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bolo121
09 Feb 08,, 15:07
Was just reading this again and wondered, what do the folks at WAB consider as the best poem they ever read?



Legate, I come to you in tears—My cohort ordered home!
I’ve served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind—the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!

The Roman Centurion's song - Rudyard Kipling

glyn
09 Feb 08,, 16:57
Kipling is my preferred choice too. Although known as "the soldiers poet" he also excelled when writing about the sea. McAndrews Hymn (1893) will appeal to mariners, engineers and the Scots. Mulhollands Contract (1894) for the religious. the Irish and the drinkers! My favourite is The "Mary Gloster" (1894)

crooks
09 Feb 08,, 18:04
I have a fair few - T.S Elliot's "The hollow men", "Funeral Blues" by W.H Auden, "Easter 1916", "An Irish airman forsees his death", and "The Wild Swans at Coole", all by W.B Yeats.

Padraig Pearse's Is Mise Eire, and Irish language poem from which I get my subtitle, is extremely moving, despite being only 4 lines long (Is mise Eire means "I am Ireland" - the poem is writen from Eire's perspective).

I also adore Seamus Heaney's small snippet that he sent to an English publisher in Protest of being included in a "British Poetry" book (Heaney's proudly Irish and as you should know to be called British is quite an Insult to an Irishman):

So Be advised,
My Passport's Green,
No glass of ours was ever raised
In toast of the Queen - what a legend :)) !

bolo121
09 Feb 08,, 18:10
Just read the mary gloster...yep good stuff
and of cource have to mention High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

texasjohn
09 Feb 08,, 18:34
Charge of the Light Brigade.

RustyBattleship
09 Feb 08,, 18:43
"Please Mother, don't stab Father with the bread knife.

Remember, twas a gift when you were wed.

But if you must stab Father with the bread knife,

please Mother, use another for the bread."

Robert Service

sappersgt
09 Feb 08,, 20:10
"Ich hatt' einen Kameraden".

It's very touching in English but has a real ring to it in German.

I read it at my company Sergeants funeral, first in the original German and then had his son read it in English. There wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Ich hatt' einen Kameraden, Einen bessern findst du nit.

Southie
09 Feb 08,, 20:29
Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou. A beautiful poem about a real woman!!

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Capt Bluesman
09 Feb 08,, 21:09
I like Shakespeare's sonnet 130, with the idea that we are not loved because we are beautiful, but beautiful because we are loved.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

I also like this 16th century english lyric, by an unkown author. I can feel just how cold and lonely the author must have been.

Western wind, when will thou blow
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

dave lukins
09 Feb 08,, 21:49
"Please Mother, don't stab Father with the bread knife.

Remember, twas a gift when you were wed.

But if you must stab Father with the bread knife,

please Mother, use another for the bread."

Robert Service

:)) :))

dave lukins
09 Feb 08,, 22:00
Kipling..this one is just four lines but says a lot.

I keep six serving honest men,
(They taught me all I knew),
Their names are What and Why and When
and How and Where and Who


It's about questioning life..but means different things to different people

THL
10 Feb 08,, 00:26
John Greenleaf Whittier wrote the first part and I am not sure who added the last part (may have been him for all I know). I saw it written this way once and I liked it:

"For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

"Let's add this thought unto this verse,
It might have been a great deal worse."

THL
10 Feb 08,, 00:28
I also like this one by Charles Hanson Towne:



Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end;
Yet days go by, and weeks rush on,
And before I know it a year is gone,

And I never see my old friend's face,
For life is a swift and terrible race.
He knows I like him just as well
As in the days when I rang his bell

And he rang mine. We were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men:
Tired with playing a foolish game,
Tired with trying to make a name.

"Tomorrow," I say, "I will call on Jim,
Just to show I am thinking of him."
But tomorrow comes - and tomorrow goes,
And the distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner! - yet miles away . .
"Here's the telegram, Sir. . .
'Jim died today'."
And that's what we get, and deserve in the end:

Around the corner, a vanished friend.

glyn
10 Feb 08,, 00:36
Kipling..this one is just four lines but says a lot.

I keep six serving honest men,
(They taught me all I knew),
Their names are What and Why and When
and How and Where and Who


It's about questioning life..but means different things to different people

Four lines Lukins?
What about the rest?

I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine to five,
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch and tea,
For they are hungry men.
But different folk have different views,
I know a person small-
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!

She sends them abroad on her own affairs,
From the second she opens her eyes-
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!

Parihaka
10 Feb 08,, 02:17
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

Parihaka
10 Feb 08,, 02:21
Poem lyrics of Darkness by George Gordon, Lord Byron.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

Parihaka
10 Feb 08,, 02:37
Not really a poem but..

My story starts at sea...
a perilous voyage to an unknown land...
a shipwreck...
the wild waters roar and heave...
the brave vessel is dashed all to pieces, and all the helpless souls within her drowned...
all save one...
a lady...
whose soul is greater than the ocean...
and her spirit stronger than the sea's embrace...
not for her a watery end, but a new life beginning on a stranger shore. It will be a love story...
for she will be my heroine for all time. And her name will be Viola.

Tom Stoppard.

bolo121
10 Feb 08,, 09:17
How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day.

AE Houseman

dave lukins
10 Feb 08,, 11:55
[QUOTE=glyn;457573]Four lines Lukins?
What about the rest?

The lines I chose where the most thought provoking

glyn
10 Feb 08,, 12:41
[QUOTE=glyn;457573]Four lines Lukins?
What about the rest?

The lines I chose where the most thought provoking

Economical with the facts, eh?
Ever thought of going into politics?

entropy
10 Feb 08,, 22:26
Roses are red

Violets are blue

Holomorphic functions are boring

And so are Fourier transforms

dave lukins
11 Feb 08,, 00:36
[QUOTE=dave lukins;457702]

Economical with the facts, eh?
Ever thought of going into politics?

Emperor of Cornwall sound tempting:rolleyes:

chankya
11 Feb 08,, 00:46
"If" by Rudyard Kipling.

bolo121
11 Feb 08,, 03:42
Roses are red

Violets are blue

Holomorphic functions are boring

And so are Fourier transforms

Aieee!!! mathematics!!! the horror, the horror....... :eek: :biggrin:

glyn
11 Feb 08,, 09:59
[QUOTE=glyn;457704]

Emperor of Cornwall sound tempting:rolleyes:

Sod off, Lukins. That's the spot I've got my eye on!:eek:

crooks
11 Feb 08,, 14:20
Oh, I forgot to add another Yeat's poem, called Sailing to Byzantium - it's about age and eternity (An old bard on a voyage from Ireland to Constantinople), and to be honest, it makes you think:


THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or yet to come.

T_igger_cs_30
11 Feb 08,, 14:31
There were no heroes here
Amongst the men who tramped through
Rutted, quaking moor,
Or crawled, cat-silent,
Over skittering scree
To prove the way.

No heroes fought the blazing fires
Which sucked the very blood from
Ship and man alike.
Or braved knife cold
Without a thought
To save a life.


No heroes they, but ones who loved
Sweet life and children's laugh,
And dreamt of home
When war allowed.
They were but men.



David Morgan

T_igger_cs_30
11 Feb 08,, 14:37
O. C. A. CHILD

YES, back at home I used to drive a tram;
And Sammy, there, he was a driver, too
He used to ride his racer--did Sir Sam;
While pokey London streets was all I knew.


But now, His Nibs and I, of equal rank,
Are chummy as the paper and the wall,
Each tooling of a caterpillar tank,
Each waiting on the blest old bugle call.


Say! Tanks are sport--when you get used to them,
They're like a blooming railroad, self-contained;
They lay their tracks, as you might say--pro tern,
And pick 'em up, and there's good distance gained.


They roar across rough country like a gale,
They lean against a house and push it down,
They're like a baby fortress under sail,
And antic as a three-ring circus clown.


Sam says they're slow. They may seem so to him--
They can't show fancy mile-a-minute stuff,
But when they charge, in armored fighting trim,
You bet the Germans find 'em fast enough!


Now Sam and I are waiting, side by side,
To steam across von farm-land in the night;
We'll take their blamed barbed wire in our stride,
And stamp a German trench line out of sight.

bolo121
11 Feb 08,, 15:06
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Caroll -The Jabberwocky

glyn
11 Feb 08,, 21:06
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Caroll -The Jabberwocky

When the Reverend gentleman wrote that it was possible to buy laudunum at the chemist shop. What's the betting that he indulged himself?

Ray
11 Feb 08,, 22:47
Drake's Drum

DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He see et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?)
Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!

Ray
11 Feb 08,, 22:50
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 our 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped 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,
Obscene as cancer, 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.

Ray
11 Feb 08,, 22:53
Nocturne

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Bugle blow; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Ray
11 Feb 08,, 22:56
I wonder if I have had a favourite poem.

The beauty of a poem enraptures me and loses me into a blissful solitude!

dalem
11 Feb 08,, 23:26
I'm not much for poetry myself, but if I had to pick it would be what chankya said: "If" by Kipling.

-dale

astralis
12 Feb 08,, 04:37
here's one of my favorite (western) poems.

LESSONS OF THE WAR

To Alan Michell
Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria
I. NAMING OF PARTS

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.

bolo121
12 Feb 08,, 08:09
When the Reverend gentleman wrote that it was possible to buy laudunum at the chemist shop. What's the betting that he indulged himself?

Id say you'd win that one easily.....no man in his right mind could have written 'Into the looking glass'.

dave lukins
12 Feb 08,, 10:41
When the Reverend gentleman wrote that it was possible to buy laudunum at the chemist shop. What's the betting that he indulged himself?

If it's anything like the so called modern art, laudanum has probably been put into our water supply rather than floride. The way some of our "leaders" act I'm sure there is an Opium Den in Westminster. Lewis Caroll would be in good company:)

Samudra
12 Feb 08,, 18:49
I'm a big fan of Rabindranath Tagore. The man writes such complex things in the simplest language. I never had to look for a dictionary to understand Tagore.

Here's one of his from a novel.


No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible;
no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our
hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

Albany Rifles
12 Feb 08,, 19:02
It would have to be either "Stopiing By a Wood On A Snowy Eveneing" by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the Village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.


He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.

or Robert Service's "The Creation of Sam McGee"

Poem: The Cremation of Sam McGee (http://www.wordinfo.info/words/index/info/view_unit/2640/?letter=C&spage=26)

ShawnG
12 Feb 08,, 19:16
I don't care for poetry whatsoever. In fact in most aspects I despise it. I don't do metaphors and I can't interperet meaning of other people's. It was probably High School that turned me off poetry. Completely and utterly. I'd rather stab my eye with a rusty screwdriver than read poetry.

But if I had to choose....

"There once was a man from Bel-Air.
He made love to his wife on the stair.
The bannister broke
On the 31st stroke,
So he finished her off in mid-air!"

Author unknown.

Shamus
13 Feb 08,, 01:36
The Dead
Rupert Brooke

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain,
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night

mike nickeas
18 Feb 08,, 16:34
kipling If:

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;



If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;

If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;



If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";



If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


wow! it sends shivers down my spine.

crooks
22 Feb 08,, 18:23
Under Ben Bulben, William Butler Yeats.

I love this poem so much, read it and I think you'll like it - the message really is carved on his grave, I was there in Spring, an utterly beautiful place:).


Swear by what the sages spoke
Round the Mareotic Lake
That the Witch of Atlas knew,
Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.
Swear by those horsemen, by those women
Complexion and form prove superhuman,
That pale, long-visaged company
That air in immortality
Completeness of their passions won;
Now they ride the wintry dawn
Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

Here's the gist of what they mean.

Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
Whether man die in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
Though grave-digger's toil is long,
Sharp their spades, their muscles strong,
They but thrust their buried men
Back in the human mind again.

You that Mitchel's prayer have heard,
"Send war in our time, O Lord!"
Know that when all words are said
And a man is fighting mad,
Something drops from eyes long blind,
He completes his partial mind,
For an instant stands at ease,
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
Even the wisest man grows tense
With some sort of violence
Before he can accomplish fate,
Know his work or choose his mate.

Poet and sculptor, do the work,
Nor let the modish painter shirk
What his great forefathers did,
Bring the soul of man to God,
Make him fill the cradles right.
Measurement began our might:
Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
Forms that gentler Phidias wrought,
Michael Angelo left a proof
On the Sistine Chapel roof,
Where but half-awakened Adam
Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
Till her bowels are in heat,
Proof that there's a purpose set
Before the secret working mind:
Profane perfection of mankind.

Quattrocento put in print
On backgrounds for a God or Saint
Gardens where a soul's at ease;
Where everything that meets the eye,
Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
Resemble forms that are or seem
When sleepers wake and yet still dream,
And when it's vanished still declare,
With only bed and bedstead there,
That heavens had opened.

Gyres run on;
When that greater dream had gone
Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
Prepared a rest for the people of God,
Palmer's phrase, but after that
Confusion fell upon our thought.

Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the peasantry, and then
Hard-riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irish.

Under bare Ben Bulben's head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!

Bad Karma
22 Feb 08,, 18:37
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

-- Randall Jarrell

svs
22 Feb 08,, 19:10
I love Yeats as well. The Song of wandering Aengus.

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lads and hilly lands.
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Parihaka
22 Feb 08,, 21:42
I love Yeats as well. .

yep

glyn
22 Feb 08,, 22:06
Reminds me of the Sergeant Major of a WW2 training unit who having assembled the recruits told them that they were going to get a lecture from the Education officer about Keats - though he doubted if any of them even knew what a keat was!:))

Ray
23 Feb 08,, 00:56
The Wish


I shed my tears; my tears – my consolation;
And I am silent; my murmur is dead,
My soul, sunk in a depression’s shade,
Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
I don’t deplore my passing dream of life --
Vanish in dark, the empty apparition!
I care only for my love’s infliction,
And let me die, but only die in love!

ALEKSANDR PUSHKIN
(Born 1799, Died 1837)

(Translations from Russian)



Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 1999
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, December, 1999

entropy
24 Feb 08,, 04:48
Murder murder murder

Kill kill kill

Take nuts and screws

Out of ferris wheels

entropy
24 Feb 08,, 04:50
The Wish


I shed my tears; my tears – my consolation;
And I am silent; my murmur is dead,
My soul, sunk in a depression’s shade,
Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
I don’t deplore my passing dream of life --
Vanish in dark, the empty apparition!
I care only for my love’s infliction,
And let me die, but only die in love!

ALEKSANDR PUSHKIN
(Born 1799, Died 1837)

(Translations from Russian)



Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 1999
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, December, 1999

I learned this one by heart in my don't-forget-your-Russian-language class when I was 12. Beautiful poem indeed, sir!

crooks
24 Feb 08,, 15:23
I love Yeats as well. The Song of wandering Aengus.

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lads and hilly lands.
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

I do like that one alot - also, An Irish airman forsees his death is beautiful:

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

svs
25 Feb 08,, 01:00
I do like that one alot - also, An Irish airman forsees his death is beautiful:

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.


Yeats is the greatest. Amazing how many wonderful poets in the English language have been produced by the Celts. I like Dylan Thomas also.


Elegy


Too proud to die; broken and blind he died
The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold kind man brave in his narrow pride

On that darkest day, Oh, forever may
He lie lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill, under the grass, in love, and there grow

Young among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the numberless days of his death, though
Above all he longed for his mother's breast

Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,

I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. the rivers of the dead

Veined his poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his unseeing eyes to the roots of the sea.
(An old tormented man three-quarters blind,

I am not too proud to cry that He and he
Will never never go out of my mind.
All his bones crying, and poor in all but pain,

Being innocent, he dreaded that he died
Hating his God, but what he was was plain:
An old kind man brave in his burning pride.

The sticks of the house were his; his books he owned.
Even as a baby he had never cried;
Nor did he now, save to his secret wound.

Out of his eyes I saw the last light glide.
Here among the liught of the lording sky
An old man is with me where I go

Walking in the meadows of his son's eye
On whom a world of ills came down like snow.
He cried as he died, fearing at last the spheres'

Last sound, the world going out without a breath:
Too proud to cry, too frail to check the tears,
And caught between two nights, blindness and death.

O deepest wound of all that he should die
On that darkest day. oh, he could hide
The tears out of his eyes, too proud to cry.

Until I die he will not leave my side.)

crooks
28 Feb 08,, 20:13
Yeats is the greatest. Amazing how many wonderful poets in the English language have been produced by the Celts. I like Dylan Thomas also.

Me too - I'm not sure what it is about we Celts, but regardless of which nation we're from there seems to be a very deep sense of spirituality (not necissarily of a religious nature), it's rooted in us, an expression almost unique to us - it's perhaps the greatest legacy our forbears left us.

There's another poet I think is amazing, and I'm not sure if you've heard of him but by god can he write:

His name's Derek Mahon, a Protestant Irishman from Belfast, his poetry is deeply moving, and highlights the qualities I said above.
My Personal Favourite of his is called A Disused Shed in County Wexford.

Now you kind of need to be Irish to understand the full background, but I find it simply awesome, put simply it tells the struggles of a crop of mushrooms in the mentioned disused shed, fighting for sunlight, and through it survival:

Even now there are places where a thought might grow —
Peruvian mines, worked out and abandoned
To a slow clock of condensation,
An echo trapped forever, and a flutter
Of wildflowers in the lift-shaft,
Indian compounds where the wind dances
And a door bangs with diminished confidence,
Lime crevices behind rippling rainbarrels,
Dog corners for bone burials;
And a disused shed in Co. Wexford,

Deep in the grounds of a burnt-out hotel,
Among the bathtubs and the washbasins
A thousand mushrooms crowd to a keyhole.
This is the one star in their firmament
Or frames a star within a star.
What should they do there but desire?
So many days beyond the rhododendrons
With the world waltzing in its bowl of cloud,
They have learnt patience and silence
Listening to the rooks querulous in the high wood.

They have been waiting for us in a foetor
Of vegetable sweat since civil war days,
Since the gravel-crunching, interminable departure
of the expropriated mycologist.
He never came back, and light since then
Is a keyhole rusting gently after rain.
Spiders have spun, flies dusted to mildew
And once a day, perhaps, they have heard something —
A trickle of masonry, a shout from the blue
Or a lorry changing gear at the end of the lane.

There have been deaths, the pale flesh flaking
Into the earth that nourished it;
And nightmares, born of these and the grim
Dominion of stale air and rank moisture.
Those nearest the door growing strong —
'Elbow room! Elbow room!'
The rest, dim in a twilight of crumbling
Utensils and broken flower-pots, groaning
For their deliverance, have been so long
Expectant that there is left only the posture.

A half century, without visitors, in the dark —
Poor preparation for the cracking lock
And creak of hinges. Magi, moonmen,
Powdery prisoners of the old regime,
Web-throated, stalked like triffids, racked by drought
And insomnia, only the ghost of a scream
At the flashbulb firing squad we wake them with
Shows there is life yet in their feverish forms.
Grown beyond nature now, soft food for worms,
They lift frail heads in gravity and good faith.

They are begging us, you see, in their wordless way,
To do something, to speak on their behalf
Or at least not to close the door again.
Lost people of Treblinka and Pompeii!
'Save us, save us,' they seem to say,
'Let the god not abandon us
Who have come so far in darkness and in pain.
We too had our lives to live.
You with your light meter and relaxed itinerary,
Let not our naive labours have been in vain!'

beansprout
29 Feb 08,, 08:57
The road not taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;


Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.


I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


- Robert Frost



Art of Poetry, The


To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.

Jorge Luis Borges

glyn
29 Feb 08,, 10:10
We've had some good verse here.:)
Perhaps it's time to momentarily lower the standard.

Rock of Ages
Cleft for me

Let me hide
Myself in thee.

When the bombers
Thunder past

Shelter me
from burn and blast

And though I know
All men are brothers

Let the fallout
Fall on others.

Mad magazine, many years ago.

bolo121
29 Feb 08,, 11:56
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Skull6
01 Mar 08,, 01:41
"If" by Rudyard Kipling.

Tis makes two of us, chankya!

zraver
26 Oct 08,, 06:20
What are your favorites?

Kipling,

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.


Owen,

DULCE ET DECORUM EST1

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest3 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 hoots4
Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes10 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,11 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,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.15

bolo121
26 Oct 08,, 07:06
Considering what is happening worldwide i have been thinking of this a lot..

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?

Officer of Engineers
26 Oct 08,, 07:11
Shakespear

In no particular order

All the World's A Stage
To Be or Not To Be
Shylock's Monologue
St. Crispen's Day Speech

Herodotus
26 Oct 08,, 07:12
N. Scott Momaday...

This morning the snow,
The soft distances
Beyond the trees
In which nothing appeared-
Nothing appeared.
The several silences,
Imposed one upon another,
Were unintelligible.

I was therefore ill at ease
When the crows came down,
Whirling down and calling,
Into the yard below
And stood in a mindless manner
On the gray, luminous crust,
Altogether definite, composed,
In the bright enmity of my regard,
In the hard nature of crows.

Herodotus
26 Oct 08,, 07:15
Considering what is happening worldwide i have been thinking of this a lot..

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?

Yeats...good choice. ;)

bolo121
26 Oct 08,, 07:59
I remember starting this thread a while back.

http://www.worldaffairsboard.com/showthread.php?t=42857

dave lukins
26 Oct 08,, 11:52
This is still one of my favorites from Kipling:

I keep six serving honest men,
(They taught me all I knew),
Their names are What and Why and When
and How and Where and Who

zraver
26 Oct 08,, 16:08
can a mod please fold these into the other thread started by bolo

Shamus
26 Oct 08,, 17:14
Cheery little ditty by one of my favorites....;)

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Knaur Amarsh
26 Oct 08,, 17:46
My favourite poet is Robert Frost, then there's a host of other poets I like..Alfred Noyes, E.A. Robinson, Lord Tennyson, John Milton, Shelley, Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Virgil, Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, Edgar Allan Poe, Emerson, Robert and Elizabeth Browning, Robert Burns, William Blake.....darn, I'd better stop here..

dave lukins
26 Oct 08,, 18:52
Ode to a Goldfish:

Oh wet pet

Mobbme
06 Feb 09,, 00:56
Can anyone post any poems they've written? I was going to start a new thread, but this will just have to suffice.

I'll probably be writing some dark type of poem, and glad to share it with you.

Mobbed

Herodotus
06 Feb 09,, 21:34
Can anyone post any poems they've written? I was going to start a new thread, but this will just have to suffice.

I'll probably be writing some dark type of poem, and glad to share it with you.

Mobbed

I've written poetry, mostly to my lady love, so it may be a little corny. I'll post some in short order. I like gothic poetry, would be interested to read your poems Mobbme.

Mobbme
06 Feb 09,, 21:48
I've written poetry, mostly to my lady love, so it may be a little corny. I'll post some in short order. I like gothic poetry, would be interested to read your poems Mobbme.

Gothic is good, so are the love ones :)

Post if you have them. I was going to write one just for WAB, but I don't know what happened, I will, but they won't be good :redface:

Parihaka
06 Feb 09,, 22:01
Ode to a Goldfish:

Oh wet pet

Dave, my eye was moist. Sniff.

Blue
06 Feb 09,, 22:05
There once was a man from nantucket........Oh wait, sorry that's a limerick.


I guess it would to be, this is my rifle, this is my gun.............


Aw I'm kidding, they aren't my FAVORITES!

I actually like about all of Edgar Allan Poes works but, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge is my favorite.

Knaur Amarsh
06 Feb 09,, 22:09
Post if you have them. I was going to write one just for WAB, but I don't know what happened, I will, but they won't be good :redface:

To have great poets, there must be a great audience - Walter Whitman ;)

dave lukins
06 Feb 09,, 23:20
Dave, my eye was moist. Sniff.

And the other eye??:))

Andrey Egorov
09 Feb 09,, 11:13
All through the propeller

Hand on the shoulder.
Stamp on the wing.
In the barracks of problems - washday.
Soaked notebook.

I know why
I walk this Earth.
It'll be easy
to fly away.

In three minutes - big dance party
for the wax figures.
At quarter-off -
death.

From seven torn skins -
a shred of wool.

I want to live so much
No less than to sing.
Tie my thread
into a knot.

Cold April.
Hot dreams.
And the viruses of new notes
in blood.

And every aim
of the nearest war
Is laughing and craving
for love.

Our family doctor
will warm up his sun-syringe.
And needles of rays again will find
our blood.

No, don't cry.
Lay and watch,
Love pouring from my throat.

Catch it with your mouth.
Glasses overflow.
Drain torpedo-chord
to the bottom.

And the poster
of the last spring
Is rocking the square
of the window.

Hey, hole in the temple.
Blind hordes.
Understand, it's never too late
to take off your armor.

Kissing the chunk
of trophy ice
I quietly walk
to the fire.

We're bastards of rats.
We're stepchildren of birds.
And every one of us -
1/3 bullet shell.

Lie down and watch
the nuclear prince
Who carries his whip
to the throne.

Don't cry. Don't pity.
Who would we pity?
You know you’re just like me -
an orphan.

Well, what's wrong? Courage!
We need to fly!
Through the propeller!
All through the propeller!

Alexander Bashlachev

actually it's a song, but it's my favorite poem as well

Mobbme
14 Feb 09,, 08:55
To: Massacre
From: Mobbme

Dear St. Valentine's Day Massacre
I wish you could help me ask her
For I am not the one with the roar
The brightness in her eyes keeps me breathless forever
That one day she will be mine forever

I stare at her with sorrows of pain
I look down at the cuts near my veins
For they are not what needs healing
my heart longs desperately for her feel
How can a goddesses be so real

Endless nights I shiver
Thorough times I cry a river
One more pint might cause me harm
But if presented I might gain some charm

If this is love then why does it seem so wrong
If love is blind then why can't I write a song
If you are Massacre I will need every last bit of her
Without her, this world is meaningless like a blurr

Mobbme
14 Feb 09,, 08:57
That poem is not what you'd call literature, but be kind folks :redface:

Hero, i'm waiting on you buddy, todays Valentines day and even if you are busy, try to post one or two of your love poems!!!

Others pls start posting, poems are brain food :)

Knaur Amarsh
14 Feb 09,, 11:57
That poem is not what you'd call literature, but be kind folks :redface:


Others pls start posting, poems are brain food :)

Its a fine start Mobbme, best of luck for your future poems also. Since you've started with a melancholy poem, here's one I ll copy from my PC :biggrin: -


The Recollection

Its about a quarter and two at night
Am lonely no one can share my plight
Suddenly life seems at a loss
Each man must carry his own cross

The fading Dunhill on my lips gives a dim light
The thoughts in my mind give me a fright
Maybe things are not that bad
Maybe I am just being mad

Perhaps it was my fault
Or maybe Destiny's brought life to a halt
All Karma has given me is pathos
Each man must carry his own cross

It simply goes over my head
When they say for there is always hope
With an old notepad am sitting in bed
No faith in anything, just a downhill slope

I pretend to happily lie low
In reality am slowly letting go
No desire I have to face another dawn
There really is no reason for me to go on

And these memories still come back to haunt me
It seems as if fate itself is trying to taunt me
I wish someone could share my loss
Each man must carry his own cross

There is a big difference between then and now
I know I should distract myself
I just cant find out how
There are people I could talk to
No, I realise I dont really want to

There is just so much confusion
I really cant come to any conclusion
Oh now it hits me,the fatal perception
I am not trying to draw results
I am just practising decpetion

The rette is over, its light stops to glow
Maybe this is as far as I can go
I didnt realise the truth is so gross
But Each man must carry his own cross

Mobbme
14 Feb 09,, 23:13
Its a fine start Mobbme, best of luck for your future poems also. Since you've started with a melancholy poem, here's one I ll copy from my PC :biggrin: -

The Recollection

Its about a quarter and two at night
Am lonely no one can share my plight
Suddenly life seems at a loss
Each man must carry his own cross

The fading Dunhill on my lips gives a dim light
The thoughts in my mind give me a fright
Maybe things are not that bad
Maybe I am just being mad

Perhaps it was my fault
Or maybe Destiny's brought life to a halt
All Karma has given me is pathos
Each man must carry his own cross

It simply goes over my head
When they say for there is always hope
With an old notepad am sitting in bed
No faith in anything, just a downhill slope

I pretend to happily lie low
In reality am slowly letting go
No desire I have to face another dawn
There really is no reason for me to go on

And these memories still come back to haunt me
It seems as if fate itself is trying to taunt me
I wish someone could share my loss
Each man must carry his own cross

There is a big difference between then and now
I know I should distract myself
I just cant find out how
There are people I could talk to
No, I realise I dont really want to

There is just so much confusion
I really cant come to any conclusion
Oh now it hits me,the fatal perception
I am not trying to draw results
I am just practising decpetion

The rette is over, its light stops to glow
Maybe this is as far as I can go
I didnt realise the truth is so gross
But Each man must carry his own cross

That poem was really good.

I thought i'd get things started you know, glad you posted :)

ArmchairGeneral
15 Feb 09,, 00:33
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-Robert Frost

dave lukins
15 Feb 09,, 00:45
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-Robert Frost

What sort of leaf was Robert smoking:))

ArmchairGeneral
15 Feb 09,, 02:33
What sort of leaf was Robert smoking :biggrin:

Nature's best high: spring time. :)

Herodotus
16 Feb 09,, 23:31
All right in honor of Valentine's Day, though it has passed, I will post this poem I wrote my lady love. She is living apart from me overseas so that is the context:

Two Years…

Time goes by too slowly without you
I remember clear the day we became two
Joy filled my heart when you said yes
I knew the years to come would be the best

Without you I am nothing, with you complete
My dreams are filled with your image replete
Love everlasting though we are apart
Time will stand still when we touch our hearts

Two years have gone but our love still remains
Our lives entwined will never be the same
Happy Anniversary but many more to come
Together forever never to be undone

Mobbme
17 Feb 09,, 05:15
All right in honor of Valentine's Day, though it has passed, I will post this poem I wrote my lady love. She is living apart from me overseas so that is the context:

Two Years…

Time goes by too slowly without you
I remember clear the day we became two
Joy filled my heart when you said yes
I knew the years to come would be the best

Without you I am nothing, with you complete
My dreams are filled with your image replete
Love everlasting though we are apart
Time will stand still when we touch our hearts

Two years have gone but our love still remains
Our lives entwined will never be the same
Happy Anniversary but many more to come
Together forever never to be undone

My mannn!! That's really good. I'll be honest though, if the time arrives I might just steal this one away from ya ;) :))

Albany Rifles
17 Feb 09,, 15:22
I think my favorite starts out

There once was a man from Nantucket...

Stitch
17 Feb 09,, 17:54
I really like "Ozymandias", by Percy Bysshe Shelley, and "The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere", by Samuel Taylor Coleridge; I'll reprint Ozymandias here because it's not that long, but The Rime is pretty long, so I'll skip that one.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Malayali
19 Feb 09,, 04:27
Tagore - Mind Without Fear

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action---
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Mobbme
06 Jun 09,, 13:29
The moon is burning in the sky
And I am? burning with love
The fire that is consumed
Like my heart

My soul crys
Painfully

I'm not at peace
What a terrible night

The time passes
But there is no dawn
There is no sunshine
If she doesn't return

My earth is burning
And my heart is burning
What she thirsts for water
I thirst for love

Who will I sing
My song to

If there is no one
Who shows herself
On the balcony

The moon is burning in the sky
And I am burning? with love
The fire that is consumed
Like my heart

AdityaMookerjee
29 Nov 11,, 01:24
'Stopping by woods on a snowy evening'. by Robert Frost. Just hearing the poem, and reading the poem, was the highlight of my English learning at school. Not that one learned a lot of English, from the poem. But, my knowledge of English was adequate, then, to admire the poem terribly.

Ahnuy
21 Jul 13,, 07:00
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud- W. Wordsworth.
This poem is actually really simple. The thing is I have a major anxiety problem and when I recite this poem it actually helps me relax a little and it's something to concentrate on while I work through.