Poetry Writings Artwork and stories from Neil Furby

Jun 30, 2008 at 03:45 o\clock

Dog eared

Went for a walk along the beach and there was all these dog signs everywhere Do not let your dog mess our pathway use paper bags at all times to remove dog poo It was mind numbing and made me think of doggy things as the poo factories walked on by and me with my beady eye watching watching for a doggy movement watching the people on the end of leads cooing and arhhing to their beloved four legged animal What lead them to this beastitude love state What was wrong with humans the two legged strutting hip a swagger types ready to knock ya socks off To tough for ya hey second best dogggy forever faithful wagging tails run for sticks Oh hell now what is this I have trod in Where is my pen or can of spray KILL ALL DOGS ON THIS PATHWAY

Jun 30, 2008 at 03:43 o\clock

Track lines

Sitting there on the train trapped in the window seat the stranger started talking at me un prompted by me and oh help here it comes the tale of despair and everyone is against me tirade let me out please yes the people at work are all against me speech and i had a bad upbringing with hints of incense thrown in while checking by face for response of sympathy whereally I wanted out where is my stop can petone be that far away should I get off early to get rid of this on slaught no do not be a coward speak up say shut up please you are boring me senseless but I did not say that but saved my cell phone rang and even when my conversation finished i carried on talking to no one till my station arrived and I got off the train free at last @N Furby

Jun 28, 2008 at 00:44 o\clock

Suddenly we are all green

Rock and roll was here to stay but now  its stop and stall . We slow down while others on planet earth speed up .Is it to late .The global village is getting tatty round the edges Wasters put in the village stocks . Pump water turns grey .Thatched roofs rot.The old church opens its doors to let God out.Dogs and cats go mad.The Village folk dance around the May Pole early . Round and round . Music scatter gun noise. The sun blinks .Black holes beckon. Lets fast rewind quick

@neil furby


Jun 26, 2008 at 13:45 o\clock

Walking through the Hospital

Its in the air that smell of what  , its there but hard to click in the memory of past smells reject reject we do not want to know

The people most with looks of strain on faces stretched with adult awareness of this place of healing or dying .

A woman asks for the cancer ward alone she walks carrying her doom with dignity 

A child whimpers on the bed  Another lying a strange still eyes staring in another place of wonder we hope.

Our patient 4 years old already up and wanting out as she struts around her broken arm of no concern

Its all a Theatre where life stumbles on a stage to either walk off or disappear down some hidden hole 

In the carpark the rain falls down the air is fresh and life calls the fit .....

@ Neil furby

Jun 22, 2008 at 05:50 o\clock

Carrot Story Bobby Furby

we are all good hereSplash oh how must i swim in this hot and seasoned soup the dumpling was no help it just span around and around as i bobbed up and gasped for some air i may only be a carrot but oh i wish the broccoli would save me but he is laughing at me, oh i wished i hadn't ripped the piss out of him for that shocking mop on his head.
Now i may join the pork bones at the bottom of the pot, how the shame on my family would be found at the bottom of the pot with the pork bones and pieces of celery.
I used to have a much better life in the outdoors fresh air plenty of mates to chill with and tell tale stories about escaping from giant rabbits even just chatting to the garden gnome about the caterpillar problem with the lettuce this summer those were the memories i was hanging onto in this spot the big hand had put me in.
The big hand had looked after me right though all the seasons and now the big hand had pulled me from my comfort zone and plunged me into a rather nasty and salty tasting conundrum.
You may ask yourself how will the carrot get out of this sloppy soup he has ended up in well you will have to tune your ears to the ground with the worms for the next update of carrot in your soup...........

's a story i wrote called a carrot in your soup.

Jun 5, 2008 at 14:25 o\clock

5.46, Andheri Local

5.46, Andheri Local
In the women’s compartment
of a Bombay local
we search
for no personal epiphanies.
Like metal licked by relentless acetylene
we are welded –
dreams, disasters,
germs, destinies,
flesh and organza,
odours and ovaries.
A thousand-limbed
million-tongued, multi-spoused
Kali on wheels.

When I descend
I could choose
to dice carrots
or dice a lover.

I postpone the latter.

© 2001, Arundhathi Subramaniam
From: On Cleaning Bookshelves
Publisher: Allied Publishers, Mumbai, 2001
ISBN: 81-7764-176-X

Jun 5, 2008 at 01:37 o\clock

Endre Ady,

Ady, Endre b. Nov. 22, 1877, d. Jan. 27, 1919, is generally considered the greatest Hungarian poet of the 20th
century. His innovative poems, influenced by French symbolism, countered the earlier poetic tradition of Janos Arany and
Sandor Petofi.

Ady left the study of law to become a journalist. After he met Adel Brull, called "Leda" (reversed reading of her name) in many of his poems, he followed her to Paris, where he came in contact with new literary fashions. When he returned to Hungary, his unconventional beliefs and attacks on the Hungarian aristocracy made him a controversial figure. His break with poetic and social traditions came with Uj versek (New Poems, 1906) and continued in nine subsequent volumes. Beginning about 1909 he contributed poetry and prose to Nyugat (West), a leading literary and social journal. Ady's lyrical and religious verse draws on colloquial and biblical sources and explores suffering and death in a world that has lost God.

Jun 5, 2008 at 01:26 o\clock

The poet of the Hortobágy written by Endre Ady,

The poet of the Hortobágy

He was a large-eyed, Hunnish youth,
smitten with many a fair mirage,
and with his herd he struck into
the famous Magyar Hortobágy.

Woman and dreams have seized his soul
a thousand times with magic snare;
but when his heart would sprout a flower
the herds of cattle grazed it bare.

He often thought of wondrous things,
of wine and woman, death and birth;
he could have been a holy bard
in any other land on earth.

But he gazed upon the herds
and on the breeched, illiterate crowd,
straightway he buried all his songs;
he whistled or he swore aloud.

Tr: Anton T. Nyerges

A Hortobágy poétája

                       Kúnfajta , nagyszemű legény volt ,
                       Kínzottja sok-sok méla vágynak ,
                       Csordát őrzött és nekivágott
                       A híres magyar Hortobágynak .

                       Alkonyatok és délibábok
                       Megfogták százszor is a lelkét
                       De ha virág nőtt a szívében
                       A csorda-népek lelegelték

                       Ezerszer gondolt csodaszépet
                       Gondolt halálra , borra , nőre
                       Minden más táján a világnak 
                       Szent dalnok lett volna belőle

                        De ha a piszkos , gatyás , bamba
                        Társakra s a csordára nézett
                        Eltemette rögtön a nótát :
                        Káromkodott , vagy fütyörészett .

Jun 5, 2008 at 01:18 o\clock


Jun 5, 2008 at 01:07 o\clock

Bobby Furby

Jun 5, 2008 at 00:57 o\clock

Walking in the trees at Waikawa Beach

Walking in that strange place of pine trees growing in the steep sided sand dunes with toadstools and rabbits scatchings/ coming across a dusty wine bottle and a plastic cup lying on the river bank/ who would drink alone?/sitting in that place / shipwrecked humanity/ or just enjoying a pleasure in a different setting/ I left the bottle and its plastic cup/ a shrine a sign /hope things get better drinker

Jun 5, 2008 at 00:48 o\clock

Winter Poem for the Southern globe

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Richard The Third Act 1, scene 1, 1–4 by William Shakespeare