Poetry Corner (No Spam please)

[fable]

I second Chanak's remarks. @Mental Nomad, that was pretty good.

[Tamerlane]

Well one of the great threads of SYM has returned...

Tamerlane

Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in-
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope- that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:

If I can hope- Oh God! I can-
Its fount is holier- more divine-
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.
Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame

The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again-
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,

Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness- a knell.
I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpingly-
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar- this to me?

I only just came across this poem, but its just too long to post in its entirety.

[dragon wench]

This has always been a favourite

You Have the Lovers

You have the lovers,
they are nameless, their histories only for each other,
and you have the room, the bed and the windows,
Pretend it is a ritual.
Unfurl the bed, bury the lovers, blacken the windows,
let them live in that house for a generation or two.
No one dares disturb them.
Visitors tip toe past the long closed door,
they listen for a sound, for a moan, for a song
nothing is heard, not even breathing.
You know they are not dead,
you can feel the presence of their intense love.
Your children grow up, they leave you,
they have become soldiers and riders.
Your mate dies after a life of service.
Who knows you? Who remembers you?
But in your house a ritual is in progress:
it is not finished: it needs more people.
one day the door is opened to the lovers chamber.
The room has become a dence garden,
full of colors, smells, sounds you have never known .
The bed is smooth as a wafer of sunlight,
in the mist of the garden it stands alone.
In the bed the lovers, slowly and deliberately and silently,
perform the act of love.
Their eyes are closed,
as tightly as if heavy coins of flesh lay upon them.
Their lips are bruised with new and old bruises.
Her hair and his beard are hopelessly tangled.
When he puts his mouth against her shoulder
she is uncertain whether her shoulder
has given or receieved the kiss.
All the flesh is like a mouth.
He carries his fingers across her waist
and feels his own waist carressed.
She holds him closer and his own ams tighten around her
She kisses the hand beside her mouth
Is it his hand or her hand, it hardly matters,
there are so many more kisses.
You stand beside the bed, weeping with happiness,
you carefully peel away the bodies.
Your eyes are filled with tears, you barely make out the lovers.
as you undress you sing out, and your voice is magnificent
because you believe it is the first human voice
heard in that room.
The garments you let fall grow in to vines.
You climb into bed and recover the flesh.
You close your eyes and allow them to be sewn shut.
You create an embrace and fall into it.
There is only one moment of pain or doubt.
as you wonder how many multitudes are lying beside your body.
but a mouth kisses and a hand soothes the moment away.

Leonard Cohen

[Ode to a Grasshopper]

Those are quite good @mental_nomad. I'd post one of the humourous haiku my best friend and I came up with (and the story behind it ) during English Lit, but it'd possibly offend some people.

[dragon wench]

Letting Go

All my movements
sure and full of grace
O perfectly poised
I was Mercury
flying over
a sundrenched surface

Letting go the bar
I saw you disappear
into a leaf-fringed cove
as I sank
clumsy and slow
to the muddy floor of the lake
praying water and whorls
to erase
my unblessed love
and your phantom face

Irving Layton

[dragon wench]

Smoke

I've come to the tavern
to wipe away
with the back of my hand
your face your caresses
and your perfume

How many glasses
will it take
before you become
as insubstancial
as the smoke from my cigar,
a grey chaotic turbulence
billowing into oblivion?

You are as unshakable as death
you accompany me everywhere
like my own death
that is waiting for me
in a villa
or a Roman convent
where guarded by simple nuns
I shall write out
my theology of despair

When the memory of your hand
lingers on my shoulder or arm
when the recollection of your kiss
reddens my lips and cheeks
and the pupils of my eyes
distend with the curve
of your eyelashes
I begin to tremble
as if a shadow
had fallen across my grave

I am the stillness
I am the chewed cigar
I am the emptied glass
I am the scattered ash on the floor
and I am the grey smoke
that wreathes your beloved image
forever and forever
though it drifts and dissolves
in the white morning sunlight
that comes from the doorway
to falter on table and bar

Irving Layton

[EMINEM]

Anyone read Thomas Grey's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard?" 'Prolly the best 18th century poem written. My grade 10 English teacher had the class memorize the first five stanzas, which we did so with much groaning. 'Still, the words resonated with me years later, and when the time came for me to re-study it in university, I finally began to realize why.

"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard"

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The ****'s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

[dragon wench]

The Sorrows of the Moon

This evening, the moon dreams more of laziness
Than beauty; on cotton cushions she rests,
Her discreet hand gives a slight caress,
Before going to sleep, to the contour of her breasts,

On the back of satin avalanches, she dies,
Surrendering herself in long, slow swoons,
And running her eyes over azure skies,
The white visions rising like blooms.

When, sometimes over this globe, in her languor
She lets out a furtive tear,
A pious poet, enemy of sleep, comes,

And in the hollow of his hand takes her pale tears,
Like fragments of opal from her iris mirrors,
And hides them in his heart, far from the eyes of the sun.

Charles Baudelaire

[Bloodstalker]

Excerpt for "The Book of Urizen" by William Blake.



Lo, a shadow of horror is risen
In Eternity! Unknown, unprolific,
Self-clos'd, all-repelling: what demon
Hath form'd this abominable void,
This soul-shudd'ring vacuum? Some said
"It is Urizen." But unknown, abstracted,
Brooding, secret, the dark power hid.


Times on times he divided and measur'd
Space by space in his ninefold darkness,
Unseen, unknown; changes appear'd
Like desolate mountains, rifted furious
By the black winds of perturbation.



For he strove in battles dire,
In unseen conflictions with shapes
Bred from his forsaken wilderness
Of beast, bird, fish, serpent and element,
Combustion, blast, vapour and cloud.



Dark, revolving in silent activity:
Unseen in tormenting passions:
An activity unknown and horrible,
A self-contemplating shadow,
In enormous labours occupied.



But Eternals beheld his vast forests;
Age on ages he lay, clos'd, unknown,
Brooding shut in the deep; all avoid
The petrific, abominable chaos.



His cold horrors silent, dark Urizen
Prepar'd; his ten thousands of thunders,
Rang'd in gloom'd array, stretch out across
The dread world; and the rolling of wheels,
As of swelling seas, sound in his clouds,
In his hills of stor'd snows, in his mountains
Of hail and ice; voices of terror
Are heard, like thunders of autumn
When the cloud blazes over the harvests.

[Fiona]

My search thing doesn't seem to work, so I hope this hasn't been done before.

I like poetry so I thought I'd start a thread to share any you really like. I hope this is of interest to some of you at least.

This is a poem inspired by the painting "The Fall of Icarus" by Breughel. It's very famous, so you probably know it already. Good to re-read some things.

Musee des Beaux Arts - W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

[Chimaera182]

I'm going to feel bad since I'm going to cheapen this with something I wrote.

I took a Creative Writing course in my senior year of high school. One assignment we had to do was a particular rhyme scheme poem, but I chose to abstain from said assignment; I don't remember why. Anyway, several girls went up in front of the class and recited their poems, which were all lovey dovey and made me sick, and in 10 minutes, I managed to write quite a gem about love myself, and had to share with the class.

Oh, I cannot say how much I love thee,
Even though you don't seem to love me.
I love the way you belch and pass gas
When you sit there on your fat ass.
I love it when you go to the fridge,
Like passing slowly over a bridge,
And bend down to get some alcohol
And show me your rear, some crack and all.
I love when you wear your undershirt,
Your fat arms jutting out, covered with dirt,
Grease, sweat, tainting your arms;
Thank goodness we don't have dirt alarms.
Your fragrant scent, wafting through the air
Originating from your armpit hair.
I love your chin and its little dimples,
And when you sit there and squeeze your pimples.
Scratch your chest and then your crotch,
How any woman could bear not to watch.

(Needless to say, the girls who wrote lovey dovey poems hated it; my teacher loved it [she was a bit nuts, but in such a good way ], and she actually showed other teachers in the English faculty... imagine my surprise when I was walking down a hall and passed my 11th grade English teacher and she told me she liked my poem).

[Phreddie]

And you wrote this for school? Bravo, i must say i liked you teachers, if this ends up being a "post your own poetry thread ill dig out some of mine but until then meh..

[Fiona]

I think there is an original poetry thread already, if you are interested. Its in the forum where the other types of original writing are (sorry I can't remember what it's called). I don't mean to imply I don't welcome it here, just that there is one

[ch85us2001]

This little limericky deal is about the soldiers of WWII (not sure who wrote/said it)

"And when he reaches heaven, to St. Peter he will tell,
'One more soldier reporting! Ive served my time in hell'"

[dragon wench]

Very nice thread idea
There was a thread like this some time back, but IMO, they are very much worth doing again.

Here is poem I've always like that I posted in the original thread:

You Have the Lovers

You have the lovers,
they are nameless, their histories only for each other,
and you have the room, the bed and the windows,
Pretend it is a ritual.
Unfurl the bed, bury the lovers, blacken the windows,
let them live in that house for a generation or two.
No one dares disturb them.
Visitors tip toe past the long closed door,
they listen for a sound, for a moan, for a song
nothing is heard, not even breathing.
You know they are not dead,
you can feel the presence of their intense love.
Your children grow up, they leave you,
they have become soldiers and riders.
Your mate dies after a life of service.
Who knows you? Who remembers you?
But in your house a ritual is in progress:
it is not finished: it needs more people.
one day the door is opened to the lovers chamber.
The room has become a dence garden,
full of colors, smells, sounds you have never known .
The bed is smooth as a wafer of sunlight,
in the mist of the garden it stands alone.
In the bed the lovers, slowly and deliberately and silently,
perform the act of love.
Their eyes are closed,
as tightly as if heavy coins of flesh lay upon them.
Their lips are bruised with new and old bruises.
Her hair and his beard are hopelessly tangled.
When he puts his mouth against her shoulder
she is uncertain whether her shoulder
has given or receieved the kiss.
All the flesh is like a mouth.
He carries his fingers across her waist
and feels his own waist carressed.
She holds him closer and his own ams tighten around her
She kisses the hand beside her mouth
Is it his hand or her hand, it hardly matters,
there are so many more kisses.
You stand beside the bed, weeping with happiness,
you carefully peel away the bodies.
Your eyes are filled with tears, you barely make out the lovers.
as you undress you sing out, and your voice is magnificent
because you believe it is the first human voice
heard in that room.
The garments you let fall grow in to vines.
You climb into bed and recover the flesh.
You close your eyes and allow them to be sewn shut.
You create an embrace and fall into it.
There is only one moment of pain or doubt.
as you wonder how many multitudes are lying beside your body.
but a mouth kisses and a hand soothes the moment away.

Leonard Cohen




Here is the other thread, oddly enough, with an identical title
http://www.gamebanshee.com/forums/showt ... try+Corner

[Fiona]

Dragon Wench. I like Leonard Cohen too, but I hadn't read that one.

Thanks for the link.There some great stuff there too.

[Chimaera182]

I think DW's just jealous that I perverted the thread before she or hill could.

I don't think I can name any favorite poets of mine; I just don't have any favorite poets or poems. Any song can be a poem, though, once you strip it of music; it's just words with a specific pattern, usually.

Would you mind if we talked about poems posted, or critique them ourselves? We're not exactly poetry experts, obviously, but I doubt a little friendly discussion over poems submitted would hurt anyone. I'm kind of intent on using some of the schools of literary thought that I learned in class this semester on some.

[Fiona]

Feel free. Should be interesting

[dragon wench]

@ Chim,
some threads shouldn't be perverted..... I mean that.
I take poetry seriously

As for the form of a thread like this.. why not click on the link I provided above? It should give you a good idea on how doable this is

To return to topic...

@Fiona,
you are welcome. I've always appreciated Auden as well.



This one is well known, but a favourite..


She Walks in Beauty

SHE walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to the tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One ray the more, one shade the less
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron, (George Gordon)

[Fiona]

Dulce et Decorum Est is posted on the other thread and is probably everyone's favourite Wilfred Owen poem. But I like this one too

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in The hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine The holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

DW Byron's a good choice. Do you prefer love poetry ?