Tear apart? Man! Those words cry out for music to set them to.Originally Posted by Jackrat
Hidden depths in the Rat, eh? Who woulda thunk
e mare libertas
Tear apart? Man! Those words cry out for music to set them to.
Hidden depths in the Rat, eh? Who woulda thunk
kiwibiker is full of love, an disrespect.
- mikey
Forum whore
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
Free Scott Watson.
bikes
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.
Forum whore
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.
toadily mad
toadily mad
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.
Slower than Ixion
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.
has left the building
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.
Kerry
has left the building
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.............
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.
Kerry
My Brian hurts!
> 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?
bikes
'The bard' probably invented most of the language you are using
Here
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).
Hardcore Biker
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
Forum whore
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
Free Scott Watson.
Mobile Oil Stain
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??
Forum whore
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.
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