Hey!
I'm looking for poems that deal with the theme of conformity, can u help me??

thanks,
Tiff

Try "The Unknown Citizen," by W.H. Auden

The First Lord's song from the Gilbert & Sullivan operetta 'HMS Pinafore':

When I was a lad I served a term
As office boy to an attorney's firm
I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor
And I polished up the handle of the big front door
I polished up that handle so carefully
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navy

As office boy I made such a mark
That they gave me the post of a junior clerk
I served the writs with a smile so bland
And I copied all the letters in a big round hand
I copied all the letters in a hand so free
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navy

In serving writs I made such a name
That an articled clerk I soon became
I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit
For the Pass Examination at the Institute
And that Pass Examination did so well for me
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navy

Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip
That they took me into the partnership
And that junior partnership I ween
Was the only ship that I ever had seen
But that kind of ship so suited me
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navy

I grew so rich that I was sent
By a pocket borough into Parliament
I always voted at my Party's call
And I never thought of thinking for myself at all
I thought so little, they rewarded me
By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navy

Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be
If you want to rise to the top of the tree
If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule
Stick close to your desks and never go to sea
And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navy



Post Edited (10-08-04 17:39)

Poems in praise of conformism and conventionality: Born Yesterday, Toads and Toads Revisited.
All by Philip Larkin

Toads:

[plagiarist.com]

Born:

[www.erzsebel.com]

Another song:

The Vicar of Bray
In good King Charles's golden days,
When Loyalty no harm meant;
A Furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd Preferment.
Unto my Flock I daily Preach'd,
Kings are by God appointed,
And Damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's Anointed.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I will be the Vicar of Bray, Sir!

When Royal James possest the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The Penal Law I houted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my Constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I will be the Vicar of Bray, Sir!

When William our Deliverer came,
To heal the Nation's Grievance,
I turn'd the Cat in Pan again,
And swore to him Allegiance:
Old Principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive Obedience is a Joke,
A Jest is non-resistance.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I will be the Vicar of Bray, Sir!

When Royal Ann became our Queen,
Then Church of England's Glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional Conformists base
I Damn'd, and Moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such Prevarication.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I will be the Vicar of Bray, Sir!

When George in Pudding time came o'er,
And Moderate Men looked big, Sir,
My Principles I chang'd once more,
And so became a Whig, Sir.
And thus Preferment I procur'd,
From our Faith's great Defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I will be the Vicar of Bray, Sir!

The Illustrious House of Hannover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my Faith, and Loyalty,
I never once will faulter,
But George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the Times shou'd alter.

And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I will be the Vicar of Bray, Sir!

pam

Jigsaw II by Louis Macniece is another one:

Property! Property! Let us extend
Soul and body without end:
A box to live in, with airs and graces,
A box on wheels that shows its paces,
A box that talks or that makes faces,
And curtains and fences as good as the neighbours'
To keep out the neighbours and keep us immured
Enjoying the cold canned fruit of our labours
In a sterilised cell, unshaved, insured.

Property! Property! When will it end
When will the poltergeist ascend
Out of the sewer with chopper and squib
To burn the mink and the baby's bib
And cut the tattling wire to town
And smash all the plastics, clowning and clouting
And stop all the boxes shouting and pouting
And wreck the house from the aerial down
And give these ingrown souls an outing?

Old Poets
by Joyce Kilmer


If I should live in a forest
And sleep underneath a tree,
No grove of impudent saplings
Would make a home for me.

I'd go where the old oaks gather,
Serene and good and strong,
And they would not sigh and tremble
And vex me with a song.

The pleasantest sort of poet
Is the poet who's old and wise,
With an old white beard and wrinkles
About his kind old eyes.

For these young flippertigibbets
A-rhyming their hours away
They won't be still like honest men
And listen to what you say.

The young poet screams forever
About his sex and his soul;
But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,
And polishes its bowl.

There should be a club for poets
Who have come to seventy year.
They should sit in a great hall drinking
Red wine and golden beer.

They would shuffle in of an evening,
Each one to his cushioned seat,
And there would be mellow talking
And silence rich and sweet.

There is no peace to be taken
With poets who are young,
For they worry about the wars to be fought
And the songs that must be sung.

But the old man knows that he's in his chair
And that God's on His throne in the sky.
So he sits by the fire in comfort
And he lets the world spin by.

Les

The Applicant
by Sylvia Plath

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.

Try, "Love me, I'm a Liberal" by Phil Ochs.

The Kinks, "Dedicated Follower of Fashion."

well respected man too

>Try, "Love me, I'm a Liberal" by Phil Ochs

[users.powernet.co.uk]

>The Kinks, "Dedicated Follower of Fashion."

[www.lyricsfreak.com]

frambesia

Can't find my copy of Poems for Men,by Damon Runyon,
but there's one in there about "Whose bread I eat, his songs I sing."

Found it.....

Whose Bread I Eat

Long ago in a village street
A baker's wagon trundled its beat,
And on one side some words I read
That all these years run through my head....
These are the words that to memory cling:
"Whose bread I eat
his songs I sing."

Many a time my job's seemed tough
And the dough I get don't seem enough.
Many a time I've thought my boss
Was a chucklehead and a total loss....
Then to mind these words would spring:
"Whose bread I eat
his songs I sing."

by Damon Runyon

Runyon wrote poetry? I didn't know that, thanks for typing it up.

Hugh,
Really neat book, Poems for Men, saw it available for about 20 bucks, worth the money, altho I got my first edition many years ago for a buck at the library surplus sale.

Hugh, I spent many years enjoying reading poetry on the air....this, one of Runyon's, I especially liked:

The funeral of Madam Chase

A big black hearse; 'twas Dugan's hearse,
Creaked down through Union street,
And old, old echoes were aroused
By the horses' heavy feet.
And all our town knew Dugan's hearse
Bore to some resting place
The last of her who once was known
As Madam Sarah Chase,

And all the old men of our town
Were on the street that day,
With senile stealth, it seemed to me,
They tried to hide away.
They did not meet,and stand,and gas,
As old men love to do,
But seemed to slink,each by himself,
And why,nobody knew.

One lone hack; 'twas Pitkin's hack,
With Pitkin on the seat,
Was all that followed Dugan's hearse
As it creaked through Union street.
One lone hack,and in that hack
Was one lone man,and he
Was banker George S. Hamerslough,
As all the town could see.

So slim, so gray, so very old,
He sat erect,and stern,
And glanced about from left to right
With eyes that seemed to burn.
And wagging tongues of gossip stopped,
And none that glance could meet,
As slowly passed the hearse and hack
Along through Union street.

And my old man, who hadn't bowed
To Hamerslough for years,
Stood at the curb, and bared his head,
And leaked some senile tears.
"I know him for a skunk," he said,
"And my hate'll never quit....
A liar, cheat, two-thirds a thief....
But,by God, he's no hypocrite!"

One lone hack; 'twas Pitkin''s hack;
With Pitkin on the seat,
Was all that followed Dugan's hearse
As it creaked through Union street.
One lone hack, and in that hack
Was one lone man, and he
Was banker George S. Hamerslough,
For all the town to see.

Thanks. You may also enjoy Other Men's Flowers by Archibald Percival Wavell. I know I did. Sadly, it was a library copy from where I used to live. Haven't seen it in any libraries since.

Maybe it's in the new Clinton Presidential Library next to Gennifer

i need ur help i need an article or poem on conformity and or the indiviual
plzzz help, in desperate need

For 'conformity', Lizie, look at all the posts above yours, in this thread.

For a poem about the value of an individual who is strong enough not to conform to the crowd's expectations, there's this one by Rudyard Kipling:

The Thousandth Man

0ne man in a thousand, Solomon says.
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.

'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for 'ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.

But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world don't matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men's sight
With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot - and after!


Ian

Here you go, Liz: [www.victorianweb.org]


Les

And there's this one by Robert Graves, about England's most adulated naval hero, who throughout his career succeeded by not conforming:

1805

At Viscount Nelson's lavish funeral,
While the mob milled and yelled about St Paul's,
A General chatted with an Admiral:

“One of your Colleagues, Sir, remarked today
That Nelson's exit, though to be lamented,
Falls not inopportunely, in its way.”

“He was a thorn in our flesh,” came the reply---
“The most bird-witted, unaccountable,
Odd little runt that ever I did spy.

“One arm, one peeper, vain as Pretty Poll,
A meddler, too, in foreign politics
And gave his heart in pawn to a plain moll.

“He would dare lecture us Sea Lords, and then
Would treat his ratings as though men of honour
And play at leap-frog with his midshipmen!

“We tried to box him down, but up he popped,
And when he'd banged Napoleon at the Nile
Became too much the hero to be dropped.

“You've heard that Copenhagen ‘blind eye’ story?
We'd tied him to Nurse Parker's apron-strings---
By G---d, he snipped them through and snatched the glory!”

“Yet”' cried the General, “six-and-twenty sail
Captured or sunk by him off Tráfalgár---
That writes a handsome finis to the tale.”

“Handsome enough. The seas are England's now.
That fellow's foibles need no longer plague us.
He died most creditably, I'll allow.”

“And, Sir, the secret of his victories?”
“By his unServicelike, familiar ways, Sir,
He made the whole Fleet love him, damn his eyes!'”




Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 06/03/2022 03:49AM by IanB.

Returning to the theme of conformity, there are these song lyrics by Malvina Reynolds:

Little Boxes

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

And the people in the houses
All go to the university,
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
And there's doctors and there's lawyers
And business executives,
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.

And they all play on the golf-course,
And drink their Martini dry,
And they all have pretty children,
And the children go to school.
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university,
And they all get put in boxes
And they all come out the same.

And the boys go into business,
And marry, and raise a family,
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There's a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.





Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 06/03/2022 09:00AM by IanB.

The Men That Don't Fit In
by Robert W. Service

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

The Born Yesterday link that Hugh gives at the top of this posting doesn't work - it takes you to a WBYeats poem and Carrickfergus - not Hugh's fault, as googling takes one to that faulty link. The poem can be found at [www.roadsassy.com]

hey^^
could someone plz help me find songs that have the theme of conformity? thnx

Here you go: [www.poemhunter.com]


Les