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Thread: Any poetry fans in here ?

  1. #1
    Guardian of the Fleet Senior Member Shahed's Avatar
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    Lightbulb Any poetry fans in here ?

    I thought this was beautiful. It's written by a woman for a man, about their separation. Nnormally it's the other way around. That is what makes it very special, an ordinary girl with extraordinary expression.

    Sleepless

    An ocean apart, several timezones away,
    The sleepless nights are a small price to pay,
    To see your smile and the gleam in your eye,
    The one that steals all I meant to say.

    Machines of bloodless plastic and chrome,
    Lack the heat of skin that's found it's home.
    But still we try to touch our fingertips,
    To stroke the hair we'd love to comb.

    When we part the smile stays upon my lips,
    For unlike the sun our hearts know no eclipse,
    And tho each of us alone into bed slips,
    Our thoughts daily make a thousand trips.
    Last edited by Shahed; 01-02-2005 at 20:15.
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  2. #2
    Banned Snowhobbit's Avatar
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    Default Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    Nice one, don't really like the middle part but still it's a nice read.

  3. #3
    boy of DESTINY Senior Member Big_John's Avatar
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    Default Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    you know i'm down with that poetry shit!

    not excedingly fond of the one you posted (who's it by, btw?). here's a couple of famous ones i've liked since i was a little john:
    (i absolutely dare anyone to read all of these!!)

    anyone lived in a pretty how town** -e.e. cummings
    anyone lived in a pretty how town
    (with up so floating many bells down)
    spring summer autumn winter
    he sang his didn't he danced his did.

    Women and men(both little and small)
    cared for anyone not at all
    they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
    sun moon stars rain

    children guessed(but only a few
    and down they forgot as up they grew
    autumn winter spring summer)
    that noone loved him more by more

    when by now and tree by leaf
    she laughed his joy she cried his grief
    bird by snow and stir by still
    anyone's any was all to her

    someones married their everyones
    laughed their cryings and did their dance
    (sleep wake hope and then)they
    said their nevers they slept their dream

    stars rain sun moon
    (and only the snow can begin to explain
    how children are apt to forget to remember
    with up so floating many bells down)

    one day anyone died i guess
    (and noone stooped to kiss his face)
    busy folk buried them side by side
    little by little and was by was

    all by all and deep by deep
    and more by more they dream their sleep
    noone and anyone earth by april
    wish by spirit and if by yes.

    Women and men(both dong and ding)
    summer autumn winter spring
    reaped their sowing and went their came
    sun moon stars rain

    Jabberwocky -lewis carrol
    `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.
    **(read it as if "anyone" and "noone" are specific people)

    Dulce Et Decorum Est -wilfred owen
    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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.[/i]

    BILLY IN THE DARBIES -herman melville
    Good of the chaplain to enter Lone Bay
    And down on his marrowbones here and pray
    For the likes just o' me, Billy Budd. -- But, look:
    Through the port comes the moonshine astray!
    It tips the guard's cutlass and silvers this nook;
    But 'twill die in the dawning of Billy's last day.
    A jewel-block they'll make of me tomorrow,
    Pendant pearl from the yardarm-end
    Like the eardrop I gave to Bristol Molly --
    O, 'tis me, not the sentence they'll suspend.
    Ay, ay, all is up; and I must up too,
    Early in the morning, aloft from alow.
    On an empty stomach now never it would do.
    They'll give me a nibble -- bit o' biscuit ere I go.
    Sure, a messmate will reach me the last parting cup;
    But, turning heads away from the hoist and the belay,
    Heaven knows who will have the running of me up!
    No pipe to those halyards. -- But aren't it all a sham?
    A blur's in my eyes; it is dreaming that I am.
    A hatchet to my hawser? All adrift to go?
    The drum roll to grog, and Billy never know?
    But Donald he has promised to stand by the plank;
    So I'll shake a friendly hand ere I sink.
    But -- no! It is dead then I'll be, come to think.
    I remember Taff the Welshman when he sank.
    And his cheek it was like the budding pink.
    But me they'll lash in hammock, drop me deep.
    Fathoms down, fathoms down, how I'll dream fast asleep.
    I feel it stealing now. Sentry, are you there?
    Just ease these darbies at the wrist,
    And roll me over fair!
    I am sleepy, and the oozy weeds about me twist.

    The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - t.s. eliot
    S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
    A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
    Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
    Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
    Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
    Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

    Let us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky
    Like a patient etherized upon a table;
    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats
    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
    Streets that follow like a tedious argument
    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question...
    Oh, do not ask, `` What is it? ''
    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time
    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;
    Time for you and time for me.
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, ``Do I dare?'' and, ``Do I dare?''
    Time to turn back and descend the stair,
    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
    [They will say: ``How his hair is growing thin!'']
    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
    [They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
    Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

    For I have known them all already, known them all:
    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
    I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
    The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
    And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
    When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
    Then how should I begin
    To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all--
    Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
    [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
    Is it perfume from a dress
    That makes me so digress?
    Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
    And should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?
    . . . . .
    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
    And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
    Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
    Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
    . . . . .
    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
    Smoothed by long fingers,
    Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
    Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
    But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
    Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
    I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
    I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
    And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
    And in short, I was afraid.

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
    Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
    Would it have been worth while,
    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
    To have squeezed the universe into a ball
    To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
    To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
    Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
    If one, settling a pillow by her head,
    Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all.
    That is not it, at all.''

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    Would it have been worth while,
    After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
    After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
    And this, and so much more?--
    It is impossible to say just what I mean!
    But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
    Would it have been worth while
    If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
    And turning toward the window, should say:
    ``That is not it at all,
    That is not what I meant, at all.''
    . . . . .
    No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
    Am an attendant lord, one that will do
    To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
    Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
    Deferential, glad to be of use,
    Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
    Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
    At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
    Almost, at times, the Fool.

    I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
    Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
    When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
    By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
    now i'm here, and history is vindicated.

  4. #4
    Urwendur Ûrîbêl Senior Member Mouzafphaerre's Avatar
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    Default Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    -
    Quote Originally Posted by Sinan
    Any poetry fans in here ?
    You can count me one but when it comes to petry I'm one elitist bαstαrd.

    Liked the one you psted, though, independent of its artistic value.
    -
    Ja mata Tosa Inu-sama, Hore Tore, Adrian II, Sigurd, Fragony

    Mouzafphaerre is known elsewhere as Urwendil/Urwendur/Kibilturg...
    .

  5. #5

    Default Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    hells bells

  6. #6
    Scandinavian and loving it Member Lazul's Avatar
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    Default Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    I heard this one first in the movie Solaris and since then its stuck in my mind.

    ***

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Dead mean naked they shall be one
    With the man in the wind and the west moon;
    When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
    They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
    Though they go mad they shall be sane,
    Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
    Though lovers be lost love shall not;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Under the windings of the sea
    They lying long shall not die windily;
    Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
    Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
    Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
    And the unicorn evils run them through;
    Split all ends up they shan't crack;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    No more may gulls cry at their ears
    Or waves break loud on the seashores;
    Where blew a flower may a flower no more
    Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
    Through they be mad and dead as nails,
    Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
    Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
    And death shall have no dominion.

    ***

    Dylan Thomas
    www.overspun.com

    "Freedom without opportunity is a devil's gift."
    --Noam Chomsky

  7. #7
    Vermonter and Seperatist Member Uesugi Kenshin's Avatar
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    Angry Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    I like some poetry, but I am very picky. I like morbid poetry mostly, or at least sorrowful poetry and then a bunch of random stuff that just seems to speak to me, but I am definately not into poetry about landscapes or anything like that. I did like the one you posted though....
    "A man's dying is more his survivor's affair than his own."
    C.S. Lewis

    "So many people tiptoe through life, so carefully, to arrive, safely, at death."
    Jermaine Evans

  8. #8
    Nobody expects the Senior Member Lemur's Avatar
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    Default Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    I can't believe you guys are overlooking the great contribution to world literature made by Ogden Nash. Examples:

    The cow is of the bovine ilk;
    One end is moo, the other milk.


    As well as that perfect example of High Culture:

    The turtle live 'twixt plated decks
    Which practically conceal its sex.
    I think it clever of the turtle
    In such a fix, to be so fertile.


    Shakespeare, eat your lacy-cufed heart out.

  9. #9
    master of the pwniverse Member Fragony's Avatar
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    Default Re: Any poetry fans in here ?

    I love this one, it was made by an english soldier after his best friend died in the trenches at the Somme. It is the most powerfull thing I have ever read.

    Wilfred Owen
    Futility
    Move him into the sun —
    Gently its touch awoke him once,
    At home, whispering of fields unsown.
    Always it woke him, even in France,
    Until this morning and this snow.
    If anything might rouse him now
    The kind old sun will know.

    Think how it wakes the seeds —
    Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
    Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
    Full-nerved, — still warm, — too hard to stir?
    Was it for this the clay grew tall?
    — O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
    To break earth's sleep at all?



    especially this line, 'Was it for this the clay grew tall?' , it just screams WHY!




    Sleepless

    An ocean apart, several timezones away,
    The sleepless nights are a small price to pay,
    To see your smile and the gleam in your eye,
    The one that steals all I meant to say.

    Machines of bloodless plastic and chrome,
    Lack the heat of skin that's found it's home.
    But still we try to touch our fingertips,
    To stroke the hair we'd love to comb.

    When we part the smile stays upon my lips,
    For unlike the sun our hearts know no eclipse,
    And tho each of us alone into bed slips,
    Our thoughts daily make a thousand trips.



    Oh are you in for a night when you see her again.
    Last edited by Fragony; 01-03-2005 at 16:39.

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