Author Topic: The Poetry thread  (Read 5297 times)

0 Members and 1 Guest are viewing this topic.

Offline Clay

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #25 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 02:22:09 AM »
I've always enjoyed this piece by Fritz.J.Waltson, pretty unknown but my aunty managed to find it in Poland.

Stunning imo..

I was once as weak as a flower
Blinded only by the midnight mood
Wilted through my lack of love
By the sun that once burned my petals
I am the flower
I am the nectar
My life source drained by the buzzing bees
For i am the colour
And the odour of life
For i am the flower

Heneage

  • Guest
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #26 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 03:05:24 AM »
Would the second line not be better if it said;

"Blinded by the light from the moon at the midnight hour"

Meh.

I am a fan of IF that Luca posted, every man and his dog has heard and likes it but it is a highly motivational speech.
 We are prepared: we build our houses squat,
Sink walls in rock and roof them with good slate.
This wizened earth has never troubled us
With hay, so, as you see, there are no stacks
Or stooks that can be lost. Nor are there trees
Which might prove company when it blows full
Blast: you know what I mean - leaves and branches
Can raise a tragic chorus in a gale
So that you listen to the thing you fear
Forgetting that it pummels your house too.
But there are no trees, no natural shelter.
You might think that the sea is company,
Exploding comfortably down on the cliffs
But no: when it begins, the flung spray hits
The very windows, spits like a tame cat
Turned savage. We just sit tight while wind dives
And strafes invisibly. Space is a salvo,
We are bombarded with the empty air.
Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.

Seamus Heaney.

I do like his work very much. But arguably one that still holds true today and is just as applicable to England despite its American writer is "Two Scavengers in a truck. ".


Two Scavengers in a Truck, Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes
    
At the stoplight waiting for the light
nine a.m. downtown San Francisco
a bright yellow garbage truck
with two garbagemen in red plastic blazers
standing on the back stoop
one on each side hanging on
and looking down into
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it
The man
in a hip three-piece linen suit
with shoulder-lenght blond hair&sunglassed
The young blond woman so casually coifed
with short skirt and coloured stokings
on the way to his architect's office

And the two scavengers up since four a.m.
grungy from their route
on the way home
The older of the two with grey iron hair
and hunched back
looking down like some
gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
also with sunglasses&long hair
about the same age as the Mercedes dirver

And both scavengers gazinf down
as from a great distance
at the cool couple
as if they were watching some odorless TV ad
in which everything is always possible

And the very red light for an instant
holding all four close together
as if anything at all were possible
between them
across that small gulf
in the high sea
of this democracy

Lawrence Ferlingh



Offline OzzieMandias

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #27 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 04:50:16 AM »
I always loved that line, "Vaster than empires, and more slow"

Does your username come from a Keates poem? Could have sworn blind I heard Paxo mention it on Uni challenge the other week.

Shelley, not Keats.

Madras posted it upthread, as it happens.

Offline OzzieMandias

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #28 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 05:11:45 AM »
Here:

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 shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked 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.

ozymandias--Shelley

Offline Mowen

  • General Member
  • Sepp Blatter w*****
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #29 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 09:51:43 AM »
Yep, lots of beer meant I couldn't remember who it was by so I had a stab. Was a bit weird when I heard it, recognised the name but didn't particularly want to blurt it out, as questions would have been asked about why...
Under-21 coach David Platt added: "If Shola recognises what he's got, all hell could break loose."

Offline fuhg

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #30 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 02:00:33 PM »
Ezra Pound - In a Station of the Metro (this is the shortest canonical poem around, as far as I'm aware)

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.



I did a Modern American Poetry module at university around a year ago. Was a bit up and down, but some of the New York School (Frank O'Hara, Kenneth Koch, Dennis Levertov, etc.),  and Black poets were superb.
No more Waterloo, no more rural country halts, no more solitude: no more becoming, just interminable being.

Offline OzzieMandias

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #31 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 03:37:38 PM »
Yep, lots of beer meant I couldn't remember who it was by so I had a stab. Was a bit weird when I heard it, recognised the name but didn't particularly want to blurt it out, as questions would have been asked about why...

:lol:

"Hey, that's the username of this tosser I've encountered on a football forum!"

I always liked the line "Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair", which I first saw daubed as graffiti on this huge piece of crap abstract sculpture when I was at uni.

Offline OzzieMandias

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #32 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 03:51:14 PM »
The great WH Auden in full-on pisstake mode...


On the Circuit
    
Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,

An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,

By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,

And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.

Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,

Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,

Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.

Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.

Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.

A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.

The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.

Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.

Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?

Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish!How infra dig!
Snatch from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?

Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.

God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.

j_mehta

  • Guest
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #33 on: Sunday 21 December 2008, 03:32:27 AM »
One of my favourite poets of all time.

Pablo Neruda - Die Slowly

He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience, dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones «is” rather than a bundle of emotions,
the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound
in the face of mistakes and feelings, dies slowly.

He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,
die slowly.

He who does not travel, who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself,
she who does not find grace in herself,
dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,
dies slowly.

He or she who abandon a project before starting it, who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who don't reply when they are asked something they do know,
die slowly.

Let's try and avoid death in small doses,
reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.

Only a burning patience will lead
to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

----

Offline cubaricho

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #34 on: Sunday 21 December 2008, 11:18:21 PM »
Big fan of WH Auden, especially this passage:



You were silly like us: your gift survived it all;
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself; mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its saying where executives
Would never want to tamper; it flows south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

-W.H. Auden [In Memory of W.B. Yeats]

Offline Neil

  • General Member
  • The stretched twig of peace is at melting point
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #35 on: Sunday 21 December 2008, 11:56:16 PM »
What do you make
Of a manager
Who has won 4 titles
With 2 different clubs
And 3
Yes 3
Manager of the year awards?
Thomas the Tank Engine is a f***ing c***.

Offline madras

  • Philosoraptor
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #36 on: Monday 22 December 2008, 12:01:46 AM »
What do you make
Of a manager
Who has won 4 titles
With 2 different clubs
And 3
Yes 3
Manager of the year awards?

rhythmic music to me ears
Bullshitters misrepresent themselves to their audience not as liars do, that is, by deliberately making false claims about what is true. In fact, bullshit need not be untrue at all.

Rather, bullshitters seek to convey a certain impression of themselves without being concerned about whether anything at all is true. They quietly change the rules governing their end of the conversation so that claims about truth and falsity are irrelevant.

Offline Neil

  • General Member
  • The stretched twig of peace is at melting point
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #37 on: Monday 22 December 2008, 12:03:43 AM »
What do you make
Of a manager
Who has won 4 titles
With 2 different clubs
And 3
Yes 3
Manager of the year awards?

rhythmic music to me ears

It truly flows.

5th best poem in the country for over a decade.
Thomas the Tank Engine is a f***ing c***.

Giller

  • Guest
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #38 on: Monday 22 December 2008, 12:23:57 AM »


The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

A. E. Housman

Offline Crumpy Gunt

  • General Member
  • www.ajhsom.co.uk
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #39 on: Monday 22 December 2008, 12:32:35 AM »
Raglon Road

On Raglan Road of an autumn day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue
I saw the danger and I passed
Along the enchanted way
And said let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day

On Grafton Street in November
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such
Is happiness thrown away

I gave her gifts of the mind
I gave her the secret signs
Known to the artists who have known
The true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint I did not stint
I gave her poems to say
With her own name there
And her own dark hair
Like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had loved not as I should
A creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay
He'll lose his wings at the dawn of day

Patrick Kavanagh

Offline madras

  • Philosoraptor
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #40 on: Monday 16 March 2009, 09:18:30 PM »
Puberty is a puppy.



It was like keeping a puppy in your underpants
A secret puppy you weren’t allowed to show to anyone
Not even your best friend or your worst enemy

You wanted to pat him stroke him cuddle him
All the time but you weren’t supposed to touch him

He only slept for five minutes at a time
Then he’d suddenly perk up his head
In the middle of school medical inspection
And always on bus rides
So you had to climb down from the upper deck
All bent double to smuggle the puppy off the bus
Without the buxom conductress spotting
Your wicked and ticketless stowaway.

Jumping up, wet-nosed, eagerly wagging –
He only stopped being a nuisance
When you were alone together
Pretending to be doing your homework
But really gazing at each other
Through hot and hazy daydreams

Of those beautiful schoolgirls on the bus
With kittens bouncing in their sweaters.


by Adrian Mitchell. who followed it up with this..

A dog called elderly.





And now I have a dog called elderly
and all he ever wants to do
is now and then be let out for a p*ss
but spend the rest of his lifetime
sleeping on my lap infront of the fire.
Bullshitters misrepresent themselves to their audience not as liars do, that is, by deliberately making false claims about what is true. In fact, bullshit need not be untrue at all.

Rather, bullshitters seek to convey a certain impression of themselves without being concerned about whether anything at all is true. They quietly change the rules governing their end of the conversation so that claims about truth and falsity are irrelevant.

Offline Delima

  • Cretin
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #41 on: Monday 16 March 2009, 10:44:42 PM »
'Rise, sluggish Soul! Why sitt'st thou here? why does thou sit and weep?
Yon Sun shall wax old and decay, but thou shalt ever flourish.
The fruit shall ripen and fall down, and the flowers consume away,
But thou shalt still survive. Arise! O dry thy dewy tears!'
There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart's desire, the other is to gain it - George Bernard Shaw

Offline Delima

  • Cretin
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #42 on: Monday 16 March 2009, 10:45:16 PM »
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here's what my sweetheart said.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich
I tell them tenderly.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart's desire, the other is to gain it - George Bernard Shaw

Offline Mr. Snrub

  • General Member
  • Messi
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #43 on: Monday 16 March 2009, 11:00:12 PM »
A poetry thread ffs?  ;D

Offline madras

  • Philosoraptor
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #44 on: Sunday 4 July 2010, 09:04:13 PM »
There was a girl
who struggled to hold on
to the world as it spun.

Then she realised
it was the world that spun around her.


(stevie smith)
Bullshitters misrepresent themselves to their audience not as liars do, that is, by deliberately making false claims about what is true. In fact, bullshit need not be untrue at all.

Rather, bullshitters seek to convey a certain impression of themselves without being concerned about whether anything at all is true. They quietly change the rules governing their end of the conversation so that claims about truth and falsity are irrelevant.

Offline GG

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #45 on: Monday 5 July 2010, 01:04:54 AM »
They f*** you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f***ed up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

CLICHE I KNOW
Spoiler
[close]

Offline madras

  • Philosoraptor
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #46 on: Monday 5 July 2010, 01:09:18 AM »
They f*** you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were f***ed up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

CLICHE I KNOW
thats the one and only poem the wife knows.
Bullshitters misrepresent themselves to their audience not as liars do, that is, by deliberately making false claims about what is true. In fact, bullshit need not be untrue at all.

Rather, bullshitters seek to convey a certain impression of themselves without being concerned about whether anything at all is true. They quietly change the rules governing their end of the conversation so that claims about truth and falsity are irrelevant.

Offline Mowen

  • General Member
  • Sepp Blatter w*****
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #47 on: Monday 5 July 2010, 09:52:13 PM »
Saw one on the tram a couple of weeks ago. Only one stanza out of Auguries of Innocence by Blake. Don't know if it's famous or anything (obv I know of Blake) but I thought it was f***ing class

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
Under-21 coach David Platt added: "If Shola recognises what he's got, all hell could break loose."

Offline Pilko

  • General Member
  • Bunsen burner
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #48 on: Monday 5 July 2010, 11:02:24 PM »
Been reading some Robert Browning lately. He's well good innit.
"Does a struggling salesman start turning up on a bicycle? No, he turns up in a newer car. Perception." - David Brent

Offline dilligaf

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #49 on: Tuesday 6 July 2010, 06:19:14 AM »
SUSPENDED SENTENCE

Read the paper - humdrum
Henley Regatta - page one
Eat die - ho hum
Page three - big bum
Giving a lunatic a loaded gun
He walks - others run
Thirty dead - no fun
Foreigners feature as figures of fun
Do something destructive chum

Sit right down - write a letter to the Sun
Say... "Bring back hangin' for everyone"

The took my advice - they brought it back
National costume was all-over-black
There were corpses in the avenues and cul-de-sacs
Piled up neatly in six-man stacks
Hanging from the traffic lights and specially made racks
They'd hang you for incontinence and fiddling your tax
Failure to hang yourself justified the axe
A deedely dee, a deedely dum
Looks like they brought back hangin' for everyone


The novelty's gone - it's hell
This place is a - death cell
The constant clang of the funeral bells
Those who aren't hanging are hanging someone else
The peoples pay - the paper sells
It's plug ugly - sub-animal yells
Death is unsightly - death smells
Swingin' Britain - don't put me on
They're gonna bring back the rope for everyone

John Cooper Clarke