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Poetry

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

  1. Nile577

    Nile577 Member

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    I thinks she was referring to the poem 'Howl' by Allen Ginsberg, posted earlier in the thread.

    Harold Bloom castigates Poe, claiming that the French took him far more seriously than he deserved ('never has a poet benefited so much in translation') and Emerson dismisses him as 'the jingle man,' but I have always found his better stories immensely interesting. 'The Man of the Crowd,' in particular, gives an early account of the homelessness of the 'flaneur' (the idle wandering poet who would ramble the Parisian streets and aestheticise the crowds) of people like Baudelaire, Breton, Barnes and Benjamin. Side note: I must admit, we could do with resurrecting the 'flaneur' - they would 'troll' modern society by taking their pet tortoises for a walk along a busy high street or railway platform as a protest against the unthinking, impersonal haste of the metropolis :lol: . The Communists of the time considered them layabouts and would run with sledgehammers trying to smash their tortoises :cry: boo.
     
  2. Nile577

    Nile577 Member

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    I too love Keats and Wordworth, though the latter wrote much that is mediocre, which tends to dilute his great work if you read a complete edition. Keats died too young. It has often been noted that at 25 he showed more promise than Milton at a similar age. I think Prozak once wrote that in Keats you have the energy of youth tempered with a wisdom and awareness of mortality usually reserved for old age. Everytime I read what exists of 'The Fall of Hyperion' the sheer weight of character, the massive scale, the indescribable age of the gods impresses me as surpassing almost any other portrayal of divinity in verse.
     
  3. Scourge of God

    Scourge of God New Metal Member

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    I've always found Poe's strength to be as a prose writer - his poetry was just dreadful in that 9th grade notebook kind of way.
     
  4. MURAI

    MURAI -

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    your wife - "chained to me? Yes."
     
  5. Nile577

    Nile577 Member

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    Presumably the only way someone would listen to your taste in 'poetry?'
     
  6. MURAI

    MURAI -

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    I was just joking.
     
  7. Nile577

    Nile577 Member

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    So was I...

    We all know she wouldn't listen even then. :)
     
  8. Øjeblikket

    Øjeblikket Member

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    oops, I guess I wasn't paying attention.
     
  9. The Ozzman

    The Ozzman Melted by feels

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    Here are a few of my own:

    First Derivative

    A tangent line
    drawn parallel to our lives
    splitting us in parts
    Apprehension awaits
    while lamentations
    draw us closer
    to the death
    we called our love

    Privileged Conversation

    Privileged conversation
    leads to drunk ambivalence
    All the while I contemplate
    your ulterior motive
    on why your actions
    don't dictate your words

    One Last Wish

    Premonitions take over
    as you twist in fear
    'Trust Me' is your mantra
    as you stab me in the back
    and leave me to die
    Screaming in agony
    for someone to hold me

    Set in Stone

    These cryptic writings
    You set in stone
    Help seal your fate
    This pocket watch relationship
    ticks away
    As I drink to forget about
    All the lies you told
    and all the things that might have been

    Casual Fridays

    Business casual remedies
    bleed their patterned colors
    as I wait for lunch

    These cost analyses
    cannot wait to be collated
    but I grab a cup of coffee
     
  10. CatwomanEarache

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    Yes Howl was the name of the piece posted a page or two back, and please dont worry I shall not be posting anything by C o F, I was just remarking on the similarity:)
     
  11. CatwomanEarache

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    Footprints
    Also Known As "I Had a Dream"

    One night I dreamed a dream.
    I was walking along the beach with my Lord. Across the dark sky flashed scenes from my life. For each scene, I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand, one belonging to me and one to my Lord.

    When the last scene of my life shot before me I looked back at the footprints in the sand. There was only one set of footprints. I realized that this was at the lowest and saddest times of my life. This always bothered me and I questioned the Lord about my dilemma.

    "Lord, You told me when I decided to follow You, You would walk and talk with me all the way. But I'm aware that during the most troublesome times of my life there is only one set of footprints. I just don't understand why, when I need You most, You leave me."

    He whispered, "My precious child, I love you and will never leave you, never, ever, during your trials and testings. When you saw only one set of footprints, It was then that I carried you."
    I'm not a religious person, but I love this:)
     
  12. lvk104

    lvk104 Lauren

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    Actually, I love Ginsberg with a passion but my favorites of his are probably "America" and "Supermarket in California."

    Overall though, I'm surprised nobody's mentioned T.S. Eliot's "Hollow Men":

    " MISTAH KURTZ -- HE DEAD.
    A penny for the Old Guy

    I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar

    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us--if at all--not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

    II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.

    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer--

    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

    III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.

    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

    IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    and avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

    V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.

    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the shadow
    For Thine is the Kingdom

    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
    Life is very long

    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    and the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
    For Thine is the Kingdom

    For thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the

    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper."
     
  13. Øjeblikket

    Øjeblikket Member

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    I'm going to betray my own suggestion of keeping the poems small by posting something lengthy. It's heavy on the rhyme, but that's Gorey for you.


    The Insect God

    O what has become of Millicent Frastley?
    Is there any hope that she's still alive?
    Why haven't they found her? It's rather ghastly
    To think that the child was not yet five.

    The dear little thing was last seen playing
    Along by herself at the edge of the park;
    There was no one with her to keep her from straying
    Away in the shadows and oncoming dark.

    Before she could do so, a silent and glittering
    Black motor drew up where she sat nibbling grass;
    From within came a nearly inaudible twittering,
    A tiny green face peered out through the glass.

    She was ready to flee, when the figure beckoned;
    An arm with two elbows held out a tin
    Full of cinnamon balls; she paused; a second
    Reached out as she took one, and lifted her in.

    The nurse was discovered collapsed in some shrubbery,
    But her reappearance was not much use;
    Her eyes were askew, he extremities rubbery,
    Her clothing was stained with a brownish juice.

    She was questioned in hopes of her answers revealing
    What had happened; she merely repeatedly said
    'I hear them walking about on the ceiling'.
    She had gone irretrievably out of her head.

    O feelings of horror, resentment, and pity
    For things, which so seldom turn out for the best;
    The car, unobserved, sped away from the city
    As the last of the light died out in the west.

    The Frastleys grew sick with apprehension,
    Which a heavy tea only served to increase;
    Though they felt it was scarcely genteel to mention
    The loss of their child, they called in the police.

    Through unvisited hamlets the car went creeping,
    With its head lamps unlit and its curtains drawn;
    Those natives who happened not to be sleeping
    Heard it pass, and lay awake until dawn.

    The police with their torches and notebooks descended
    On the haunts of the underworld, looking for clues;
    In spite of their praiseworthy efforts, they ended
    With nothing at all in the way of news.

    The car, after hours and hours of travel,
    Arrived at a gate in an endless wall;
    It rolled up a drive and stopped on the gravel
    At the foot of a vast and crumbling hall.

    As the night wore away, hope started to languish
    And soon was replaced by all manner of fears;
    The family twisted their fingers in anguish,
    Or got them all damp from the flow of their tears.

    They removed the child to the ball-room, whose hangings
    And mirrors were streaked with a luminous slime;
    They leapt through the air with buzzings and twangings
    To work themselves up to a ritual crime.

    They stunned her, and stripped off her garments, and lastly
    They stuffed her inside a kind of a pod;
    And then it was that Millicent Frastley
    Was sacrificed to The Insect God.

    -- Edward Gorey
     
  14. speed

    speed Member

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  15. Fando

    Fando New Metal Member

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    Wallace Stevens' Sunday Morning:

    1
    Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
    Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
    And the green freedom of a cockatoo
    Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
    The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
    She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
    Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
    As a calm darkens among water-lights.
    The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
    Seem things in some procession of the dead,
    Winding across wide water, without sound.
    The day is like wide water, without sound.
    Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
    Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
    Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

    2
    Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
    What is divinity if it can come
    Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
    Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
    In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else
    In any balm or beauty of the earth,
    Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
    Divinity must live within herself:
    Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
    Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
    Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
    Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
    All pleasures and all pains, remembering
    The bough of summer and the winter branch.
    These are the measure destined for her soul.

    3
    Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
    No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
    Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
    He moved among us, as a muttering king,
    Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
    Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
    With heaven, brought such requital to desire
    The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
    Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
    The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
    Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
    The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
    A part of labor and a part of pain,
    And next in glory to enduring love,
    Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

    4
    She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
    Before they fly, test the reality
    Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
    But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
    Return no more, where, then, is paradise?"
    There is not any haunt of prophecy,
    Nor any old chimera of the grave,
    Neither the golden underground, nor isle
    Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
    Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
    Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
    As April's green endures; or will endure
    Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
    Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
    By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

    5
    She says, "But in contentment I still feel
    The need of some imperishable bliss."
    Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
    Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
    And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
    Of sure obliteration on our paths,
    The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
    Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
    Whispered a little out of tenderness,
    She makes the willow shiver in the sun
    For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
    Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
    She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
    On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
    And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

    6
    Is there no change of death in paradise?
    Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
    Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
    Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
    With rivers like our own that seek for seas
    They never find, the same receding shores
    That never touch with inarticulate pang?
    Why set pear upon those river-banks
    Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
    Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
    The silken weavings of our afternoons,
    And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
    Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
    Within whose burning bosom we devise
    Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

    7
    Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
    Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
    Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
    Not as a god, but as a god might be,
    Naked among them, like a savage source.
    Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
    Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
    And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
    The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
    The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
    That choir among themselves long afterward.
    They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
    Of men that perish and of summer morn.
    And whence they came and whither they shall go
    The dew upon their feel shall manifest.

    8
    She hears, upon that water without sound,
    A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
    Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
    It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
    We live in an old chaos of the sun,
    Or old dependency of day and night,
    Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
    Of that wide water, inescapable.
    Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
    Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
    Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
    And, in the isolation of the sky,
    At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
    Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
    Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
     
  16. MURAI

    MURAI -

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    Hopefully the bucket isnt the air-borne AIDS type. Then we're all doomed!
     
  17. Øjeblikket

    Øjeblikket Member

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    Crow's Fall


    When Crow was white he decided the sun was too white.
    He decided it glared much too whitely.
    He decided to attack it and defeat it.

    He got his strength up flush and in full glitter.
    He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
    He aimed his beak direct at the sun's centre.

    He laughed himself to the centre of himself

    And attacked.

    At his battle cry trees grew suddenly old,
    Shadows flattened.

    But the sun brightened—
    It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.

    He opened his mouth but what came out was charred black.

    "Up there," he managed,
    "Where white is black and black is white, I won."

    Ted Hughes
     
  18. infoterror

    infoterror Member

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    Not so bad, but if you remove the formatting, it's just a micro-story in parable format, albeit a useful one.
     
  19. Nile577

    Nile577 Member

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    Sonnet 129
    William Shakespeare

    The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
    Is lust in action; and till action, lust
    Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
    Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
    Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
    Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
    Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
    On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
    Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
    Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
    A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
    Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
    All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
    To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
     
  20. Nile577

    Nile577 Member

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    somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
    by e. e. cummings

    somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
    any experience,your eyes have their silence:
    in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
    or which i cannot touch because they are too near

    your slightest look will easily unclose me
    though i have closed myself as fingers,
    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
    (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

    or if your wish be to close me, i and
    my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
    as when the heart of this flower imagines
    the snow carefully everywhere descending;
    nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
    the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
    compels me with the color of its countries,
    rendering death and forever with each breathing

    (i do not know what it is about you that closes
    and opens;only something in me understands
    the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
    nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
     

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