I love poetry and write some once in a while, have published a bit of it. I wanted to use this thread to invite people to post their favorite poem (or one of your own if you want).
Here's one of my all-time faves:
The Heaven of Animals
by James D1ckey
Here they are. The soft eyes open.
If they have lived in a wood
It is a wood.
If they have lived on plains
It is grass rolling
Under their feet forever.
Having no souls, they have come,
Anyway, beyond their knowing.
Their instincts wholly bloom
And they rise.
The soft eyes open.
To match them, the landscape flowers,
Outdoing, desperately
Outdoing what is required:
The richest wood,
The deepest field.
For some of these,
It could not be the place
It is, without blood.
These hunt, as they have done,
But with claws and teeth grown perfect,
More deadly than they can believe.
They stalk more silently,
And crouch on the limbs of trees,
And their descent
Upon the bright backs of their prey
May take years
In a sovereign floating of joy.
And those that are hunted
Know this as their life,
Their reward: to walk
Under such trees in full knowledge
Of what is in glory above them,
And to feel no fear,
But acceptance, compliance.
Fulfilling themselves without pain
At the cycle's center,
They tremble, they walk
Under the tree,
They fall, they are torn,
They rise, they walk again.
Poetry Corner (No Spam please)
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VoodooDali
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- Contact:
Poetry Corner (No Spam please)
“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” - Edgar Allen Poe
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fable
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To a Young Child, by Gerald Manley Hopkins
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
To the Righteous belong the fruits of violent victory. The rest of us will have to settle for warm friends, warm lovers, and a wink from a quietly supportive universe.
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VoodooDali
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- Contact:
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Georgi
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- Location: Can't wait to get on the road again...
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There was a Favourite Poetry thread a while back. 
(Not to discourage posting in this thread, but in case anyone wants to read them. )
T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land is too long to post here, but since it's seasonal, I'll post the first part...
I. The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der heimat zu
Mein Irisch kind,
Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
--Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Has a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"
(Not to discourage posting in this thread, but in case anyone wants to read them. )T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land is too long to post here, but since it's seasonal, I'll post the first part...
I. The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der heimat zu
Mein Irisch kind,
Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
--Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Has a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"
Who, me?!?
-
dragon wench
- Posts: 19609
- Joined: Tue Apr 24, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: The maelstrom where chaos merges with lucidity
- Contact:
Spring Floods
The sunset flames were dying down.
Along spring-flooded forest trails
A weary horseman slowly rode
Toward a lonely Ural mountain farm
The horse came, panting, all in sweat.
The churning streams along the road.
Pursued the horseman, echoing
The swish and splash of hoofs in slush.
But when the rider loosed his reigns
And slowed his horse down to a walk,
The spring floods thundered by his side
In all their gathered clash and roar.
There someone mocked, and someone wept,
And stone was ground to dust on stone.
The loosed and uprooted stumps
Tumbled into the swirling tides.
Against the sunset conflagration,
Among the charcoal branches flung
In space, the frenzied nightingale
Raged like a booming tocsin bell.
And where the weeping willow plunged
Her widow's veil above a hollow,
It whistled in the seven oak trees
Like the Robber-Nightingale of old.
What hopeless passion or misfortune
Foretold this frenzied, glowing song?
At whom the whistling singer aimed
This flying grapeshot in the woods?
It seemed that from a convicts' hide-out
A demon of the woods might rise
To meet the horse or foot patrols
Of partisan's from local posts.
The earth and sky, the field and forest
Gave heed to catch each unique, fine tone,
Each measured note of sheerest madness,
Deep anguish, happiness, or pain.
Boris Pasternak
The sunset flames were dying down.
Along spring-flooded forest trails
A weary horseman slowly rode
Toward a lonely Ural mountain farm
The horse came, panting, all in sweat.
The churning streams along the road.
Pursued the horseman, echoing
The swish and splash of hoofs in slush.
But when the rider loosed his reigns
And slowed his horse down to a walk,
The spring floods thundered by his side
In all their gathered clash and roar.
There someone mocked, and someone wept,
And stone was ground to dust on stone.
The loosed and uprooted stumps
Tumbled into the swirling tides.
Against the sunset conflagration,
Among the charcoal branches flung
In space, the frenzied nightingale
Raged like a booming tocsin bell.
And where the weeping willow plunged
Her widow's veil above a hollow,
It whistled in the seven oak trees
Like the Robber-Nightingale of old.
What hopeless passion or misfortune
Foretold this frenzied, glowing song?
At whom the whistling singer aimed
This flying grapeshot in the woods?
It seemed that from a convicts' hide-out
A demon of the woods might rise
To meet the horse or foot patrols
Of partisan's from local posts.
The earth and sky, the field and forest
Gave heed to catch each unique, fine tone,
Each measured note of sheerest madness,
Deep anguish, happiness, or pain.
Boris Pasternak
Spoiler
testingtest12
Spoiler
testingtest12
-
Ode to a Grasshopper
- Posts: 6664
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2001 10:00 pm
- Location: Australia
- Contact:
@Voo-Why don't you post some of the works you wrote? I'm sure we'd all be interested in hearing(reading, whatever) some of the the poetry you yourself came up with. I know I would, at any rate.
Proud SLURRite Gunner of the Rolling Thunder (TM) - Visitors WELCOME!
([size=0]Feel free to join us for a drink, play some pool or even relax in a hottub - want to learn more?[/size]
The soul must be free, whatever the cost.
([size=0]Feel free to join us for a drink, play some pool or even relax in a hottub - want to learn more?[/size]
The soul must be free, whatever the cost.
Making it up as I go along
Once a shep grazed the feild,
Baa'd carelessly behind the shepards shield,
But 'tonce the storm night had come,
The sheep had nowhere to run,
Acroos the fields they ran so fast,
As thunder and light shot right past,
It was a ditch so wide so low!
That stoped them in the freezing snow,
And death they all now know,
Right off the top of my head
Once a shep grazed the feild,
Baa'd carelessly behind the shepards shield,
But 'tonce the storm night had come,
The sheep had nowhere to run,
Acroos the fields they ran so fast,
As thunder and light shot right past,
It was a ditch so wide so low!
That stoped them in the freezing snow,
And death they all now know,
Right off the top of my head
Since my native language is german I'm not really into english poetry, but after seeing the folllowing poem in translation I just HAD to read it in english and I have to say I like it MUCH better this way....
I'm quite sure that everybody here knows it, since it's required reading at school (at least I think that much ).
Just in case you don't - here comes
The Raven
by Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And the silken, sad, undercertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
" 'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This is it and nothing more."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the contenance it wore
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But the Raven, siting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore.' "
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This I sat engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core:
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get three back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the sseming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
I'm quite sure that everybody here knows it, since it's required reading at school (at least I think that much
).Just in case you don't - here comes
The Raven
by Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this and nothing more."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And the silken, sad, undercertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
" 'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This is it and nothing more."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the contenance it wore
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But the Raven, siting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore.' "
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This I sat engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core:
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get three back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the sseming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Proud driver and SLURRite Linkmaster of the Rolling Thunder ™
Famous Last Words:
"You can't kill me 'cause I've got magic armoraaaaargh !"
"They're only kobolds!"
So he kills kittens? Nothing to fear about that. (CM about Foul on SYM)
"Hey Beldin ! I don't like your face !"
"Nevermore."
Famous Last Words:
"You can't kill me 'cause I've got magic armoraaaaargh !"
"They're only kobolds!"
So he kills kittens? Nothing to fear about that. (CM about Foul on SYM)
"Hey Beldin ! I don't like your face !"
"Nevermore."
Dulce et decorum est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
EDIT- I thought it was a Seigfried Sassoon poem, but its actually by Wilfred Owen.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
EDIT- I thought it was a Seigfried Sassoon poem, but its actually by Wilfred Owen.
!
-
VoodooDali
- Posts: 1992
- Joined: Thu Mar 22, 2001 11:00 pm
- Location: Spanking Witch King
- Contact:
@Georgi: Don't remember the Favorite Poetry thread--wonder where I was then? Enjoyed reading that part of the Wasteland again. It's been a while.
@dragon wench: Haven't ever read any Pasternak poetry. I'll have to look into that. Was it originally written in Russian? Wonder what it sounds like in Russian... Ever read any Anna Akhmatova?
@craig: I thought that was good for off the top of your head. You ought to try to write some more that way. You can always remove later the parts that don't fit.
@Beldin: Poe's great. I'm excited about an album that Lou Reed is recording--he put some of Poe's work to music. I heard him sing one song from it and it was unbelievable. The album will be called Poe-etry or something like that.
@Tamerlane: I know that poem too. Easy to confuse Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owens. There's a good similar war poem called The Death of the Ball-Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell, I believe.
@Ode to a Grasshopper: Ok, I'll bite. This one is about a girl that I knew who was murdered for political reasons in Guatemala at a place called Fuentes Georginas (though the government said it was robbery for her camcorder--which was not stolen). Fuentas Georginas are vents in the side of the Santa Maria volcano that emit steam and hot springs.
ELEGY
(for the Austrian Girl Shot at Fuentes Georginas)
Everyone caught scent of the sulphur,
the familiar American lies:
Everyone said you were murdered
for the twentieth century eye.
Four Guatemalan bees fled
the fragmented hive of your face,
then they dove inside Santa Maria
and delivered your heart to the flames.
Between the green hills and the altar,
your blood flows in vegetable veins,
and the murmur of your pale lips
is heard only when summer rains...
rains, rains: accumulation of days,
your fugitive beauty escaping in vapor,
your desire rippling the folds of the clouds.
Entropy, you say, is the gift of the universe.
@dragon wench: Haven't ever read any Pasternak poetry. I'll have to look into that. Was it originally written in Russian? Wonder what it sounds like in Russian... Ever read any Anna Akhmatova?
@craig: I thought that was good for off the top of your head. You ought to try to write some more that way. You can always remove later the parts that don't fit.
@Beldin: Poe's great. I'm excited about an album that Lou Reed is recording--he put some of Poe's work to music. I heard him sing one song from it and it was unbelievable. The album will be called Poe-etry or something like that.
@Tamerlane: I know that poem too. Easy to confuse Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owens. There's a good similar war poem called The Death of the Ball-Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell, I believe.
@Ode to a Grasshopper: Ok, I'll bite. This one is about a girl that I knew who was murdered for political reasons in Guatemala at a place called Fuentes Georginas (though the government said it was robbery for her camcorder--which was not stolen). Fuentas Georginas are vents in the side of the Santa Maria volcano that emit steam and hot springs.
ELEGY
(for the Austrian Girl Shot at Fuentes Georginas)
Everyone caught scent of the sulphur,
the familiar American lies:
Everyone said you were murdered
for the twentieth century eye.
Four Guatemalan bees fled
the fragmented hive of your face,
then they dove inside Santa Maria
and delivered your heart to the flames.
Between the green hills and the altar,
your blood flows in vegetable veins,
and the murmur of your pale lips
is heard only when summer rains...
rains, rains: accumulation of days,
your fugitive beauty escaping in vapor,
your desire rippling the folds of the clouds.
Entropy, you say, is the gift of the universe.
“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” - Edgar Allen Poe
@VDali: Something like that has been done several years ago by the Alan Parsons Project. The Album was called "Tales of Mystery and Imagination". Have you heard of it ? I like it (especially "The Raven"Originally posted by VoodooDali
@Beldin: Poe's great. I'm excited about an album that Lou Reed is recording--he put some of Poe's work to music. I heard him sing one song from it and it was unbelievable. The album will be called Poe-etry or something like that.
) , but the details on that would belong into one of the current Music-related threads... No worries,
Beldin
Proud driver and SLURRite Linkmaster of the Rolling Thunder ™
Famous Last Words:
"You can't kill me 'cause I've got magic armoraaaaargh !"
"They're only kobolds!"
So he kills kittens? Nothing to fear about that. (CM about Foul on SYM)
"Hey Beldin ! I don't like your face !"
"Nevermore."
Famous Last Words:
"You can't kill me 'cause I've got magic armoraaaaargh !"
"They're only kobolds!"
So he kills kittens? Nothing to fear about that. (CM about Foul on SYM)
"Hey Beldin ! I don't like your face !"
"Nevermore."
-
fable
- Posts: 30676
- Joined: Wed Mar 14, 2001 12:00 pm
- Location: The sun, the moon, and the stars.
- Contact:
Re: Dulce et decorum est
And what makes it very ironic is that Wilfred Owen died on the Front, during WWI.Originally posted by Tamerlane
EDIT- I thought it was a Seigfried Sassoon poem, but its actually by Wilfred Owen.
To the Righteous belong the fruits of violent victory. The rest of us will have to settle for warm friends, warm lovers, and a wink from a quietly supportive universe.
-
fable
- Posts: 30676
- Joined: Wed Mar 14, 2001 12:00 pm
- Location: The sun, the moon, and the stars.
- Contact:
I've always liked Yeats, too. The Second Coming is sometimes quoted out of context without knowing where the quotable quotes come from. Here's the entire poem, which is pretty damned impressive, IMO:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
To the Righteous belong the fruits of violent victory. The rest of us will have to settle for warm friends, warm lovers, and a wink from a quietly supportive universe.
William Blake wrote some great stuff:
The Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstreched beneath the tree.
and also
A Divine Image
Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secresy the human dress.
The human dress is forged iron,
The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart it's hungry gorge.
P.S. Yeats is great - my sig is from his Broken Dreams.
The Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstreched beneath the tree.
and also
A Divine Image
Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secresy the human dress.
The human dress is forged iron,
The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart it's hungry gorge.
P.S. Yeats is great - my sig is from his Broken Dreams.
Your knowledge is impressive
And your argument is good
But I am the resurrection, babe,
And you're standing on my foot!
And your argument is good
But I am the resurrection, babe,
And you're standing on my foot!
Just thought you'd like to know, that today I have heard the words 'and quothe the raven 'Nevermore' four times. Once in an obscure hiphop record playing in a record shop, once a friend said it to me at lunch, a teacher said it in a lesson, and now this. I am being hounded...my favourites probably...umm..can't decide, will get back to you.
Love and Hope and Sex and Dreams are Still Surviving on the Street
"One Quiet Night in Winter"
(written during a family vacation to Calgary some years ago, patterned after Emily Bronte's "In Summer's Mellow Midnight," which uses the same rhyme structure, though I decided to use a ballad stanza in the final quatrain. Don't laugh! )
One quiet night in winter,
While Earth in frozen bliss,
Beneath her snowy blanket
Lay dreaming of summer's kiss,
I rose from restless slumber,
Though the air itself stood still,
And passed the time of darkness
Beside my window sill.
Frost lay thick upon the pane
Like silken webs of ice,
Spun by a wondrous spider
For snowflakes to entice.
My breath caressed its surface -
At once the crystal strands,
To still unmelted thresholds
Recoiled like burning hands.
I peered outside my window
Where slept the earth and sky
To whom the wind hummed softly
A winter lullaby.
I said, "Please, O gentle singer,
Lull me to soft repose,
For I must wake tomorrow
Prepared to weep new woes.
Surely it's in thy power
To change harmonic strings
And move my human passions,
To joy, from sufferings."
"Take comfort," she responded,
"For this task I've been assigned,
By God, our common maker,
For nature and mankind,
Remain beside your window -
Return not to your bed,
Fold up your arms before you,
And on them lay your head -
When next you open up your eyes,
You shall see the dawn of light,
For now my song of sleep descends,
Upon thee, child - good night."
(written during a family vacation to Calgary some years ago, patterned after Emily Bronte's "In Summer's Mellow Midnight," which uses the same rhyme structure, though I decided to use a ballad stanza in the final quatrain. Don't laugh!
)One quiet night in winter,
While Earth in frozen bliss,
Beneath her snowy blanket
Lay dreaming of summer's kiss,
I rose from restless slumber,
Though the air itself stood still,
And passed the time of darkness
Beside my window sill.
Frost lay thick upon the pane
Like silken webs of ice,
Spun by a wondrous spider
For snowflakes to entice.
My breath caressed its surface -
At once the crystal strands,
To still unmelted thresholds
Recoiled like burning hands.
I peered outside my window
Where slept the earth and sky
To whom the wind hummed softly
A winter lullaby.
I said, "Please, O gentle singer,
Lull me to soft repose,
For I must wake tomorrow
Prepared to weep new woes.
Surely it's in thy power
To change harmonic strings
And move my human passions,
To joy, from sufferings."
"Take comfort," she responded,
"For this task I've been assigned,
By God, our common maker,
For nature and mankind,
Remain beside your window -
Return not to your bed,
Fold up your arms before you,
And on them lay your head -
When next you open up your eyes,
You shall see the dawn of light,
For now my song of sleep descends,
Upon thee, child - good night."
This is a love poem I wrote to a girl in university who, unfortunately, didn't feel the same way about me. Still, I consider it one of my better works, since it was written in stream of consciousness blank verse, and turned out better than I expected.
"For - "
My longing for you takes my breath away!
Language is leaving me in silence,
My voice forsaken of expression,
Overcome by the unworded passions of my heart.
You are a sapphire among diamonds,
Unsurpassed in beauty, preciousness, and rarity.
A rose in a field of lilies dancing,
Blossoming more brilliantly than the sun.
A dove looking for its home in the clouds,
Falling to earth and joyfully welcomed
Into a choir of swans chanting hymns
Across a mist-enshrouded lake at dawn!
The one pure and perfect note
In a symphony composed by one whose love
Gave life to his music.
... You are all of these to me and so much more,
Yet should a monument of my love for you be raised,
Impervious to time, deaf to the storms of human nature,
A memorial of assurance casting no shadow of doubt -
I'd tear it down
In favour of these passing moments
When I can come to you day after day
And tell you of my undying love.
Still, I consider it one of my better works, since it was written in stream of consciousness blank verse, and turned out better than I expected."For - "
My longing for you takes my breath away!
Language is leaving me in silence,
My voice forsaken of expression,
Overcome by the unworded passions of my heart.
You are a sapphire among diamonds,
Unsurpassed in beauty, preciousness, and rarity.
A rose in a field of lilies dancing,
Blossoming more brilliantly than the sun.
A dove looking for its home in the clouds,
Falling to earth and joyfully welcomed
Into a choir of swans chanting hymns
Across a mist-enshrouded lake at dawn!
The one pure and perfect note
In a symphony composed by one whose love
Gave life to his music.
... You are all of these to me and so much more,
Yet should a monument of my love for you be raised,
Impervious to time, deaf to the storms of human nature,
A memorial of assurance casting no shadow of doubt -
I'd tear it down
In favour of these passing moments
When I can come to you day after day
And tell you of my undying love.
This next piece took me two weeks to write. It's a true blue Petrarchan sonnet that uses the traditional structure - iambic pentameter with an "abba abba cdcd ee" ryhme scheme. It's essentially a descriptive poem about the morning sky.
"The Plumed Symphony"
When the fading night must at last expire,
The dawn permits her progeny to roam -
Out of the labouring sun's glowing womb
Loudly rejoicing soared a phoenix choir.
Jubilation took them ever higher,
Until rebounding off the heaven's dome,
Dove the birds of light beneath the ocean foam,
Then bursting from the waves set clouds on fire!
The dark horizon could not flee from them -
The plumed symphony, flaming wings outspread
Sighting his sable mantle's tattered hem
By Himalayan peaks entangled,
Stormed in pusuit of the retreating gloom
To consummate their incandescent doom.
"The Plumed Symphony"
When the fading night must at last expire,
The dawn permits her progeny to roam -
Out of the labouring sun's glowing womb
Loudly rejoicing soared a phoenix choir.
Jubilation took them ever higher,
Until rebounding off the heaven's dome,
Dove the birds of light beneath the ocean foam,
Then bursting from the waves set clouds on fire!
The dark horizon could not flee from them -
The plumed symphony, flaming wings outspread
Sighting his sable mantle's tattered hem
By Himalayan peaks entangled,
Stormed in pusuit of the retreating gloom
To consummate their incandescent doom.
All right, one more.
This poem distills the diary of a young student who recently left his quiet home in the country to seek out a life for himself in the urban metropolis, where he suddenly find himself lost and alone. 'Patterned after Marlowe's famous "Come live with me and be my love," but given a spiritual twist;
"Come Walk With Me And Be My Guide"
Come walk with me and be my guide -
The careless paths I chose have died
And fallen leaves, now trodden gray,
Cloak each step that behind me lay.
From silent woods in farmers fields
Along dirt roads whose windings yield
To narrowed streets where I am drawn -
My loving guide, lead kindly on.
Lead kindly on through man-made vales,
Of gleaming chrome and moving jails,
Splintered asphalt, disfigured lanes,
Decayed by feet and poisoned rains.
I have no wish to walk alone,
To lose myself and be like one
In multitudes believing lies
Who wander lost with opened eyes.
When faithless friends my trusts command
Compel me to release you hand,
Spurn your counsel, and leave your side,
Come follow me, and be my guide.
When solitude has lost robbed my voice
And slain my reasons to rejoice,
When understanding turns to pride -
Come set me free and be my guide.
This poem distills the diary of a young student who recently left his quiet home in the country to seek out a life for himself in the urban metropolis, where he suddenly find himself lost and alone. 'Patterned after Marlowe's famous "Come live with me and be my love," but given a spiritual twist;
"Come Walk With Me And Be My Guide"
Come walk with me and be my guide -
The careless paths I chose have died
And fallen leaves, now trodden gray,
Cloak each step that behind me lay.
From silent woods in farmers fields
Along dirt roads whose windings yield
To narrowed streets where I am drawn -
My loving guide, lead kindly on.
Lead kindly on through man-made vales,
Of gleaming chrome and moving jails,
Splintered asphalt, disfigured lanes,
Decayed by feet and poisoned rains.
I have no wish to walk alone,
To lose myself and be like one
In multitudes believing lies
Who wander lost with opened eyes.
When faithless friends my trusts command
Compel me to release you hand,
Spurn your counsel, and leave your side,
Come follow me, and be my guide.
When solitude has lost robbed my voice
And slain my reasons to rejoice,
When understanding turns to pride -
Come set me free and be my guide.