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Anyone into poetry?
Here's one of my favourites, please post yours! This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin They ■■■■ 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 fucked 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. [ 06-22-2002, 03:26 AM: Message edited by: Mouse ] |
i like poetry, poety on the other hand really pisses me off ! :D :D
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Oh bugger I posted the topic,
I wasn't feeling well, I mistyped all the title, er.... and I can't think how to end this rhyme! Should have read POETRY! [ 06-21-2002, 08:02 PM: Message edited by: Epona ] |
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<font color="snow">Careful, our you will all be forced to buy Epona`s book of Poety!
[img]tongue.gif[/img] Epona [img]tongue.gif[/img] ;) </font> |
Title sorted. Poem added :D
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Christopher Marlowe COME live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair linčd slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love. |
This poem caught my imagination from the very first time I saw it. It was written by a 9th century Irish monk in Saint Gallen, Switzerland.
I have a copy hung on my office wall as a personal "inspiration". I wonder if anything I do will remembered 1000 years later ?? PANGUR BÁN I and Pangur Bán my cat ‘Tis a like task we are at: Hunting mice is his delight, Hunting words I sit all night. Better far than praise of men ‘Tis to sit with book and pen; Pangur bears me no ill will He too plies his simple skill 'Tis a merry thing to see At our tasks how glad are we, When at home we sit and find Entertainment to our mind Oftentimes a mouse will stray In the hero Pangur’s way; Oftentimes my keen thoughts set Takes a meaning in its net. ‘Gainst the wall he sets his eye Full and fierce and sharp and sly; ‘Gainst the wall of knowledge I All my little wisdoms try. When a mouse darts from its den, O how glad is Pangur then! O what gladness do I prove When I solve the tasks I love! So in peace our tasks we ply, Pangur Bán, my cat, and I; In our arts we find our bliss, I have mine and he has his. Practice every day has made Pangur perfect at his trade; I get wisdom day and night Turning darkness into light. ---------------------- Pang [img]graemlins/cat3.gif[/img] [ 06-22-2002, 08:59 AM: Message edited by: Pangur Ban ] |
Andrew Marvell - To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough and time This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day, Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. John Donne, from Holy Sonnets: Death Be Not Proud DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. [ 06-22-2002, 08:00 AM: Message edited by: Melusine ] |
Mouse, Thank You! [img]graemlins/kiss.gif[/img]
Lovely poem! Melusine, thanks for posting those - I especially like Donne. I think I'll try to find some more that I like, task for the day (gets me out of descaling the bath LOL!) |
POETRY? POETRY?! ARGH! *runs screaming and hides underneth his pc desk. looks around nervously.* has it gone yet? no? *hits* back button as quickly as he can...* what taking you back to... NO! *hits go to general disscuion* lol. ok so maybe thats a bit over the top, but hey, I just dont like "POETRY", anyone got a prob with that? hehe, not that I have a prob with anyone reading/writing it... I just hate meodrama... ah well, the joys of being an addolent male... not many of them. ;)
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Ooh, please do! [img]smile.gif[/img]
I like the Pangur Ban poem a lot, Pang - nice to have a personal poem like that. [img]smile.gif[/img] Kit Marlowe's fantastic of course... LOL, I can't help laughing every time I read the Marvell poem, what a smoothtalking bastard! [img]graemlins/hehe.gif[/img] [img]graemlins/hehe.gif[/img] The Donne is one of my alltime favourites, Epona, glad yuo like it too. [img]smile.gif[/img] Expect updates to this thread from me too! [img]smile.gif[/img] |
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So I don't mind at all if people don't like the same things I like, why would I? [img]smile.gif[/img] I do think people often base their opinions on wrong assumptions however. For example, there's nothing melodramatic about good poetry. Teen angst poetry is fairly melodramatic, yes, but then again if that's the definition of poetry then I don't like poetry myself. [img]graemlins/hehe.gif[/img] [ 06-22-2002, 09:17 AM: Message edited by: Melusine ] |
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So I don't mind at all if people don't like the same things I like, why would I? [img]smile.gif[/img] I do think people often base their opinions on wrong assumptions however. For example, there's nothing melodramatic about good poetry. Teen angst poetry is fairly melodramatic, yes, but then again if that's the definition of poetry then I don't like poetry myself. [img]graemlins/hehe.gif[/img] </font>[/QUOTE]Sorry, I dont beleive I read that right... I dont, I mean Im not seeking attention... not in any way shape or form. I *do* apreciate art, if it 'is' art (ok lets not start another debate on what 'art' is ok? please) Im just in a whimsical humor, proabbly because I just finsihed college. |
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Another one by Donne.
Song: Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go John Donne Sweetest love, I do not go, For weariness of thee, Nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me; But since that I Must die at last, 'tis best To use myself in jest Thus by feign'd deaths to die. Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here today; He hath no desire nor sense, Nor half so short a way: Then fear not me, But believe that I shall make Speedier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs than he. O how feeble is man's power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot add another hour, Nor a lost hour recall! But come bad chance, And we join to'it our strength, And we teach it art and length, Itself o'er us to'advance. When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, But sigh'st my soul away; When thou weep'st, unkindly kind, My life's blood doth decay. It cannot be That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st, If in thine my life thou waste, That art the best of me. Let not thy divining heart Forethink me any ill; Destiny may take thy part, And may thy fears fulfil; But think that we Are but turn'd aside to sleep; They who one another keep Alive, ne'er parted be |
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OI! Stop arguing in my thread! [img]tongue.gif[/img] Post poetry!
Might be an idea for another thread ;) |
yes ma'am. *cheeky grin*
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Alright, here's some more then ;) Dorothy Parker - Resumé Razors pain you; Rivers are damp. Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramps. Guns aren't lawful, Nooses give. Gas smells awful, You might as well live. Geoffrey Chaucer - The Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse ;) TO you, my purse, and to none other wight Complain I, for you be my lady dear! I am so sorry, now that you be light; For certain, but you make me heavy cheer, Me were as lief be laid upon my bier; For which unto your mercy thus I cry: Be heavy again, or else might I die! Now voucheth safe this day, or be it night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear, Or see your colour like the sun bright, That of yellowness had never peer. You be my life, you be mine heart's steer, Queen of comfort and of good company: Be heavy again, or else might I die! Now, purse, that be to me my life's light And saviour, as done in this world here, Out of this town help me through your might, Since that you will not be my treasurer; For I am shaved as nigh as any friar. But yet I pray unto your courtesy: Be heavy again, or else might I die! Lenvoy de Chaucer O conqueror of Brute's Albion, Which that by line and free election Be very king, this song to you I send; And you, that may all our harms amend, Have mind upon my supplication! [ 06-22-2002, 09:34 AM: Message edited by: Melusine ] |
Matthew Arnold - Shakespeare
OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask -- Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foiled searching of mortality; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguessed at. -- Better so. All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. |
William Blake - A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I water'd it in fears, Night & morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole When the night had veil'd the pole: In the morning glad I see My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree. |
"The Bugle Song" from The Princess by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
1 The splendour falls on castle walls 2 And snowy summits old in story: 3 The long light shakes across the lakes, 4 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 5 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 6 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 7 O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 8 And thinner, clearer, farther going! 9 O sweet and far from cliff and scar 10 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 11 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 12 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 13 O love, they die in yon rich sky, 14 They faint on hill or field or river: 15 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 16 And grow for ever and for ever. 17 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 18 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. |
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.' |
Oh yes, and: The Ballad Of Sir Patrick Spens.
The king Sits in Denfermline town Drinking the blood-red wine: "O where will I get a good sailor, To sail this ship of mine?" Up and spake an elder Knight, Sat at the king's right knee: "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the Sea." The King Has written a braid letter And sealed it with his hand. And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens Was waking on the Strand "To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the foam; The kings own daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her home!" The first line that Sir Patrick read A loud, loud laugh laughed he: The next line that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his ee. "O who is this has done this deed, This ill deed into me; To send me out this time o' the year To sail upon the sea? "Make haste, make haste, my merry men all, Our good ship sails the morn." "O say not so, my master dear, For I fear a deadly storm. "I saw the new moon late yestere'en With the old moon in her arm; And if we go t sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm." They had not sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the Sky grew dark, the wind blew loud, And angry grew the sea. The anchor broke, the topmast split, 'Twas such a deadly storm. The waves came over the ship Till all her sides were torn O long, long may the ladies sit With their fans into their hand, Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand O long, long may the maidens stand With their gold combs in their hair, Before they'll see their own dear loves Come home to great them there. O forty miles off aberdeen 'Tis fifty fathom deep And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens With the scots lords at his feet. |
Good choices, Dramnek! I see you posted a longer version of Sir Patrick Spense, there are quite a few different ones about. [img]smile.gif[/img]
Edit: here's the one I had to learn by heart in secondary school, a bit shorter than yours, and without normalised spelling. [img]smile.gif[/img] Sir Patrick Spence The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: "O whar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?" Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne: "Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor That sails upon the se." The king has written a braid letter, And signd it wi his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, The teir blinded his ee. "O wha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se! "Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:" "O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. "Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master, That we will cum to harme." O our Scots nobles wer richt laith To weet their cork-heild schoone; Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, Thair hats they swam aboone. O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi thair fans into their hand, Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords, For they'll se thame na mair. Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip, And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi the Scots lords at his feit. [ 06-22-2002, 10:39 AM: Message edited by: Melusine ] |
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I used to know this word for word, but im not so sure anymore so bear with me, and i will post it as best i can
the 7 ages of man All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances and each man in his time plays many parts his acts being seven ages. At first the infant mewling and puke in the nurses arms, and they the whining schoolboy with his satchel and shining morning face creeeping like a snail unwillingly to school. And then the lover sighing like furnace with a woeful ballad made to his mistress' eyebrow. And then the soldier full of strange oaths and bearded like a pard jealous in honor sudden and quick in quarrel seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth. Then the justice in fair round belly with good capon lined, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut full of wise saws and modern instances, And so he plays his part the sixth ages shift into the lean and slippered pantaloon with spectacles on nose, and pouch on side his youthful hose well saved a world to wide for his shrunk shank and his big manly voice turns again toward childish treble pipes and whistles in his sound. and the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. well thats as good as i am going to remember it, it should be fairly accurate. here are a few frost poems that i liked and remembered as well Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though. He will not mind me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near, between the woods and frozen lake the darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake to see if there is some mistake, the only other sound's the sweep of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely dark and deep, but I have promises to keep And miles to go before I sleep And miles to go before I sleep. The road not taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry i could not travel both but be one traveller long i stood and stared down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other just as fair, but having perhaps the better claims, for it was grassy and want wear, though as for the passing there had worn them really about the same. Both in doth moring equally lay in leaves no step had trodden black, yet I saved the first for another day, yet knowing how way leads on to way doubted if i should ever be back. I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence, two roads diverged in a wood and I I took the one less travelled by, and that's made all the difference. I apologize for any inaccurate words, and punctuation, but my poor brain can only remember so much :( . I hope you all enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed reading all of yours :D [ 06-22-2002, 02:47 PM: Message edited by: AzRaeL StoRmBlaDe ] |
Not letting this drop to page two ;)
Cargoes by John Masefield Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amythysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays |
......and
Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning. |
Mouse, I particularly like Not Waving But Drowning - again Stevie Smith is one of my favourites! Off to find some more poems now....
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OK, here is a sonnet:
After Death by Christina Rossetti The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say: "Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold. [ 06-23-2002, 06:09 AM: Message edited by: Epona ] |
I'd post some Chinese poetry, but it would have to be in translation, of course... :rolleyes:
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There's no Byron on this thread.
SO. WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING I So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. II For the sword out wears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. III Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon. Damn, the last line gave me goosebumps, just like it did the first time I read it, when I was 18. That was based on a bawdy song, "The Maid of Amsterdam", apologies to Melusine. :D |
LOL Roses are red
violets are blue i'm a drunkass and so are you :D :D |
ooh - nice one
Hickory Dickory Dock I typed this with my *cough* The *cough* is done And now I'm done Hickory Dickory Dock :D :D |
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"Gently I stir a white feather fan, With open shirt sitting in a green wood. I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting atone; A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head." |
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Is thick-spread with a carpet of fallen flowers. Who in Spring can bear to grieve alone? Who, sober, look on sights like these? Riches and Poverty, long or short life, By the Maker of Things are portioned and disposed; But a cup of wine levels life and death And a thousand things obstinately hard to prove. When I am drunk, I lose Heaven and Earth, Motionless—I cleave to my lonely bed. At last I forget that I exist at all, And at that moment my joy is great indeed.” |
Such a pleasant surprise to know that someone else around here likes Chinese verse too. :D
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And now, Byron's tersest and most eloquent poem:
Lady Carolyn Lamb, Godddamn. :D |
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Posterity will ne'er survey A nobler grave than this. Here lie the bones of Castlereagh, Stop, traveller, and piss. |
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