R
Rando
Guest
Good to see another Blake fan. He's the best! Have you ever read all of the Songs of Innocence and Expierence? It does not get any better then that.
B
Baskil
Guest
I've read most of the songs, but I haven't sat down and read the thing cover to cover. Most poetry books that I own have multitudes of unread pages, mostly since I pick out a random poem to read each time I open one.
BTW, to keep this thread alive, I think I'll post a poem for the day
Hope no one gets offended by this or objects to it.
Oct24
When You Are Old
by W.B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
BTW, to keep this thread alive, I think I'll post a poem for the day
Hope no one gets offended by this or objects to it.Oct24
When You Are Old
by W.B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
B
Baskil
Guest
Here's a second one for today.
"THERE IS A PLEASURE IN POETIC PAINS"
by William Wordsworth
THERE is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only Poets know';--'twas rightly said;
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread
Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains?
When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains,
How oft the malice of one luckless word
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,
Haunts him belated on the silent plains!
Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear,
At last, of hindrance and obscurity,
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn;
Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear
The moment it has left the virgin's eye,
Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn.
"THERE IS A PLEASURE IN POETIC PAINS"
by William Wordsworth
THERE is a pleasure in poetic pains
Which only Poets know';--'twas rightly said;
Whom could the Muses else allure to tread
Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains?
When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains,
How oft the malice of one luckless word
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,
Haunts him belated on the silent plains!
Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear,
At last, of hindrance and obscurity,
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn;
Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear
The moment it has left the virgin's eye,
Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn.
A
arachiron
Guest
My kind of thread! And of course it wouldn't be complete without some Shakespheare:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dust death. Out, out, brief candle!
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing...
^(for all those who don't understand poetry, hey, you don't have to)
But for those of you who do, another of my favorite poems:
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
stars and the Humorous
moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
your voice
By ee cummings
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dust death. Out, out, brief candle!
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing...
^(for all those who don't understand poetry, hey, you don't have to)
But for those of you who do, another of my favorite poems:
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
stars and the Humorous
moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
your voice
By ee cummings
F
Fire Slinger
Guest
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from the earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black fake and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
by Randall Jarrell
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from the earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black fake and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
S
Sleepy
Guest
I hate poetry...
F
Fire Slinger
Guest
I'm sorry...
S
Sleepy
Guest
its cool. I just find it hard to follow and it makes my eyes close. wait. I actually like that part of it!
B
Baskil
Guest
I totally forgot about that poem. It's an amazing poem. Anyway, here's today's poems.
The Purple Cow
by Gelett Burgess
I NEVER saw a Purple Cow;
I never hope to See One;
But I can Tell you, Anyhow,
I'd rather See than Be One.
Constantly Risking Absurdity
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence
The Purple Cow
by Gelett Burgess
I NEVER saw a Purple Cow;
I never hope to See One;
But I can Tell you, Anyhow,
I'd rather See than Be One.
Constantly Risking Absurdity
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence
B
Baskil
Guest
Today's poems:
Resume
by Dorothy Parker
Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful--
You might as well live.
In a Station of the Metro
by Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
The Great Figure
by William Carlos Williams
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
Resume
by Dorothy Parker
Razors pain you,
Rivers are damp,
Acids stain you,
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful
Nooses give,
Gas smells awful--
You might as well live.
In a Station of the Metro
by Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
The Great Figure
by William Carlos Williams
Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
firetruck
moving
tense
unheeded
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city.
F
Fire Slinger
Guest
My Life Had Stood-A Loaded Gun
by Emily Dickinson
My life had stood-a Loaded Gun-
In Corners-till a Day
The Owner passed-identified-
And carried Me away-
And now We roam in Soveregin Woods-
And now We hunt the Doe-
And every time I speak for Him-
The Mountains straight reply-
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Vally glow-
It is a Vesuian face
Had let its pleasure through-
And when at Night-Our good Day done-
I guard My Master's Head-
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow-to have shared-
To foe of His-I'm deadly foe-
None stir the second time-
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye-
Or an emphatic Thumb-
Though I than He-may longer live
He longer must -than I-
For I have but the power to kill,
Without-the power to die-
by Emily Dickinson
My life had stood-a Loaded Gun-
In Corners-till a Day
The Owner passed-identified-
And carried Me away-
And now We roam in Soveregin Woods-
And now We hunt the Doe-
And every time I speak for Him-
The Mountains straight reply-
And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Vally glow-
It is a Vesuian face
Had let its pleasure through-
And when at Night-Our good Day done-
I guard My Master's Head-
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow-to have shared-
To foe of His-I'm deadly foe-
None stir the second time-
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye-
Or an emphatic Thumb-
Though I than He-may longer live
He longer must -than I-
For I have but the power to kill,
Without-the power to die-
T
terzarima
Guest
Through earthly cradles
Where once I was born
Of wooden flesh
And flowering fields
Walking through wind swept realms
Where once I had lived
Until it came along
And I was forced away
Crawling through holy halls
Where once I have died
Only to be born again
In this form (don't get any ideas Duke)
Falling through the darkness
Where I will finally rest
And these endless years
Will fall of these shoulders
-Me!!!! I wrote this (by the way its copyrighted)
Where once I was born
Of wooden flesh
And flowering fields
Walking through wind swept realms
Where once I had lived
Until it came along
And I was forced away
Crawling through holy halls
Where once I have died
Only to be born again
In this form (don't get any ideas Duke)
Falling through the darkness
Where I will finally rest
And these endless years
Will fall of these shoulders
-Me!!!! I wrote this (by the way its copyrighted)
B
Baskil
Guest
10/27
Dover Beach
by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Dover Beach
by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
A
arachiron
Guest
I'm bored; I realize that I bore easily and have a short attention span. By the way, nice poem
Ademis22. Here's another poem.
You Begin
By Magret Atwood
You begin this way:
this is your hand.
this is your eye.
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
Your are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.
Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word "hand" floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word "hand" anchors
your hand to this table
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.
This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will come back to, this is your hand.
( I was sketching and somehow I was reminded of this poem--not exactly as random as it might seem.)
[Edited by arachiron on 10-29-00 at 10:05 AM]
Ademis22. Here's another poem.
You Begin
By Magret Atwood
You begin this way:
this is your hand.
this is your eye.
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
Your are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.
Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word "hand" floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word "hand" anchors
your hand to this table
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.
This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will come back to, this is your hand.
( I was sketching and somehow I was reminded of this poem--not exactly as random as it might seem.)
[Edited by arachiron on 10-29-00 at 10:05 AM]
A
Almindhra
Guest
This is a song I use to sing when I was little...I made it up in elementary school...
Up your butt and around the corner,
Thats the place to be,
Up your butt and aorund the corner,
Now just listen to meeeee.
Take your friend, that toilet,
And go, peeeeee.
Up your butt and around the corner,
Thats the place to beeeee.
I should record that for you guys, it really is a great piece...
Up your butt and around the corner,
Thats the place to be,
Up your butt and aorund the corner,
Now just listen to meeeee.
Take your friend, that toilet,
And go, peeeeee.
Up your butt and around the corner,
Thats the place to beeeee.
I should record that for you guys, it really is a great piece...
B
Baskil
Guest
To a Louse
Robert Burns
Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her-
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
Till ye've got on it-
The verra tapmost, tow'rin height
O' Miss' bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' grey as ony groset:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum.
I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss' fine Lunardi! fye!
How daur ye do't?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin:
Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
An' ev'n devotion!
Robert Burns
Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her-
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right,
Till ye've got on it-
The verra tapmost, tow'rin height
O' Miss' bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an' grey as ony groset:
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,
Wad dress your droddum.
I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flainen toy;
Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss' fine Lunardi! fye!
How daur ye do't?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie's makin:
Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
An' ev'n devotion!
S
SwingMage
Guest
This is one of my Favorite Poems, by Sara Teasdale:
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
and wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on low fence wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself , when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
and wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on low fence wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself , when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
B
Baskil
Guest
One by myself (let me know if you'd like more):
Variable Dolmens
by Shawn Jackson
Down with the Collywobbles
I lie, huarches still on,
on the fold-out futon.
Colloquial haberdashery in my chattel,
worn-out, but still lecherous.
I must get up to preach
my bawd litany again.
I'd attempt to, but this
frowsty haze
obfuscates the room
making it twirl
like a Dervish
Floozily, I rise from the futon,
and fumble forward for the floor,
on top of the haberdashery.
Vociferating votively for a vaccine
I drift, drift
off to a soundless retirement.
Variable Dolmens
by Shawn Jackson
Down with the Collywobbles
I lie, huarches still on,
on the fold-out futon.
Colloquial haberdashery in my chattel,
worn-out, but still lecherous.
I must get up to preach
my bawd litany again.
I'd attempt to, but this
frowsty haze
obfuscates the room
making it twirl
like a Dervish
Floozily, I rise from the futon,
and fumble forward for the floor,
on top of the haberdashery.
Vociferating votively for a vaccine
I drift, drift
off to a soundless retirement.
A
Almindhra
Guest
Spiderman...Of course there is!...I'll have to make a recording, its so much better with the music...