06-21-2002, 07:59 PM | #1 |
Zartan
Join Date: March 1, 2001
Location: London, England
Age: 53
Posts: 5,164
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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 ]
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06-21-2002, 08:01 PM | #2 |
40th Level Warrior
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i like poetry, poety on the other hand really pisses me off !
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06-21-2002, 08:02 PM | #3 |
Zartan
Join Date: March 1, 2001
Location: London, England
Age: 53
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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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06-21-2002, 08:04 PM | #4 | |
Zartan
Join Date: March 1, 2001
Location: London, England
Age: 53
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Quote:
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06-21-2002, 08:12 PM | #5 |
Red Dragon
Join Date: December 5, 2001
Location: Auckland, New Zealand
Age: 38
Posts: 1,557
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Careful, our you will all be forced to buy Epona`s book of Poety!
[img]tongue.gif[/img] Epona [img]tongue.gif[/img]
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06-22-2002, 03:33 AM | #6 |
Ironworks Moderator
Join Date: March 1, 2001
Location: Scotland
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Title sorted. Poem added
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.
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06-22-2002, 07:47 AM | #7 |
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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 ]
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06-22-2002, 07:57 AM | #8 |
Dracolisk
Join Date: January 8, 2001
Location: Amsterdam, The Netherlands
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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 ]
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06-22-2002, 08:54 AM | #9 |
Zartan
Join Date: March 1, 2001
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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!)
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06-22-2002, 08:59 AM | #10 |
Legion Symbol
Join Date: May 29, 2002
Location: Somewhere in between
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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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