i guess this is the right place for this... we have a book thread, a quotations thread but no poetry one! this is unseemly and i aim to change it. so post your favourite poets, poems and i suppose original stuff too but that should probably go into 'arts, crafts and creativity' or something. i'll start. i have three favourite poets: hafez, bukowski and e.e. cummings. The Happy Virus - by Hafez I caught the happy virus last night When I was out singing beneath the stars. It is remarkably contagious - So kiss me.
"Oh, I didn't realise that you wrote poetry I didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry" Frankly Mr. Shankly, The Smiths Does that count?
Okay, here's one I liked when I studied it at school: On The Move 'Man, You Gotta Go.' Thom Gunn The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows Some hidden purpose, and the gush of birds That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows, Have nested in the trees and undergrowth. Seeking their instinct, or their pose, or both, One moves with an uncertain violence Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense Or the dull thunder of approximate words. On motorcycles, up the road, they come: Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boy, Until the distance throws them forth, their hum Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh. In goggles, donned impersonality, In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust, They strap in doubt--by hiding it, robust-- And almost hear a meaning in their noise. Exact conclusion of their hardiness Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts They ride, directions where the tires press. They scare a flight of birds across the field: Much that is natural, to the will must yield. Men manufacture both machine and soul, And use what they imperfectly control To dare a future from the taken routes. It is part solution, after all. One is not necessarily discord On Earth; or damned because, half animal, One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes Afloat on movement that divides and breaks. One joins the movement in a valueless world, Crossing it, till, both hurler and the hurled, One moves as well, always toward, toward. A minute holds them, who have come to go: The self-denied, astride the created will. They burst away; the towns they travel through Are home for neither birds nor holiness, For birds and saints complete their purposes. At worse, one is in motion; and at best, Reaching no absolute, in which to rest, One is always nearer by not keeping still.
cool, i like that one. ^ i'm gonna add another one then. one of my favourite bukowski poems is: the riots I've watched this city burn twice in my lifetime and the most notable thing was the arrival of the politicians in the aftermath proclaiming the wrongs of the system and demanding new policies toward and for the poor. nothing was corrected last time. nothing will be corrected this time. the poor will remain poor. the unemployed will remain so. the homeless will remain homeless and the politicians, fat upon the land, will live very well.
The General - By Siegfried Sassoon (1918) "Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead, And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
At the stoplight waiting for the light nine am downtown San Francisco a bright yellow garbage truck with two garbagemen in red plastic blazers standing on the back stoop one on each side hanging on and looking down into an elegant open Mercedes with an elegant couple in it The man in a hip three-piece linen suit with shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses The young blond woman so casually coifed with a short skirt and colored stockings on the way to his architect's office And the two scavengers up since four am grungy from their route on the way home The older of the two with grey iron hair and hunched back looking down like some gargoyle Quasimodo And the younger of the two also with sunglasses & long hair about the same age as the Mercedes driver And both scavengers gazing down as from a great distance at the cool couple as if they were watching some odorless TV ad in which everything is always possible And the very red light for an instant holding all four close together as if anything at all were possible between them across that small gulf in the high seas of this democracy Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Good old beat poet and one of my GCSE english poems.
yeah we did that one too! one of the better ones, i think. i love the last verse. it's so powerful and cynical. i forgot about this thread. hmm, wanna put some baudelaire on here. my favourite is 'une charogne' or 'a carcass'. it's fantasticly sick, good old charlie . bit long though, but here it is, in translation: My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases. The sun shone down upon that putrescence, As if to roast it to a turn, And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature The elements she had combined; And the sky was watching that superb cadaver Blossom like a flower. So frightful was the stench that you believed You'd faint away upon the grass. The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly, From which came forth black battalions Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid All along those living tatters. All this was descending and rising like a wave, Or poured out with a crackling sound; One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath, Lived by multiplication. And this world gave forth singular music, Like running water or the wind, Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion Shake in their winnowing baskets. The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream, A sketch that slowly falls Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist Completes from memory alone. Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog Watched us with angry eye, Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass The morsel he had left. — And yet you will be like this corruption, Like this horrible infection, Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being, You, my angel and my passion! Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces, After the last sacraments, When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers, To molder among the bones of the dead. Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will Devour you with kisses, That I have kept the form and the divine essence Of my decomposed love!
My fave is TS Eliot's The Waste Land. It's incredibly long, probably breaks the post allowance, so I'll post a link to it. http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html
I thought that since I only ever wrote one good poem I could post it here. Broken Child Behind a smiling face there sometimes lies A broken child, hiding her eyes The world poiltely forgets to ask So she lives behind a smiling mask The broken child has a fitful sleep Her thoughts from slumber do they keep If only they could know the truth Then maybe she could keep her youth He turns to her with evil eyes Broken child looks, Broken child cries He takes his pleasure, gives her pain Broken child is never the same again she wakes and looks at where she lies Broken child rubs her eyes Stands blinking in the morning light The end of an unthinkable night
that's really rather good! i love the first verse. the only good poem? keep writing then dammit! :daisy:
i like this. last year my english teacher gave a lesson on it because she thoght i would. For heidi with blue hair: when you died your hair blue (or at least ultramarine for the clipped sides,with a crest of jet-black spikes on top) you were sent home from school because,as the headmistress had put it, although died hair was not specifically forbidden,yours was apart from anything else, not done in the school colours. tears in the kitchen,telephone calls to school from your freedom-loving father: 'shes not a punk in her behaiviour; it's just a style.'(you wiped your eyes, also not in a school colour) 'she discussed it with me first- we checked the rules' 'and anyway dad it cost 25 dollars. it wont wash out-not even if i wanted to try.' it wouldve been unfair to mention, your mothers death,but that shimmered behind the arguements. the school had nothing else against you; the teachers twittered and gave in. the next day your black friend had hers done in grey,white and flaxen yellow- the school colours precisely an act of solidarity,a witty tease.the battle was already won. (by fluer adcock)
nice poem! here's one of my recent ones Gig Crowd Shining beams reflect the seams of my seemingless self, the crowd is found wanting, pulsating as one in a many flow money flood. phoo, who has what arm, there is the front can't, but i reach and can't reach. Studded boots clamp down clumped short. Sure the sweat air is muggy, but we all want to be seen. She and He clog each strong string... singing 'Pere Noel' as an encore, and i'm sore from so much jumping, feet just broke and there they go. Squashed and unseen, peering through the forest calves at the tired eyes, dripping black and sticky floors. It's just an ending set, beginning, but the fans in front are pushing, prodding, kicking, Soles solely seeking out a spot to rest the weary studs. We the crippled few stock up, crack. The backs have clicked and muscles still sore are whispering "leave" Though, I yearn for more. More, tones of tenacity and tankus chords, sweet dancers upon the wedge calling bingo numbers in faux despair. Jujubees thrown for the tall to grasp, and none for the ground. Great, it's all groovy, and i cannot grumble, for all the air resounds with vibes a stunning velocity that contradicts and corrupts, yet spins the silly string into the bulbs- breaking yet another amp. It's all an act, avidly watched by beaming innocence, vanquished ladies and gentlemen doffing their hats in the street at strangers.
Another one of my faves (in case you couldn't tell) is this one, Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven": 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 named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, 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 darkness 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 countenance 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 above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further 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 sad soul 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 has 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 named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee 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 seeming 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!
the raven eh? surprise surprise. this isn't a poem but a quote froma poet so it kind of counts. i was going to put it as my sig but it's much too long apparently: 'This is what you shall do: love the earth and sun, and animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants... have patience and indulgence towards the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men; go freely with the powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and mothers, of families: read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life: re-examine all you have been told at school or church, or in any books, and dismiss whatever insults your soul.' - walt whitman. i've got this as my background on my lap top too. it's a nice quote to contemplate whilst everything's loading..
John Godfrey Saxe's ( 1816-1887) version of the famous Indian legend, It was six men of Indostan To learning much inclined, Who went to see the Elephant (Though all of them were blind), That each by observation Might satisfy his mind. The First approach'd the Elephant, And happening to fall Against his broad and sturdy side, At once began to bawl: "God bless me! but the Elephant Is very like a wall!" The Second, feeling of the tusk, Cried, -"Ho! what have we here So very round and smooth and sharp? To me 'tis mighty clear This wonder of an Elephant Is very like a spear!" The Third approached the animal, And happening to take The squirming trunk within his hands, Thus boldly up and spake: "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a snake!" The Fourth reached out his eager hand, And felt about the knee. "What most this wondrous beast is like Is mighty plain," quoth he, "'Tis clear enough the Elephant Is very like a tree!" The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said: "E'en the blindest man Can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can, This marvel of an Elephant Is very like a fan!" The Sixth no sooner had begun About the beast to grope, Then, seizing on the swinging tail That fell within his scope, "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant Is very like a rope!" And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong! MORAL. So oft in theologic wars, The disputants, I ween, Rail on in utter ignorance Of what each other mean, And prate about an Elephant Not one of them has seen!
Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die
"Daffodils" (1804) I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. By William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
What is this life if full of care We have no time to stand and stare? No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep, or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this, if full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. William Henry Davies
