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Poetry

Discussion in 'The Philosopher' started by speed, Feb 15, 2007.

  1. speed

    speed Member

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    At the risk of turning this board away from philosophy (I beg your forgiveness), but in a totally continental spirit, I think it would be interesting to have a proper poetry thread. Poetry has been the most maligned of the arts in this postmodern age, yet I still find it to be perhaps the most powerful. Therefore, if so inclined, please post poems and poetry or any kind of verse that moves you, or you think especially good (or your own).
     
  2. Narziss

    Narziss Member

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  3. Seditious

    Seditious GodSlayer

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    the only poetry I care for is song lyrics (e.g. my sig) or in writing itself. I prefer something poetically written than just poetry itself for its own sake.
     
  4. derek

    derek Grey Eminence

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    I enjoy words used beautifully in any context. Words have the capacity to move and I think that means the world. I understand that sounds like romantic drivel, but I've always felt an affinity for words, simple and elegant.

    I read poetry extensively and my favourites (they have been for years and years) are: She was a Phantom of Delight by William Wordsworth; A Poison Tree by William Blake; O' Me, O' Life by Walt Whitman and The Iolaire by Ian Crichton Smith - a man I had the pleasure of knowing before his death.

    "The green washed over them. I saw them when
    the New Year brought them home. It was a day
    that orbed the horizon with an enigma.
    It seemed that there were masts. It seemed that men
    buzzed in the water round them. It seemed that fire
    shone in the water which was thin and white
    unravelling towards the shore. It seemed that I
    touched my fixed hat which seemed to float and then
    the sun illuminated fish and naval caps,
    names of the vanished ships. In sloppy waves,
    in the fat of water, they came floating home
    bruising against their island. It is true
    a minor error can inflict this death
    that star is not responsible. It shone
    over the puffy blouse, the flapping blue
    trousers, the black boots. The seagulls swam
    bonded to the water. Why not man?
    The lights were lit last night, the tables creaked
    with hoarded food. They willed the ship to port
    in the New Year which would erase the old,
    its errant voices, its unpractised tones.
    Have we done ill, I ask? My sober hat
    floated in the water, my fixed body
    a simulacrum of the transient waste,
    for everything was mobile, planks that swayed,
    the keeling ship exploding and the splayed
    cold insect bodies. I have seen your church
    solid. This is not. The water pours
    into the parting timbers where ache
    above the globular eyes. The slack heads turn
    ringing the horizon without a sound
    with mortal bells, a strange exuberant flower
    unknown to our dry churchyards. I look up.
    The sky begins to brighten as before,
    remorseless amber, and the bruised blue grows
    at the erupting edges. I have known you, God,
    not as the playful one but as the black
    thunderer from the hills. I kneel
    and touch this dumb blonde head. My hand is scorched.
    Its human quality confuses me.
    I have not felt such hair so dear before
    not seen such real eyes. I kneel from you.
    This water soaks me. I am running with
    its tart sharp joy. I am floating here
    In my black uniform, I am embraced
    by these green ignorant waters. I am calm"



    Beautiful.
     
  5. Norsemaiden

    Norsemaiden barbarian

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    My favourite poem is The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner" and that is not just because I am a Maiden Fan.
     
  6. Crucified Spartacus

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    I Am The Redman by Duke Redbird

    I am the Redman
    Son of the forest, mountain and lake
    What use have I of the asphalt
    What use have I of the brick and concrete
    What use have I of the automobile
    Think you these gifts divine
    That I should be humbly grateful…

    I am the Redman
    Son of the tree, hill and stream
    What use have I of china and crystal
    What use have I of diamonds and gold
    What I use have I of money
    Think you these from heaven sent
    That I should be eager to accept.

    I am the Redman
    Son of the earth, water and sky
    What use have I of silk and velvet
    What use have I of nylon and plastic
    What use have I of your religion
    Think you these be holy and sacred
    That I should kneel in awe.
    I am the Redman
    I look at you White Brother
    And I ask you
    Save not me from sin and evil
    Save yourself…

    Untitled poem by John Trudell

    Wandering amongst the opulence
    wondering what not to touch
    times not knowing
    times getting bit
    times of temptation
    times of seduction
    wandering in the poverty
    touched by everything
    knowing the bite
    no time for temptation
    only time for doing
    babylon in terror
    world run over by machines
    the economics of captured dreams
    the rich are the poorer
    while the poor are waiting
    everyone pretending to live
    calling exploitation progress
    calling submission freedom
    calling madness profit
    calling earth a planet
    plaguing her
    with civilization…
     
  7. OldScratch

    OldScratch Member

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    I am disgracefully unpolished and clueless as far as poetry is concerned...however, I read "The Ryme..." back in Junior High or so...before the the Maiden track was even out(ouch - the sting of old age:lol: ) and enjoyed it a great deal.
     
  8. MURAI

    MURAI -

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    This may go off topic but one academic noted that in the realm of the art field, poets are the most likely to be mentally ill.
     
  9. Falconspirit

    Falconspirit I Died A Little

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    ^metally ill?:p :headbang:
     
  10. MURAI

    MURAI -

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    :lol: I typed "metally" ill. Talk about a Freudian slip.
     
  11. 1,000 Watts

    1,000 Watts Member

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    I write lots of poetry to help vent..haha... I love reading other peoples poetry, as well. I like both song lyrics and free verse poetry...
     
  12. speed

    speed Member

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    Now Spring returns mild and temperate
    now the wild equinoctial skies
    are calmed by Zephyr’s happier breezes
    The fields of Phrygia will be forsaken
    Catullus, rich farms of hot Nicaea:
    we’ll flee to Asia’s bright cities
    Now restless minds long for travel,
    now the glad feet stir with pleasure
    O sweet crowd of friends farewell,
    who came together from far places,
    whom divergent roads must carry.


    Catullus.
     
  13. JoeVice

    JoeVice Member

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    i wish that i could hear the rhythm that the artist intends. anyways, here is mine.

    hide he spares owes justness
    dawn is my statue's cry
    you moor, ease on, no strife
    in a slatch left forth
    this grave payment free
    jaundice whispers in factual light
     
  14. Øjeblikket

    Øjeblikket Member

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    Edna St. Vincent Millay,
    Prayer To Persephone

    Be to her, Persephone,
    All the things I might not be:
    Take her head upon your knee.
    She that was so proud and wild,
    Flippant, arrogant and free,
    She that had no need of me,
    Is a little lonely child
    Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
    Take her head upon your knee:
    Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
    It is not so dreadful here."
     
  15. lad

    lad Pte. Hell

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    Since I can't find the aforementioned poem, this'll have to do.
    "There was a coo

    Upon a hill.

    It's not there noo.

    It musta shifted."
     
  16. Øjeblikket

    Øjeblikket Member

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    Hippopotamic Whoopee Cushion Beachings

    Thor Hyerdahl and Coyote
    decided it was time for
    adventure on the high seas,
    so they lashed 800
    whoopee cushions to a
    hippopotamus and retraced
    the route of the Cowabonga
    warriors across the Caribbean.
    But on the Jamaica coast
    their luck ran out when two
    crazed whales trying to
    beach themselves crushed
    the furiously paddling
    hippopotamus. Biologists
    coming upon this carnage
    wondered again what could be
    behind these mysterious beachings.
    - Greg Keeler
     
  17. speed

    speed Member

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    Three favorites of mine, from my favorite poet, Philip Larkin. Oh, love the Edna Millay too, Ojeblikket.



    This Be The Verse--Philip Larkin

    They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
    They may not mean to, but they do.
    They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

    But they were fucked up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,
    Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another's throats.

    Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
    Get out as early as you can,
    And don't have any kids yourself.





    Church Going--Philip Larkin

    Once I am sure there's nothing going on
    I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
    Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
    And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
    For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
    Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
    And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
    Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
    My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

    Move forward, run my hand around the font.
    From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
    Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
    Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
    Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
    'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
    The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
    I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
    Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

    Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
    And always end much at a loss like this,
    Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
    When churches will fall completely out of use
    What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
    A few cathedrals chronically on show,
    Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
    And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
    Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

    Or, after dark, will dubious women come
    To make their children touch a particular stone;
    Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
    Advised night see walking a dead one?
    Power of some sort will go on
    In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
    But superstition, like belief, must die,
    And what remains when disbelief has gone?
    Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

    A shape less recognisable each week,
    A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
    Will be the last, the very last, to seek
    This place for what it was; one of the crew
    That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
    Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
    Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
    Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
    Or will he be my representative,

    Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
    Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
    Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
    So long and equably what since is found
    Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
    And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
    This special shell? For, though I've no idea
    What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
    It pleases me to stand in silence here;

    A serious house on serious earth it is,
    In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
    Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
    And that much never can be obsolete,
    Since someone will forever be surprising
    A hunger in himself to be more serious,
    And gravitating with it to this ground,
    Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
    If only that so many dead lie round.




    Vers de Société--Philip Larkin

    My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps
    To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps
    You'd care to join us? In a pig's arse, friend.
    Day comes to an end.
    The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed.
    And so Dear Warlock-Williams: I'm afraid -

    Funny how hard it is to be alone.
    I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted,
    Holding a glass of washing sherry, canted
    Over to catch the drivel of some bitch
    Who's read nothing but Which;
    Just think of all the spare time that has flown

    Straight into nothingness by being filled
    With forks and faces, rather than repaid
    Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind,
    And looking out to see the moon thinned
    To an air-sharpened blade.
    A life, and yet how sternly it's instilled

    All solitude is selfish. No one now
    Believes the hermit with his gown and dish
    Talking to God (who's gone too); the big wish
    Is to have people nice to you, which means
    Doing it back somehow.
    Virtue is social. Are, then, these routines

    Playing at goodness, like going to church?
    Something that bores us, something we don't do well
    (Asking that ass about his fool research)
    But try to feel, because, however crudely,
    It shows us what should be?
    Too subtle, that. Too decent, too. Oh hell,

    Only the young can be alone freely.
    The time is shorter now for company,
    And sitting by a lamp more often brings
    Not peace, but other things.
    Beyond the light stand failure and remorse
    Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course -
     
  18. lordcatfish

    lordcatfish Member

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    I used to write poetry but I've had a writer's block for God know's how long now, it's a bit annoying.

    I studied William Blake's "Song's of Innocence, Songs of Experience" for my English Literature A Level and I really enjoyed it, he wrote some great stuff. My favourites were "The Tyger", "London" and "The Ecchoing Green".
     
  19. speed

    speed Member

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    Blake is wonderful. The old Swedenborgian's ideas, poetry and themes (which were revolutionary and prescient at the time) are still relevant and modern.
     
  20. derek

    derek Grey Eminence

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    A mystical creature he was, wonderful and cutting.
     

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