Poetry Corner (No Spam please)

[penguin_king]

here's a little Haiku i remember from somewhere:

Kill one it's murder
kill millions it's conquest
death conquers all life

[fable]

From Housman's A Shropshire Lad:

With Rue My Heart is Laden

With rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.

[Fiona]

'Your Attention Please'

Your Attention Please
The Polar DEW has just warned that
A nuclear rocket strike of
At least one thousand megatons
Has been launched by the enemy
Directly at our major cities.
This announcement will take
Two and a quarter minutes to make,
You therefore have a further
Eight and a quarter minutes
To comply with the shelter
Requirements published in the Civil
Defence Code - section Atomic Attack.
A specially shortened Mass
Will be broadcast at the end
Of this announcement -
Protestant and Jewish services
Will begin simultaneously -
Select your wavelength immediately
According to instructions
In the Defence Code. Do not
Take well-loved pets (including birds)
Into your shelter - they will consume
Fresh air. Leave the old and bed-
ridden, you can do nothing for them.
Remember to press the sealing
Switch when everyone is in
The shelter. Set the radiation
Aerial, turn on the geiger barometer.
Turn off your Television now.
Turn off your radio immediately
The Services end. At the same time
Secure explosion plugs in the ears
Of each member of your family. Take
Down your plasma flasks. Give your children
The pills marked one and two
In the C.D green container, then put
Them to bed. Do not break
The inside airlock seals until
The radiation All Clear shows
(Watch for the cuckoo in your
perspex panel), or your District
Touring Doctor rings your bell.
If before this, your air becomes
Exhousted or if any of your family
In critically injured, administer
The capsules marked 'Valley Forge'
(Red Pocket in No. 1 Survival Kit)
For painless death. (Catholics
Will have been instructed by their priests
What to do in this eventuality).
This announcement is ending. Our President
Has already given orders for
Massive retaliation - it will be
Decisive. Some of us may die.
Remember, statistically
It is not likely to be you.
All flags are flying fully dressed
On Government buildings - the sun is shining.
Death is the least we have to fear.
We are all in the hands of God,
Whatever happens happens by His Will.
Now go quickly to your shelters.

Peter Porter

[Rookierookie]

Lonely Wind

Blow, Lonely Wind
Blow across the plains
Blow across oceans
Through trees and streets
Over houses and shrubs
Blow, alone

Sing, Lonely Wind
Sing your sad soft melody
Sing in crooks and corners
Sing your eternal song
On a stage that has only you
Sing, alone

Fly, Lonely Wind
Fly high and far
Higher than any bird
Further than that eyes could see
Fly with your invisible wings
Fly, alone

Blow alone
For you are the only wind
Fly alone
For there is no one to fly with you
So high in the sky, that only you could fly
Sing alone
For your song is the sweetest
Will turn heads and hearts
Will put the greatest voice to shame

You blow alone
You, alone, could sweep the treetops with your hand
That no one else could touch
You fly alone
You, alone, could fly over the highest mountains
Where no one else dare fly
You sing alone
You, alone, could sing your eternal song
Which no one else may sing

Are you lonely?
But you could not stop blowing
For you are the only wind
Are you lonely?
But you could not stop flying
For you are the wings of all
Are you lonely?
But you could not stop singing
For whereever you walk, there is your eternal song

So blow
Fly
Sing
You are the wind
The only wind

The Lonely wind

[Fiona]

That is as good as the first one you posted. Again I am impressed

[Oscuro_Sol]

This is a poem I wrote last night... well rather early this morning... when I couldn't sleep. I wrote some others as well, but this is my favourite... I ran out of ideas after this one. :laugh:

SNOW

I watched out the window
And turned off the light
The soft white snow falling
To the cold ground tonight

I thought of your face
And those things about you
In the end I decided
I would soon have to choose

Can’t snow be beautiful?
Why is it so cold?
When will you love me?
Is my soul to be sold?

So stranger or not
You mean worlds to me
You inspire and charm
And make me believe

To bring up my courage
To take down my fear
How much pain will you bring?
How many tears?

So the snow is still falling
I still feel my sorrow
But know one thing, love
I await you tomorrow.

[Rookierookie]

A Harmless Joke

“Three steps left, no – two steps right”
The teacher is in for a big surprise
There is a full bucket on the door;
Whomever comes in first will wet the floor.

The children are laughing, the children are playing
It is but a harmless joke
Surely, a joke that can do no harm
but a few hours in the laundry

“She comes” they cry
The door is half-open
The last troublemakers
Came down from the chairs
The bucket is ready
All that is left; is for the victim to do her part

“Good morning Miss Smith” chanted the sentries
Bespectacled face smiling,
the to-be victim pushed
The offending door

The bucket came down;
she was wet from head to toe
Her head was in the bucket
Her dress dripping water

The children laughed and clapped
As the teacher took the bucket off her head
No one noticed
That the teacher's face
Was a delicate shade of white

Her eyes dilate
She dropped the bucket
And grasped her chest
She fell down
And the laughing and clapping stopped

A girl screamed
Someone called for help
As the teacher lay there
Blank-eyed and motionless

A harmless joke.

[Lestat]

Fiona's talk of werefoxes reminded me of this narrative poem by Neil Gaiman:

[url="http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/chTheWhiteRoad.html"]The White Road[/url]
by Neil Gaiman

The poem is too long to post it in its entirety here, but it's well worth the read.

[Fiona]

[QUOTE=Lestat]Fiona's talk of werefoxes reminded me of this narrative poem by Neil Gaiman:

[url="http://www.endicott-studio.com/cofhs/chTheWhiteRoad.html"]The White Road[/url]
by Neil Gaiman

The poem is too long to post it in its entirety here, but it's well worth the read.[/QUOTE]

Well worth it, indeed

[JonIrenicus]

Here is a poem of mine (Winter-2004)

No one should be painted in pain.
It never looks good on anyone.
Tears rolling down a child's face, the make-up meant to hide a women's face now shows their misery, a man's eyes shaking and glossy.

This is not to be contested.
There are plenty of colors one can dip themselves in and pain should not be one of them.
Without the color of pain, you couldn't appreciate the prism of emotions.

[Fiona]

DW's thread on the ideas in the Da Vinci Code reminded me of this poem. It is not quite on topic for that thread but it is an interesting perspective, I think

Was he Married? - By Stevie Smith

Was he married, did he try
To support as he grew less fond of them
wife and family?

No,
He never suffered such a blow.

Did he feel pointless, feeble and distrait,
Unwanted by everyone and in the way?

From his cradle he was purposeful,
His bent strong and his mind full.

Did he love people very much
Yet find them die one day?

He did not love in the human way.

Did he ask how long it would go on,
Wonder if Death could be counted on for an end?

He did not feel like this,
He had a future of bliss.

Did he ever feel strong
Pain for being wrong?

He was not wrong he was right,
He suffered for others', not his own spite.

But there is no suffering like having made a mistake
Because of being an inferior make.

He was not inferior,
He was superior.

He knew then that power corrupts but some must govern?

His thoughts were different.

Did he lack friends? Worse,
Think it was his fault, not theirs?

He did not lack friends,
He had disciples he moulded to his ends.

Did he feel over-handicapped sometimes, yet must draw even?
How could he feel like this? He was the king of heaven.

...find a sudden brightness one day in everything
Because a mood had been conquered, or a sin?

I tell you, he did not sin.

Do only human beings suffer from the irritation
I have mentioned? learn too that being comical
Does not ameliorate the desperation?

Only human beings feel like this,
It is because they are so mixed.

All humans should carry a medal,
A god cannot carry it, he is not able.

A god is a Man's doll, you ass,
He makes him up like this on purpose.

He might have made him up worse.

He often has, in the past.

To choose a god of love, as he did and does,
Is a little move then?

Yes, it is.

A larger one will be when men
Love love and hate hate but do not deify them?

It will be a larger one.

[Fiona]

I like this though I also keep in mind that

"A Scotchman must be a very sturdy moralist who does not love Scotland better than truth."
Samuel Johnson, Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland

I am not really much of a nationalist

THE LITTLE WHITE ROSE
Hugh MacDiarmid

The rose of all the world is not for me
I want for my part
Only the little white rose of Scotland
That smells sharp and sweet and breaks the heart

[fable]

This one's famous for a pair of lines: "The grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace." Problem is, it's not the world-denying poem that moralists like to make it seem who only use that quote out of context. Just the opposite, as you'll find if you read on:

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
--Andrew Marvell

[Fiona]

[QUOTE=fable]This one's famous for a pair of lines: "The grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace." Problem is, it's not the world-denying poem that moralists like to make it seem who only use that quote out of context. Just the opposite, as you'll find if you read on:

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
--Andrew Marvell[/QUOTE]


I have always been struck by his lack of respect for her intelligence :laugh:

[fable]

[QUOTE=Fiona]I have always been struck by his lack of respect for her intelligence :laugh:[/QUOTE]

In a culture where women like to be admired for their "intrinsic beauty," they will end up on a pedestal whether they admire the marble, or not. And few statues are ever respected for their intelligence.

But if you want equality before the poetic law, let's try this delightful piece:


The Sun Rising

BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.
--John Donne

[Fiona]

[QUOTE=fable]In a culture where women like to be admired for their "intrinsic beauty," they will end up on a pedestal whether they admire the marble, or not. And few statues are ever respected for their intelligence.

But if you want equality before the poetic law, let's try this delightful piece:


The Sun Rising

BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.
--John Donne[/QUOTE]

Yep, I always liked that better though not so quotable

[Fiona]

This is a crap poem, but it was the best I could find for the occasion

Moderate Men and Moderate Measures

Praise to placeless proud ability,
Let the prudent muse disclaim;
And sing the Statesman--all civility--
Whom moderate talents raise to fame.
He, no random projects urging,
Make us wild alarms to feel;
With moderate measures, gently purging
Ills that prey on Britain's weal.


CHORUS.
Gently purging,
Gently purging,
Gently purging Britain's weal.[1]


Addington, with measured motion,
Keep the tenor of thy way;
To glory yield no rash devotion,
Led by luring lights astray;
Splendid talents are deceiving;
Tend to councils much too bold;
Moderate men we prize, believing,
All that glitters is not gold.

George Canning

[Robnark]

The Quick Potato Poem by John Hegley

The spud sped.


well it amused me. John Hegley was on a comedy radio interview thing earlier this evening, and this is the one I can remember off the top of my head, all three syllables of it.

[dragon wench]

I Want to Charge My Words with So Much Harshness

I want to charge my words with so much harshness
as this enchanting stone has in her actions,
she who is ever growing
harder in nature and more fierce and ruthless,
and clothes in such hard adamant her being
that, either for its strength or her retreating,
never does any arrow
that leaves the quiver find her ever bare:
she slays, and, oh, to no avail can one
withdraw or run from all her mortal blows,
which, as endowed with wings,
reach every man and every armor break;
so there is no defense that I may take.

No shield is there for me she would not sunder,
nor any place where I may shun her features;
for, as a stem its blossom,
holds she the summit of my intellect.
She seems to care about my suffering
as much as would a ship in tranquil seas;
and such is now the burden
that pulls me down, no rhyme is fit to tell it.
Oh, pitiless and most relentless file,
so deafly wearing my existence out,
why do you not refrain
from gnawing at my heart, bit after bit,
as I from naming him, who grants you might?

My heart beats faster when I think of her
in places where I am by people seen,
for fear that all my thinking
may so shine through as to be seen outside—
more than I tremble at this death, now biting
all of my senses with the teeth of Love;
it is my thought, I reckon,
chews on their strength and makes their functions fail.
Love struck me to the ground and stands above me,
the sword that once slew Dido in his hand,
so that for mercy, mercy
to him I cry with every humble prayer;
but oh, no truth—only denial’s there.

Daring my weary life, he often raises
his hand against me—this horrendous god
who keeps me on my back
upon the ground, too weak even to writhe.
Cries of despair then surge up to my mind,
and all the blood that through my veins is coursing
comes rushing to the heart,
that calls it: whiteness is all over me.
So fiercely under my left arm he wounds me
that the new pain rebounds deep in my heart.
“If once again,” I say,
“he lifts his hand, Death will have taken me,
before his blow descends, mercifully.”

Oh, might I see him strike right through the heart
of that most cruel one who quarters mine!
The death to which I’m running for her beauty
would only then no more be black to me:
for no good comes by sunshine or by shade
from this my thievish, thankless, murderous foe.
Oh, why does she not yelp
for me, as I for her, in fiery pit?
“Let me now help you,” I would quickly shout;
and gladly I would do, as others would:
in her blond, lustrous tresses,
which Love has curled and gilded for my death,
I’d thrust this hand, to please her then and there.

Oh, if I could but seize those lovely tresses
which have become both whip and lash for me,
from very early matins
I’d make them ringing bells unto the night:
and I would not be pitying or kind,
but like a playful bear with her I’d play;
and, since Love whips me still,
I would avenge myself a thousandfold.
Into those eyes, from which the sparks come forth
that burn this deadened weight that is my heart,
I very close would stare,
thus to avenge the cowardice of my past,
and then with love I’d give her peace at last.

To such a woman, O my song, go straight—
to her who wounded me and still conceals
what I most hunger for:
her heart (oh, now!) with a fast arrow cleave,
for in revenge great honor we achieve.

Dante

[jopperm2]

Today I saw a cardinal
Hopping about the grass beside my car.
He quickly retreated to the safety of the bushes
Where the crimson blossoms camoflage him.
It was only an instant
But it gave me hope that I might be able to see him again.
And even more so you.