Poetry

[Kickaha]

I wouldn't say I spend a lot of time reading it but from time to time it makes a welcome change from my usual diet of scfi,thrillers,fantasy and I've seen references in other post indicating a few more of the members read the odd bit off it.

I have a few personal favourites,Samuel Taylor Coleridge's,Kubla Khan being one of them

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 here 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.

I also like his "the Rime of the Ancient Mariner
other would be
Dylan Thomas "Do not go gentle into that good night"
http://www.poets.org/poems/poems.cfm?45442B7C000C07040C7A

Rudyrd Kipling "If"
http://www.swarthmore.edu/~apreset1/docs/if.html

Shakespeare's "St Crispins day"
http://www.chronique.com/Library/Knights/crispen.htm

I've also recently been introduced to the works of Maya Angelou but someone else will be along to tell you about her.

[Ghost Lemur]

Too many favourites I wouldn't know where to begin so I'll just list some poets instead.

Baudelaire
Rimbaude
Ginsberg
Blake
Jim Morrison
Goethe
Byron
S.T. Colleridge (favourite being Kubla Khan, thanks Kickaha)
Verlaine
....
....

Although not a poet, I'll finish off with the opening passage from Putting My Foot In It by Rene Crevel.

Sun and Tradition... The dazzling light and the firm intention not to be blinded by it, etc, etc...

[Ghost Lemur]

"Get Drunk!"


One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;
that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's
horrible burden one which breaks your shoulders and bows
you down, you must get drunk without cease.

But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue
as you choose.
But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls,
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:

"It is time to get drunk!

So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk, get drunk,
and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose!"

- Charles Baudelaire.

[jrandom]

There once was a young lass named Sally
Who enjoyed the occasional dally.
She sat in the lap
Of a well-endowed chap
And said, "Oooh, you're right up my alley".

[moko]

I`m not sure if it`s poetry or philosophy but a little book I`ve got a lot from is "The Prophet" by Khalil Ghibran,sold millions all over the world.It`s writen as a story but you can open it at any page and read truly moving and relevent writing.Example here:

http://www.columbia.edu/~gm84/gibran4.html

[Ms Piggy]

Poetry - one of those forms of writing I truly admire but don't spend enough time exploring. I do love Shakespeare, just the richness of the language - even though I sometimes don't understand it. Love Robbie Burns - my Scottish heritage showing through! And a lot of the other well known older poets as well Maya Angelou http://www.empirezine.com/spotlight/maya/maya-p1.htm :) She has some really gritty stuff but one of my favs is this one:

"Phenomenal 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.

[Ms Piggy]

This is my next fav poem. By John Masefield http://www.publishingcentral.com/masefield/biography.html

To be honest I don't know anything about him but this poem describes a part of me.

"Sea Fever"

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over

[jrandom]

Quite apart from naughty limericks, my favourite poem (although I'm not as well-read as I'd like to be) is probably The Hollow Men, by T. S. Eliot:

I

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

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

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

II

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

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

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

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

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

IV

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

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

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

V

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

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

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

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

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

[jrandom]

Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

You sure her name wasn't Sally? :p

[jrandom]

... For he on honey dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Amazing what one can construct with the help of a bit of opium, isn't it? An evil drug it may have been, but I don't think we'll see any enduring works of art from people under the influence of methamphetamines.

Pity that most modern writers seem to be obsessed with their own existential angst.

Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle is Mrs Random's favourite poem, too.

[Slipstream]

And I'm being genuinely serious ... is Dr. Seus. :cool:

We like our bike.
It is made for three.
Our Mike
sits up in back,
you see.

We like our Mike
and this is why:
Mike does all the work
when the hills get high.

Or my personal favourite. :2thumbsup

Bump!
Bump!
Bump!
Did you ever ride a Wump?
We have a Wump
with just one hump.

But
we know a man
called Mr. Gump.
Mr Gump has a seven hump Wump.
So . . .
if you like to go Bump! Bump!
just jump on the hump of the Wump of Gump.

[Slipstream]

But I also like Lord Byron too...

...I stood among them,
but not of them;
in a shroud of thoughts
which were not their thoughts....

:niceone:

[Ghost Lemur]

Second Delirium: The Alchemy Of The Word


My turn now. The story of one of my insanities.

For a long time I boasted that I was master of all possible landscapes-- and I thought the great figures of modern painting and poetry were laughable.

What I liked were: absurd paintings, pictures over doorways, stage sets, carnival backdrops, billboards, bright-colored prints, old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books full of misspellings, the kind of novels our grandmothers read, fairy tales, little children's books, old operas, silly old songs, the naïve rhythms of country rimes.

I dreamed of Crusades, voyages of discovery that nobody had heard of, republics without histories, religious wars stamped out, revolutions in morals, movements of races and continents; I used to believe in every kind of magic.

I invented colors for the vowels! A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. I made rules for the form and movement of every consonant, and I boasted of inventing, with rhythms from within me, a kind of poetry that all the senses, sooner or later, would recognize. And I alone would be its translator.

I began it as an investigation. I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.


Far from flocks, from birds and country girls,
What did I drink within that leafy screen
Surrounded by tender hazlenut trees
In the warm green mist of afternoon?

What could I drink from this young Oise
--Toungeless trees, flowerless grass, dark skies--
Drink from these yellow gourds, far from the hut
I loved? Some golden draught that made me sweat.

I would have made a doubtful sign for an inn.
Later, toward evening, the sky filled with clouds...
Water from the woods runs out on virgin sands,
And heavenly winds cast ice thick on the ponds;

Then I saw gold, and wept, but could not drink.

* * *

At four in the morning, in summertime,
Love's drowsiness still lasts...
The bushes blow away the odor
Of the night's feast.

Beyond the bright Hesperides,
Within the western workshop of the Sun,
Carpenters scramble-- in shirtsleeves--
Work is begun.

And in desolate, moss-grown isles
They raise their precious panels
Where the city
Will paint a hollow sky.

For these charming dabblers in the arts
Who labor for a King in Babylon,
Venus! Leave for a moment
Lovers' haloed hearts...

O Queen of Shepherds!
Carry the purest eau-de-vie
To these workmen while they rest
And take their bath at noonday, in the sea.


The worn-out ideas of old-fashioned poetry played an important part in my alchemy of the word.

I got used to elementary hallucination: I could very precisely see a mosque instead of a factory, a drum corps of angels, horse carts on the highways of the sky, a drawing room at the bottom of a lake; monsters and mysteries. A vaudeville's title filled me with awe.

And so I explained my magical sophistries by turning words into visions!

At last, I began to consider my mind's disorder a sacred thing. I lay about idle, consumed by an oppressive fever: I envied the bliss of animals-- caterpillars, who portray the innocence of a second childhood; moles, the slumber of virginity!

My mind turned sour. I said farewell to the world in poems something like ballads:


A SONG FROM THE HIGHEST TOWER

Let it come, let it come,
The season we can love!

I have waited so long
That at length I forget,
And leave unto heaven
My fear and regret;

A sick thirst
Darkens my veins.

Let it come, let it come,
the season we can love!

So the green field
To oblivion falls,
Overgrown, flowering,
With incense and weeds.

And the cruel noise
Of dirty flies.

Let it come, let it come,
the season we can love!



I loved the desert, burnt orchards, tired old shops, warm drinks. I dragged myself through stinking alleys, and with my eyes closed I offered myself to the sun, the god of fire.

"General: If on your ruined ramparts one cannon still remains, shell us with clods of dried-up earth. Shatter the mirrors of expensive shops! And the drawing rooms! Make the city swallow its dust! Turn gargoyles to rust. Stuff boudoirs with rubies' fiery powder...."

Oh, the little fly! Drunk at the urinal of a country inn, in love with rotting weeds; a ray of light dissolves him!



I only find within my bones
A taste for eating earth and stones.
When I feed, I feed on air,
Rocks and coals and iron ore.

My hunger, turn. Hunger, feed:
A field of bran.
Gather as you can the bright
Poison weed.

Eat the rocks a beggar breaks,
The stones of ancient churches' walls,
Pebbles, children of the flood,
Loaves left lying in the mud.

* * *

Beneath the bush a wolf will howl,
Spitting bright feathers
From his feast of fowl:
Like him, I devour myself.

Waiting to be gathered
Fruits and grasses spend their hours;
The spider spinning in the hedge
Eats only flowers.

Let me sleep! Let me boil
On the altars of Solomon;
Let me soak the rusty soil
And flow into Kendron.



Finally, O reason, O happiness, I cleared from the sky the blue which is darkness, and I lived as a golden spark of this light, Nature. In my delight, I made my face look as comic and as wild as I could:



It is recovered.
What? Eternity.
In the whirling light
Of the sun in the sea.

O my eternal soul,
Hold fast to desire
In spite of the night
And the day on fire.

You must set yourself free
From the striving of Man
And the applause of the World!
You must fly as you can...

No hope, forever;
No _orietur._
Science and patience,
The torment is sure.

The fire within you,
Soft silken embers,
Is our whole duty--
But no one remembers.

It is recovered.
What? Eternity.
In the whirling light
Of the sun in the sea.



I became a fabulous opera. I saw that everyone in the world was doomed to happiness. Action isn't life; it's merely a way of ruining a kind of strength, a means of destroying nerves. Morality is water on the brain.

It seemed to me that everyone should have had several other lives as well. This gentleman doesn't know what he's doing; he's an angel. That family is a litter of puppy dogs. With some men, I often talked out loud with a moment from one of their other lives-- that's how I happened to love a pig.

Not a single one of the brilliant arguments of madness-- the madness that gets locked up-- did I forget; I could go through them all again, I've got the system down by heart.

It affected my health. Terror loomed ahead. I would fall again and again into a heavy sleep, which lasted several days at a time, and when I woke up, my sorrowful dreams continued. I was ripe for fatal harvest, and my weakness led me down dangerous roads to the edge of the world, to the Cimmerian shore, the haven of whirlwinds and darkness.

I had to travel, to dissipate the enchantments that crowded my brain. On the sea, which I loved as if it were to wash away my impurity, I watched the compassionate cross arise. I had been damned by the rainbow. Felicity was my doom, my gnawing remorse, my worm. My life would forever be too large to devote to strength and to beauty.

Felicity! The deadly sweetness of its sting would wake me at cockcrow-- ad matutinum, at the Christus venit-- in the somberest of cities.



O seasons, O chateaus!
Where is the flawless soul?

I learned the magic of
Felicity. It enchants us all.

To Felicity, sing life and praise
Whenever Gaul's cock crows.

Now all desire has gone--
It has made my life its own.

That spell has caught heart and soul
And scattered every trial.

O seasons, O chateaus!

And, oh, the day it disappears
Will be the day I die.

O seasons, O chateaus!



All that is over. Today, I know how to celebrate beauty.

- Arthur Rimbaud

[James Deuce]

Poetry is bollocks, written by effette little whacked-out Opium addicts.

It has the same effect on me as Kenny G. It makes me want to kill..............

[Jackrat]

Ok, one for the english critics to tear apart.

I am the Predator,
I am the biker,
I prey on the souls of my brothers,
I am the predator,
I am the biker,
I am the keeper of my brother,
The price be exact,
It be half and half only of what I give,
I am the predator,
I am the biker,
I am the keeper of my sister,
From my sister I take nothing,
She owns my all,
For I am the predator,
I prey on the soul of my brother,
The pride I demand is high,
half of all I give,
For I give my all,
I am the biker,
I am the elite,
With my brothers I do ride,
I am a biker,
I shall die,
My brother will remember,
For I am the biker,
I am the predator,
A user of soul.

[jrandom]

Ok, one for the english critics to tear apart.

Tear apart? Man! Those words cry out for music to set them to.

Hidden depths in the Rat, eh? Who woulda thunk :mellow:

[Skyryder]

Poetry is bollocks, written by effette little whacked-out Opium addicts.

It has the same effect on me as Kenny G. It makes me want to kill..............


Yep I can think of one or two Oriental poets who would have sliced you to ribbons if such a remark was made to their face.

Poetry reguardless of language paints portraits, landscapes, emotions feelings, etc with words that give the imagination a vision or a picture. If you can not see with your mind then you are truly blind.

Skyryder

[TwoSeven]

I'm still trying to work thru the canterbury tales (its in old english so the translating is hard). I do like shakespeare - he wrote good poems.

[James Deuce]

Yep I can think of one or two Oriental poets who would have sliced you to ribbons if such a remark was made to their face.

Poetry reguardless of language paints portraits, landscapes, emotions feelings, etc with words that give the imagination a vision or a picture. If you can not see with your mind then you are truly blind.

Skyryder

Oh, I see. So I'm not allowed to have an opinion then. Despite years of having poetry rammed down my throat, I fail to see the point. It is boring, bland, pointless, and as I said does nothing for me. Poetry's worst aspect is its singular arrogance. If it fails to inspire the reader or listener then the fault lies solely with the reader or listener.

[toads]

There once was a young lass named Sally
Who enjoyed the occasional dally.
She sat in the lap
Of a well-endowed chap
And said, "Oooh, you're right up my alley".

:killingme :killingme :killingme :killingme :killingme

[toads]

I have written short stories and poems since I was a little kid, never published them or even kept most of them but have always found writing an avenue to work out my frustrations and hopes and desires, most poets and writers do it for similar reasons, my stuff is very personal and I would never publish them, I find a lot of poetry gives me the feeling I've just burst in on someone in the bath, you know what I mean?, it is far too personal to be published, never should have been, the type I enjoy most is the Pam Ayres type, rollicking good humour.
Also the Bob Dylan type, that airs often thought rarely publically aired thoughts and opinions, and lastly I appreciate Eminem the rap singer, who's way with words is truely poetic, regardless of the swearing, the content of his songs are quite amazing, music and poetry and art should always move you, and take you somewhere and leave you with an after taste.

[Ghost Lemur]

Oh, I see. So I'm not allowed to have an opinion then. Despite years of having poetry rammed down my throat, I fail to see the point. It is boring, bland, pointless, and as I said does nothing for me. Poetry's worst aspect is its singular arrogance. If it fails to inspire the reader or listener then the fault lies solely with the reader or listener.

Obviously you just haven't read the right stuff. There is no necessary right or wrong, just that which you can relate to and be inspired by.

Personally I've got very little time for Shakespeare. Melodramatic trash, medieval(sp?) Mills&Boon.

Obviously I sucked at High School English as that's about as far as they go literary wise. Loved discovering it once I was free to roam.

[kerryg]

Philip Larkin is a personal favourite (but a very gloomy bugger)

NEXT PLEASE

Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,

Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits
Arching our way, it never anchors; it's
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last

We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.


(and this one)


AUBADE

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

[kerryg]

Personally I've got very little time for Shakespeare. Melodramatic trash, medieval(sp?) Mills&Boon.




Wooohooo....that is HARSH. There might be a few hundred million people who disagree with that. The bard could certainly put a together a decent pome............. :msn-wink:

SONNET 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

[Yokai]

> If it fails to inspire the reader or listener then the fault
> lies solely with the reader or listener.

I couldn't agree more - same with any art (even the use of large motocross bikes to get big air!). But that said the allocation of "blame" to the interpretation of an artistic expression is somewhat odd - I for one can't stand the impressionists, but my girlfriend loves them... She hates modern art but I love it...

Any failing of inspiration lies not with the artist, but with the audience, for it is up to the audience to decide whether it is art, beauty, truth or otherwise.

But aside from the weighty nature of that here is my contribution to the actual poetry of the thread:

Brushing past the enclosures
Seeing forlorn repetitive behaviors
I look back at my reflection
And see my part in the world
I pity the choices that led them there
That hold their lifes wrapped in wool
Held away from the experience of the road
By the steel and glass of their cars.

Yokai
Pretentious?.... Watashi?

[TwoSeven]

'The bard' probably invented most of the language you are using :)

Here (http://shakespeare.about.com/library/weekly/aa042400a.htm)

There is flattery in friendship.
Henry V 3.7.102, Constable to Orleans

"Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?"
M for M, Act ii, Sc.2

"How hard it is for women to keep counsel !"
Jul Caesar, Act ii, Sc.3

Ham. Let me see.—[Takes the skull. ]—Alas! poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. 80
Hor. What’s that, my lord?
Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ the earth?
Hor. E’en so.
Ham. And smelt so? pah! [Puts down the skull. 84
Hor. E’en so, my lord.
Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

(the film does it in serious lite - but he is actually taking the preverbial here).

[badlieutenant]

not sure what constitutes as poetry but as a life philosophy this one appeals to me


Max Ehrmann


Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.

and a book that i think would appeal to alot of riders here, and i suspect alot have probably read is either "johnathan livingston seagulll" or "illusions: The adventures of a reluctant messiah" both by richard bach.
From the adventures of a reluctant messiah : "heres a simple test to determine if your mission on earth is finished or not: if your alive it isnt"

The thing with both of those books is that most of it is simple truth.

oops a little off topic

[Skyryder]

Oh, I see. So I'm not allowed to have an opinion then. Despite years of having poetry rammed down my throat, I fail to see the point. It is boring, bland, pointless, and as I said does nothing for me. Poetry's worst aspect is its singular arrogance. If it fails to inspire the reader or listener then the fault lies solely with the reader or listener.

Of course you are allowed an opinion. Perhaps it is the fact that you have had something 'rammed' down your throat that has caused the 'blindness' Poetry is the epitime of the expression of a language. It's best aspect 'is' the singular arrogance of the poet. You have acknowldedged the point but have lost the edge. Clear the mind and try writing some. You may not realise this but you do understand.

Skyryder

[Jackrat]

Oh, I see. So I'm not allowed to have an opinion then. Despite years of having poetry rammed down my throat, I fail to see the point. It is boring, bland, pointless, and as I said does nothing for me. Poetry's worst aspect is its singular arrogance. If it fails to inspire the reader or listener then the fault lies solely with the reader or listener.

Actualy Jim you are allowed an opinion and I find it quite interesting at that.
My own writing has been described in much worse terms than you've used, but to me it very much has a point.The point being that I enjoy writing it and some people enjoy reading it.I already know that most of it is very simplistic but that's me all over,so what the hell.
The fact that you are into music and play drums leads me to belive your not being totaly honest anyway.
What is song, but another form of poetry??

[James Deuce]

Actualy Jim you are allowed an opinion and I find it quite interesting at that.
My own writing has been described in much worse terms than you've used, but to me it very much has a point.The point being that I enjoy writing it and some people enjoy reading it.I already know that most of it is very simplistic but that's me all over,so what the hell.
The fact that you are into music and play drums leads me to belive your not being totaly honest anyway.
What is song, but another form of poetry??

I've often listened while people have tried to explain the link between poetry and music. For me poetry operates at a facile one dimensional level, where music operates at a whole myriad of emotional and intellectual levels. I'm not sure if it's an occupational hazard or not, but plumbing the depths and heights of musical performance transcends anything that I sense in poetry. In actual fact the least important part of a song for me is the lyrical content. I use lyrics as a signpost when I'm playing, or a part to learn if I have BVs to perform.

Skyryder: The problem I have is my own, as I've said. I don't approve of Intellectuals using art as punishment, and that has been the primary presentation of Poetry while I was at school. If I didn't understand the message there was obviously something wrong with me - "Well boy, what did Kipling mean by that?".

"I have no idea. Why didn't he just say what he meant?"

"See me after class boy"

I don't accept that poetry is necessarily the epitome of linguistic expression. There's some pretty impressive Rhetoric about the place that encapsulates an instant of a culture with more dignity and meaning (for me anyway) than oblique poetry.

[Jackrat]

I've often listened while people have tried to explain the link between poetry and music. For me poetry operates at a facile one dimensional level, where music operates at a whole myriad of emotional and intellectual levels. I'm not sure if it's an occupational hazard or not, but plumbing the depths and heights of musical performance transcends anything that I sense in poetry. In actual fact the least important part of a song for me is the lyrical content. I use lyrics as a signpost when I'm playing, or a part to learn if I have BVs to perform.

Skyryder: The problem I have is my own, as I've said. I don't approve of Intellectuals using art as punishment, and that has been the primary presentation of Poetry while I was at school. If I didn't understand the message there was obviously something wrong with me - "Well boy, what did Kipling mean by that?".

"I have no idea. Why didn't he just say what he meant?"

"See me after class boy"

I don't accept that poetry is necessarily the epitome of linguistic expression. There's some pretty impressive Rhetoric about the place that encapsulates an instant of a culture with more dignity and meaning (for me anyway) than oblique poetry.

So because YOU couldn't understand that makes it boring and pointless.
Millions would disagree. :bye:

[James Deuce]

So because YOU couldn't understand that makes it boring and pointless.
Millions would disagree. :bye:

But Millions of people disagree with my music taste, and that's apparently OK? I don't actually perceive a problem with that at all. Diversity is a good thing.

I didn't think people would get what I'm trying to say. I don't like poetry and I'm not trying to tell you that you don't have to as well. I just don't like it. It's interesting how having a dissenting view on a widely held belief makes you a either a f__kwit or a mad bastard.

[bluninja]

Mary Rose,
Sat on a pin.
Mary Rose

[toads]

But Millions of people disagree with my music taste, and that's apparently OK? I don't actually perceive a problem with that at all. Diversity is a good thing.

I didn't think people would get what I'm trying to say. I don't like poetry and I'm not trying to tell you that you don't have to as well. I just don't like it. It's interesting how having a dissenting view on a widely held belief makes you a either a f__kwit or a mad bastard.

this is interesting Jim, I don't think anyone is saying you can't have an opinion, just, given that yours is not the same as theirs makes some people want to defend their point of view. The fact is, because you appreciate some music, you would probably find that some songs you like, because of the lyrics right?, and songs are poetry set to music. So you do like poetry, but only in a certain context.
I'm not any kind of intellectual genius but I do have an appreciation for other peoples opinions. I understand what you are saying, and that for some reason people get pissed off with an expression of a differing opinion. I have little appreciation for abstract art, and can't get enthusiastic about what resembles something my kids do at preschool level, but I really love landscape paintings and real life stuff, and I have found some people to get very irritated by my lack of "vision" in this regard. My answer to this is poetry, music and art are all forms of personal expression, and this being the case we all identify with different stuff, cos we are all different. It's a very good thing we have different views or else we would just be drones/clones.

[James Deuce]

this is interesting Jim, I don't think anyone is saying you can't have an opinion, just, given that yours is not the same as theirs makes some people want to defend their point of view. The fact is, because you appreciate some music, you would probably find that some songs you like, because of the lyrics right?, and songs are poetry set to music. So you do like poetry, but only in a certain context.
I'm not any kind of intellectual genius but I do have an appreciation for other peoples opinions. I understand what you are saying, and that for some reason people get pissed off with an expression of a differing opinion. I have little appreciation for abstract art, and can't get enthusiastic about what resembles something my kids do at preschool level, but I really love landscape paintings and real life stuff, and I have found some people to get very irritated by my lack of "vision" in this regard. My answer to this is poetry, music and art are all forms of personal expression, and this being the case we all identify with different stuff, cos we are all different. It's a very good thing we have different views or else we would just be drones/clones.

That's it, you've got it! Abstract art is a good example for me because for me poetry is an abstract of music, therefore it's missing bits!

[jrandom]

interesting how having a dissenting view on a widely held belief makes you a... mad bastard.

No no Jim, you were a mad bastard from the word go. :bleh:

[Slipstream]

Mary Rose,
Sat on a pin.
Mary Rose


Simple yet very visually effective. :niceone: :killingme

[vifferman]

That's it, you've got it! Abstract art is a good example for me because for me poetry is an abstract of music, therefore it's missing bits!While I do like poetry, I can understand what you mean. You said previously said that you don't pay much attention to the lyrics of a song. I would guess that there are songs which do touch you that have lyrics which have some meaning to you. However, usually when people are touched by a song, and find it particularly meaningful, and quote the lyrics to others in endeavouring to communicate what it was they felt, it is somehow flat, and like you said, missing bits / dimensions.
While poetry can stimulate your imagination and evoke feelings, it is lacking in dimensions. F'rinstance - a poem about riding in the summer, smelling the freshly cut hay and the sweet honeysuckle in the hedges, and the feeling of riding through a cool pool of air in the shadow in the bank of a road cutting falls WAY short of the actual experience. Reading a torrid novel about making love is not the same as doing it, no matter what feelings it may evoke. Reading a description of an album and poring over the lyric sheet isn't anywhere near the same as listening to it.
So while I like poetry, and I am tempted to convince you that once you get past the bad associations it seems to have for you, you will find something, somewhere that you actually like, I'm not going to. That would be kind of like convincing someone who doesn't like beer that they are mad, and just need to keep tasting beers till they find one they like. Or telling a vegetarian they just haven't eaten the right meat dish yet.

[jrandom]

songs which do touch you that have lyrics which have some meaning to you

You slip out of your depth and out of your mind
With your fear flowing out behind you
As you claw the thin ice.

Didn't Motu use that as a signature at some point?

[Jackrat]

But Millions of people disagree with my music taste, and that's apparently OK? I don't actually perceive a problem with that at all. Diversity is a good thing.

I didn't think people would get what I'm trying to say. I don't like poetry and I'm not trying to tell you that you don't have to as well. I just don't like it. It's interesting how having a dissenting view on a widely held belief makes you a either a f__kwit or a mad bastard.

Well hey, I didn't call you a F wit or a mad bastard.
And I'm not about to start.
What you did do was Hijack the thread.
After all,the others that posted to it do like poetry,so you were always going to get a reaction.
BTW way I like music too,both kinds,Country and western :msn-wink:

[kiwifruit]

There once was a young lass named Sally
Who enjoyed the occasional dally.
She sat in the lap
Of a well-endowed chap
And said, "Oooh, you're right up my alley".

Heh!!!!!!!!!!!
yes, i bumped a 3 year old thread.. but come on! its kinda fitting :shutup:

[jrandom]

Heh!!!!!!!!!!!

I'd love to take credit, but I think I paraphrased that limerick from one of Isaac Asimov's published collections.

:first:

Saucy Sally thought up a trick
Involving old Rover's canine dick
And when they were done
Rover thought it more fun
Than rolling over, or chasing a stick...

[Joni]

OK guys... digging up a thread from 2004 is not cool.

Please read the netiquette guide in the site rules.

Ta
:sunny:

[kiwifruit]

OK guys... digging up a thread from 2004 is not cool.

Please read the netiquette guide in the site rules.

Ta
:sunny:

sorry :innocent: :sunny:

[jrandom]

sorry :innocent: :sunny:

Yes. Naughty fruit! Next time, start a new thread.

:drinknsin