is well knowledged on all forms of poetry and quite a poet himself. Not to mention a collector of Peterson Sherlock Holmes pipes. |
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Zach
Pro Member
If you can't send money, send tobacco.
Posts: 3,582
First Name: Zach
Favorite Pipe: Too many currently, bound to change
Favorite Tobacco: Haunted Bookshop, Big 'N' Burley, Pegasus, Habana Daydream, OJK, Rum Twist, FVF, Escudo, Orlik Golden Sliced, Kendal Flake, Ennerdale
Location:
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Post by Zach on Mar 17, 2023 15:39:00 GMT -5
Malcolm Guites: Smoke Rings From My Pipe All the long day’s weariness is done I’m free at last to do just as I will Take out my pipe, admire the setting sun Practice the art of simply sitting still Thank God I have this briar bowl to fill, I leave the world with all its hopeless hype, Its pressures, and its ever-ringing till, And let it go in smoke rings from my pipe The hustle and the bustle, these I shun The tasks that trouble and the cares that kill, The false idea that there’s a race to run, The pushing of that weary stone uphill, The wretched i-phone’s all-insistent trill, Whingers and whiners, each with their own gripe, I pack them in tobacco leaves until They’re blown away in smoke rings from my pipe And then at last my real work is begun, My chance to chant, to exercise the skill Of summoning the muses, one by one, To meet me in their temple, touch my quill ( I have a pen but quills are better still) And when the soul is full, the time is ripe Kindle the fire of poetry that will Breathe and expand like smoke-rings from my pipe Prince I have done with grinding at the mill, These petty-pelting tyrants aren’t my type, So lift me up and set me on a hill, A free man blowing smoke rings from his pipe. This one is a new favorite. I liked his reading of it. |
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