[inspired by Wendy Cope’s anthology: ‘The Funny Side’ - published by faber and faber]

The sun is nowhere
This summer’s delayed
My throat is like sandpaper
Earth is my head
I read Wendy Cope’s masterpiece and I blabber:
“Will I ever be published by faber and faber?”

The news just announced
Now, at BBC
That people live longer surrounded by sea
“Rubbish” I say and switch of the TV
“I’d live longer only if ff published me.”

So I close my eyes gently
And drift off to a dream
There’re thousands of people
Is my name that they scream?
Am I finally up on the poetry ladder?
Ms CGP published by faber and faber?

I awake with a smile
(that lasts a second or so)
My poem’s unfinished
I can hear the wind blow
The aches and the pains
Say “hello” once again
I don’t even get why
I’m a Wendy Cope fan
In fact if she’d be here
I swear that I’d grab her:
“How the hell you got published
By faber and faber?”

I’ll try one more stanza
My pain’s getting worse
My fever is up
And i turn and i toss
I have finished my drugs
But food still tastes like rubber
And I’ll never be published by
faber and faber

Alternative ending:
And I’ve run out of rhymes
For that ‘faber and faber’
..written on a flu-day inspired by Wendy Cope, faber and faber (ff) and co-codamol.
Chuck Feb 2013

I'm with her
I love New York
My eyes are up here
Here we go Steelers
Win one for the city
Faber College
Walk against cancer
Mechanics have the best tools
Where's the beef
All I need to say I can print on a Tee-shirt
Most of theses are real Tee-shirts! I don't know the original Tee authors. Haha
Hilda May 2013
O how the thought of God attracts
And draws the heart from earth,
And sickens it from passing shows
And dissipating mirth!

Tis not enough to save our souls,
To shun the eternal fires;
The thought of God will rouse the heart
To more sublime desires.

God only is the creature's home,
Though rough and strait the road;
Yet nothing less can satisfy
The love that longs for God.

Oh, utter but the Name of God
Down in your heart of hearts,
And see how from the world at once
All tempting light departs.

A trusting heart, a yearning eye
Can win their way above;
If mountains can be moved by faith
Is there less power in love?

How little of that road, my soul,
How little hast thou gone!
Take heart and let the thought of God
Allure thee further on.

Dole not thy duties out to God,
But let thy hand be free;
Look long at Jesus, His sweet blood-
How was it dealt to thee?

The perfect way is hard to flesh;
It is not hard to love;
If thou wert sick for want of God
How swiftly wouldst thou move!

Be docile to thine unseen Guide;
Love Him as He loves thee;
Time and obedience are enough,
And thou a saint shalt be.

*Frederick William Faber
The body lay in a mound of hay
That was all piled up by the forge,
He took one look at the butcher’s hook
And the sick rose up in his gorge,
He peered on down at the bloodied face
There was nothing that could be done,
But held his breath when he saw that death
Had taken the blacksmith’s son.

He looked around for a sign of life
But the shop and the forge were cold,
The blacksmith Kirk hadn’t come to work
Though he’d seen him, out in the fold,
And darling Kate would be calling in,
His fate whirled round in his head,
What would she think when she found him there
With the love of her life stone dead?

The villagers knew no love was lost,
They’d fought at the village fete,
All over the hand of the pretty one,
The hand of their darling Kate,
But George was on an apprenticeship
For his father had owned the forge,
While Faber was a farm labourer,
So Kate had gone off with George.

But now George lay in a pile of hay
And he wouldn’t be dating Kate,
So Faber thought that he shouldn’t stay
Though he’d left it a little late.
He didn’t know if they’d seen him come,
He couldn’t be seen to go,
They’d think that he was the only one
To deliver the killer blow.

He heard a rustle within the store
And the sweat broke out on his head,
He knew if somebody found him there
That he’d be better off dead.
He peered silently through the door
And into the corner gloom,
And Kate was sobbing, there on the floor
In the darkest part of the room.

Her bouffant hair was a tangled mess
Her dress was tattered and frayed,
It didn’t take but a single guess
To see the part that she’d played,
For blood was mingling with her tears
Her bodice was stained deep red,
‘He stole my innocence,’ she exclaimed,
‘I hit him just once,’ she said.

Now Faber sits in a darkened cell
To wait for the hangman’s rope,
The Judge had asked, but he wouldn’t tell
So now he’s bereft of hope.
He’d told the court that he’d stumbled in
On the blacksmith’s son, and rape,
And hit him once with a butcher’s hook
For the sake of the darling Kate.

But Kate was strolling with someone new
On the day that they pinned his hands,
And led him up to the gallows floor
To pay for the court’s demands,
She never gave him a thought that day
Though the blacksmith thought he knew,
And lay in wait with a butcher’s hook
As Kate was passing through.

David Lewis Paget
I’m indebted to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 4th Edition 1996

Ab Imo Pectore

b imo pectore,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
Cadit quaestio,
Desunt cetera.
Est modus in rebus.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae,
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
Hic finis fandi,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
Jacta interdum est alea,
Labuntur et imputantur.
Magni nominis umbra,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Res ipsa loquitur.
Solvitur ambulando…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
Urbi et orbi,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.

From The Bottom Of The Heart

From the bottom of the heart,  the falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
The question drops, the rest is wanting.
There is a balance in all things, every man is the creator of his own fate.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Let there be an end to talking, for who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
The die is sometimes already cast,
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
No one can claim to know all things,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor and rich men’s houses;
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
It’s so obvious, it speaks for itself.
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
And to all the world,
There’s no turning back.

Ab Imo Pectore / From The Bottom Of The Heart

Ab imo pectore,
From the bottom of the heart,
Blandae mendacia linguae,  
The falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
Cadit quaestio,
The question drops,
Desunt cetera.
The rest is found wanting.
Est modus in rebus,
There is a balance in all things,
Faber est quisque fortunae suae.
Every man is the creator of his own fate.
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.  
Hic finis fandi,
Let there be an end to talking,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
For who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
Jacta interdum est alea.
The die is sometimes already cast,
Labuntur et imputantur.
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
Magni nominis umbra,
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
No one can claim to know all things,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pallida  mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor man and rich men’s houses;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
Res ipsa loquitur.
It’s so obvious, that it speaks for itself.
Solvitur ambulando…
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
Urbi et orbi,
And to all the world,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
There’s no turning back.

I didn’t write a goddamn line of this, it’s all cribbed from a dictionary. But I’ll take the credit for its conception and, as good Systems Poetry should do, meaning and beauty appears spontaneously from the random juxtaposition of disparate lines of prose; like frogs from rotting wood…
wordvango Jul 2017
First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit——

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

Sylvia Plath, "The Applicant" from The Collected Poems. Copyright © 2008 by Sylvia Plath.  Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Source: The Collected Poems (Faber and Faber, 1989)
Krysha Dec 2016
Did you ever imagine yourself as an art? Did you ever felt like one? Have you ever been surrounded by marvelous paintings while you're there, in a corner just a spilled ink. Waiting for hours for someone to just look at you intensely. I guess we've all been there. It must have hurt to be an HBW ball pen beside a Faber castell, to be a plain rubber shoes beside a rubber shoes with a check, it must have hurt to be blue beside yellow but please do not forget that you are worthy too, that you are worth valuing too, that no matter who and what we are, we will always be worthwhile. Do not forget that HBW or Faber castell both can still release ink, both can be used to write, a plain one or a branded one both can still be used to run, yellow or blue both can still give color. A spilled ink or a complicated painting both are still an artwork, no, a masterpiece, So if you ever feel like just a spilled ink please remember that it will never be not interesting and a spilled ink is never just a "just" Because for me a spilled ink painting holds so much more than just a black ink, it's full of secrets. The more you look at it the more you'll understand what it is. Every drop of blank ink in that canvas is a thought of someone, extreme love or extreme hatred there's no in between. So please stop comparing yourself and stop wanting to be like them. Overrated, ordinary, and average. And just because the society tells you you’re not beautiful does not mean you’re not. Be a spilled ink so plain yet so mind blowing. So again did you ever imagine and felt like an art? I guess yes because next to art will always be you.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
it's quiet hard to find a welcoming book, i can cite two read in one sitting, thus spoke Zarathusrta (the original intent) and the soft machine by burroughs... all others came with many composed sittings... but none of the repeated encounters can be spoken of so favourably as Bertrand Russell's history of western philosophy, with that book came the kindest summer - in that i find historians the prefects of philosophy, the Republic guardians, leave the poets to do their sing-along, and furthered abstracts of symbols (should they wish, and ought), give presence to historians like Russell and Tatarkiewicz (surname derived as descended from Tartar auxiliary at the battle of Tannenberg with two naked swords dipped into virgin soil awaiting blood by a Lithuanian king married to a Polish gal).

sometimes poems can be more memorable than entire
books, there memorableness technique used in
epics gets lost most of the time,
writers' custard narrative awaiting a memorable
spontaneity is always missing, a memorable quote
needs to be bookmarked, it's hardly remembered,
all that talk of etiquette, esp. 19th century is always
the fog in novel, Mr. Darcy and his twin
Mr. Rochester, both haunted -
the former by social structures (prejudice;
his wife to be by lower caste governed by pride)
while the latter by a madwoman in the attic -
there's nothing memorable about these novels
in mono assertions, unless you have a book-club or
a cinematic script and a movie... poems are more
memorable, naturally, even if you're unable to recite
them because you rather recite the list of ingredients
for a bonkers curry, someone else will recite you a
poem, no problem. i guess that's because memorising
poetry is afforded by rhymes, the crude musicology
if given an instrument, would be to pluck
two same notes, ugly with a guitar, beautiful with
the tongue.
no, novels are not memorable, ask blind Samson about
the pillars he absorbed with his strength and pulled
down... ask him...
or... or i can tell you a little secret, it's a secret concerning
Sylvia Plath's *bell jar
... page 119 in my edition (Faber & Faber),
slight digression: a page later she's complaining in
a "fictive" personality about the ineffectiveness of sleeping
pills... she has been apparently given max'      imum
strength pills... dear Sylvia,
                                        against your doctor's orders,
          against all pharmaceutical orthodoxy,
sleeping pills are best effective with alcohol,
even though the tagline is to avoid mixing the two...
i can't specify the quantity of alcohol in milligrams
akin to the dosage of the pills, dear Sylvia, they're only
effective with the liquid sedative, and perhaps a painkiller
like paracetamol...
nonetheless on page 119 she's citing a book you will
probably not read, and neither did she (explanation
a bit later)... she cites the first page of J. Joyce's
Finnegans Wake...
                 riverrun past Eve and Adam's...


i tried the syllable scalpel to my best ability for breath,
this grand anti-onomatopoeia, cut for brief pause...
but she didn't read any further like Delmore Schwartz
trying to sell this damn Grææ tongue...
she didn't read on, because there's another century in this

(i left a bookmark on the page (no. 23) - a painting by
Diego Velázquez, the toilet of Venus 122.5 by 177 centimetres)

with loss of breath and entry of the centipede as follows


but i must i don't have the ratio, since i didn't bother counting
either words, but Sylvia did, and if she counted the first word
as a century, this second word must also be a century -
yet on suspicion should i believe she read further, or didn't?
they claimed the book to be a Babylonian Tower
readying for dispersions of the people, yet with historical
events it's a joke, given that there are no diacritical marks
in the book to provide stresses of accents:
e.g. fumatul poate să ucidă (romanian for: do not smoke
cigarettes, yes, there's a black market for cigarettes,
THANK GOD!) - and with saying that, it is not a book
with a Babylonian Tower attached to it, it's a tower for sure,
but a Globalisation Tower, how english became the
Lingua Levant once more, when the Franks had their
puppet king of Jerusalem at the time of Saladin.
Ari Mar 29
I choose paper biatch, I am going cellulose.  
Even Cinderella knows the tone of Bellow's
Prose is bellicose.  Let's smoke some bath salts
Then eat that fella's nose.  What up!

To all my jellicles.  Looky looky
I got hooky.  Put on my robe and wizard
Hat.  Speak Wookie to Sookie.  If 2 cents
Equals three bucks, Skeletor has acid reflux.

Roll over based god.  Don't be hoven
From your umgebung.  Chew Ummagumma
To bubblegum.  Get slim in your jungle
Jim.  Calling all Mongolians.

Those alligators have razor bumps.  If they
Publish this bunkum Faber & Faber
Are chumps.  Plants have lovely lady lumps,
Trucks like sanitation dumps. Angler

Fish love lamp.  El Dorado love Ponyboy.
Caught a full house on the Rio Grande complete
With domovoi.  Know how I know you're poor?
The roaches on your toilet can sing Ode to Joy.

— The End —