[quote]black_douglas wrote:
that being said, billy collins blows.
the ball poem
john berryman
(suggested: any and all of the dream songs)
[/quote]
Oh yeah? Watch your back my friend…some midnight dark and dreary you just might catch the smell of smoke in the air and realize I has set fire to yore trailer.
that being said, John berryman and his daughter Drew suck donkey wangs !!
[quote]skaz05 wrote:
I actually had to read it for class, and a bunch of other ones too. It’s a sad poem, but joyful too.
I believe Keats wrote it while he was dying, and I believe he died really young.
I especially like the line: “Thou wast not born for death immortal bird!” I honestly can’t explain why, but it is such a bright and cheerful line.[/quote]
I can respect that.
I think one reason I don’t care for ‘classic’ stuff is I honestly don’t understand it.
[quote]sen say wrote:
that being said, John berryman and his daughter Drew suck donkey wangs !![/quote]
you sound like hard rock after he returned from the prison for the criminally insane.
poetry jokes. ugh.
[quote]sen say wrote:
skaz05 wrote:
I actually had to read it for class, and a bunch of other ones too. It’s a sad poem, but joyful too.
I believe Keats wrote it while he was dying, and I believe he died really young.
I especially like the line: “Thou wast not born for death immortal bird!” I honestly can’t explain why, but it is such a bright and cheerful line.
I can respect that.
I think one reason I don’t care for ‘classic’ stuff is I honestly don’t understand it.[/quote]
That’s why Dylan Thomas is a fag. Ninety percent of his work is unintelligible.
You read it once.
You read it again, but slowly.
The you read it out loud.
And then you think, ‘Ah, I get…WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?’
Fuck Dylan Thomas. He wrote one decent bullshit poem we all read in school. The rest is pretentious, impressionist ass-gaping made for pseudo-intellectual dick-pullers.
[quote]Vicomte wrote:
sen say wrote:
skaz05 wrote:
I actually had to read it for class, and a bunch of other ones too. It’s a sad poem, but joyful too.
I believe Keats wrote it while he was dying, and I believe he died really young.
I especially like the line: “Thou wast not born for death immortal bird!” I honestly can’t explain why, but it is such a bright and cheerful line.
I can respect that.
I think one reason I don’t care for ‘classic’ stuff is I honestly don’t understand it.
That’s why Dylan Thomas is a fag. Ninety percent of his work is unintelligible.
You read it once.
You read it again, but slowly.
The you read it out loud.
And then you think, ‘Ah, I get…WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?’
Fuck Dylan Thomas. He wrote one decent bullshit poem we all read in school. The rest is pretentious, impressionist ass-gaping made for pseudo-intellectual dick-pullers.[/quote]
The theme of the poem I posted is ‘intelligible’ enough to discern that he wasn’t intending his poems for you anyway, so I suppose it all works out.
[quote]SinisterMinister wrote:
Vicomte wrote:
sen say wrote:
skaz05 wrote:
I actually had to read it for class, and a bunch of other ones too. It’s a sad poem, but joyful too.
I believe Keats wrote it while he was dying, and I believe he died really young.
I especially like the line: “Thou wast not born for death immortal bird!” I honestly can’t explain why, but it is such a bright and cheerful line.
I can respect that.
I think one reason I don’t care for ‘classic’ stuff is I honestly don’t understand it.
That’s why Dylan Thomas is a fag. Ninety percent of his work is unintelligible.
You read it once.
You read it again, but slowly.
The you read it out loud.
And then you think, ‘Ah, I get…WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?’
Fuck Dylan Thomas. He wrote one decent bullshit poem we all read in school. The rest is pretentious, impressionist ass-gaping made for pseudo-intellectual dick-pullers.
The theme of the poem I posted is ‘intelligible’ enough to discern that he wasn’t intending his poems for you anyway, so I suppose it all works out.
[/quote]
Actually, numbnuts, the stupid verse is meant exactly for peeps like mesself. Read again.
Not poetry per se, and it’s been posted here a million times, but goddammit I’m gonna post it again because it’s full of fucking win;
Iron by Henry Rollins
"I believe that the definition of definition is reinvention. To not be like your parents. To not be like your friends. To be yourself. Completely. When I was young I had no sense of myself. All I was, was a product of all the fear and humiliation I suffered.
Fear of my parents. The humiliation of teachers calling me “garbage can” and telling me I’d be mowing lawns for a living. And the very real terror of my fellow students. I was threatened and beaten up for the color of my skin and my size. I was skinny and clumsy, and when others would tease me I didn’t run home crying, wondering why. I knew all too well.
"I was there to be antagonized. In sports I was laughed at. A spaz. I was pretty good at boxing but only because the rage that filled my every waking moment made me wild and unpredictable. I fought with some strange fury. The other boys thought I was crazy.
I hated myself all the time. As stupid at it seems now, I wanted to talk like them, dress like them, carry myself with the ease of knowing that I wasn’t going to get pounded in the hallway between classes. Years passed and I learned to keep it all inside.
"I only talked to a few boys in my grade. Other losers. Some of them are to this day the greatest people I have ever known.
Hang out with a guy who has had his head flushed down a toilet a few times, treat him with respect, and you’ll find a faithful friend forever. But even with friends, school sucked. Teachers gave me hard time. I didn’t think much of them either.
"Then came Mr. Pepperman, my advisor. He was a powerfully built Vietnam veteran, and he was scary. No one ever talked out of turn in his class.
Once one kid did and Mr. P. lifted him off the ground and pinned him to the blackboard. Mr. P. could see that I was in bad shape, and one Friday in October he asked me if I had ever worked out with weights.
I told him no. He told me that I was going to take some of the money that I had saved and buy a hundred-pound set of weights at Sears.
As I left his office, I started to think of things I would say to him on Monday when he asked about the weights that I was not going to buy. Still, it made me feel special. My father never really got that close to caring.
"On Saturday I bought the weights, but I couldn’t even drag them to my mom’s car. An attendant laughed at me as he put them on a dolly. Monday came and I was called into Mr. P.'s office after school. He said that he was going to show me how to work out.
He was going to put me on a program and start hitting me in the solar plexus in the hallway when I wasn’t looking. When I could take the punch we wouldknow that we were getting somewhere.
"At no time was I to look at myself in the mirror or tell anyone at school what I was doing. In the gym he showed me ten basic exercises. I paid more attention than I ever did in any of my classes. I didn’t want to blow it. I went home that night and started right in.
Weeks passed, and every once in a while Mr. P. would give me a shot and drop me in the hallway, sending my books flying. The other students didn’t know what to think. More weeks passed, and I was steadily adding new weights to the bar. I could sense the power inside my body growing. I could feel it.
"Right before Christmas break I was walking to class, and from out of nowhere Mr. Pepperman appeared and gave me a shot in the chest. I laughed and kept going. He said I could look at myself now. I got home and ran to the bathroom and pulled off my shirt. I saw a body, not just the shell that housed my stomach and my heart. My biceps bulged.
My chest had definition. I felt strong. It was the first time I can remember having a sense of myself. I had done something and no one could ever take it away.
"You couldn’t say shit to me. It took me years to fully appreciate the value of the lessons I have learned from the Iron. I used to think that it was my adversary, that I was trying to lift that which does not want to be lifted. I was wrong. When the Iron doesn’t want to come off the mat, it’s the kindest thing it can do for you. If it flew up and went through the ceiling, it wouldn’t teach you anything.
That’s the way the Iron talks to you. It tells you that the material you work with is that which you will come to resemble.
"That which you work against will always work against you. It wasn’t until my late twenties that I learned that by working out I had given myself a great gift. I learned that nothing good comes without work and a certain amount of pain. When I finish a set that leaves me shaking, I know more about myself. When something gets bad, I know it can’t be as bad as that workout.
I used to fight the pain, but recently this became clear to me: pain is not my enemy; it is my call to greatness. But when dealing with the Iron, one must be careful to interpret the pain correctly. Most injuries involving the Iron come from ego.
"I once spent a few weeks lifting weight that my body wasn’t ready for and spent a few months not picking up anything heavier than a fork. Try to lift what you’re not prepared to and the Iron will teach you a little lesson in restraint and self-control.
I have never met a truly strong person who didn’t have self-respect. I think a lot of inwardly and outwardly directed contempt passes itself off as self- respect: the idea of raising yourself by stepping on someone’s shoulders instead of doing it yourself.
When I see guys working out for cosmetic reasons, I see vanity exposing them in the worst way, as cartoon characters, billboards for imbalance and insecurity. Strength reveals itself through character. It is the difference between bouncers who get off strong-arming people and Mr. Pepperman.
"Muscle mass does not always equal strength. Strength is kindness and sensitivity. Strength is understanding that your power is both physical and emotional. That it comes from the body and the mind. And the heart. Yukio Mishima said that he could not entertain the idea of romance if he was not strong.
Romance is such a strong and overwhelming passion, a weakened body cannot sustain it for long. I have some of my most romantic thoughts when I am with the Iron.
"Once I was in love with a woman. I thought about her the most when the pain from a workout was racing through my body. Everything in me wanted her. So much so that sex was only a fraction of my total desire. It was the single most intense love I have ever felt, but she lived far away and I didn’t see her very often. Working out was a healthy way of dealing with the loneliness.
"To this day, when I work out I usually listen to ballads. I prefer to work out alone. It enables me to concentrate on the lessons that the Iron has for me. Learning about what you’re made of is always time well spent, and I have found no better teacher. The Iron had taught me how to live.
Life is capable of driving you out of your mind. The way it all comes down these days, it’s some kind of miracle if you’re not insane. People have become separated from their bodies. They are no longer whole. I see them move from their offices to their cars and on to their suburban homes.
They stress out constantly, they lose sleep, they eat badly. And they behave badly. Their egos run wild; they become motivated by that which will eventually give them a massive stroke. They need the Iron Mind.
"Through the years, I have combined meditation, action, and the Iron into a single strength. I believe that when the body is strong, the mind thinks strong thoughts. Time spent away from the Iron makes my mind degenerate. I wallow in a thick depression.
My body shuts down my mind. The Iron is the best antidepressant I have ever found. There is no better way to fight weakness than with strength. Once the mind and body have been awakened to their true potential, it’s impossible to turn back.
"The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get told that you’re a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the real deal.
The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs. Friends may come and go. But two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds."
I’m actually enjoying that people are fighting over poetry.
Beats the living shit out of ‘soulja girl’ running her ignorant mouth all over some old lady on a train. She’s pressin’ charges and looking for her doo rag, and I’m pressing stop on my youtube and looking for my shotgun.
To the man who said Poe was for goths…it may seem that way. It sucks when a group takes something and makes it about them. The whole purpose gets lost. Though I’m glad one ‘goth’ took it on board , he turned out just fine. He was very inspired by Poe, Tim Burton was. I think that is the reason that Poe reached that younger audience, because Burton was so inspired. Doesn’t hurt when Vincent Price narrates.
Good work I think. You may disagree.
Sinister Minister, I understood well the Dylan Thomas poem. I think our friend Vicomte really doesn’t like people taking art so seriously. He likes it light and without what he considers pretentious undertones.
“I always think the Sex Pistols and the Ramones as very, very important because they stripped things down.”
Jim Jarmusch
He likes them stripped down. With hidden meanings left on the floor like yesterdays panties. Or today’s if you’re really horny.
I think what you are talking about Sinister, is that you like the code. I love the code. I like reading and writing things in such a way, that you know there are only certain people…who are going to know what you mean. Because those are your people. You don’t write for them you write for you, but you know deep down who will hear it, and I hate to do it…because I really despise KISS on many levels, but I will quote:
This is my music…
it makes me proud,
these are my people…
and this is my crowd
Sen Say, I know why you wanted to qualify yourself with your degree… and I could qualify what I say with the fact that I have published poetry, but it still doesn’t make what I say any more or less bullshit.
[quote]Molotov_Coktease wrote:
I’m actually enjoying that people are fighting over poetry.
Beats the living shit out of ‘soulja girl’ running her ignorant mouth all over some old lady on a train. She’s pressin’ charges and looking for her doo rag, and I’m pressing stop on my youtube and looking for my shotgun.
To the man who said Poe was for goths…it may seem that way. It sucks when a group takes something and makes it about them. The whole purpose gets lost. Though I’m glad one ‘goth’ took it on board , he turned out just fine. He was very inspired by Poe, Tim Burton was. I think that is the reason that Poe reached that younger audience, because Burton was so inspired. Doesn’t hurt when Vincent Price narrates.
Good work I think. You may disagree.
Sinister Minister, I understood well the Dylan Thomas poem. I think our friend Vicomte really doesn’t like people taking art so seriously. He likes it light and without what he considers pretentious undertones.
“I always think the Sex Pistols and the Ramones as very, very important because they stripped things down.”
Jim Jarmusch
He likes them stripped down. With hidden meanings left on the floor like yesterdays panties. Or today’s if you’re really horny.
I think what you are talking about Sinister, is that you like the code. I love the code. I like reading and writing things in such a way, that you know there are only certain people…who are going to know what you mean. Because those are your people. You don’t write for them you write for you, but you know deep down who will hear it, and I hate to do it…because I really despise KISS on many levels, but I will quote:
This is my music…
it makes me proud,
these are my people…
and this is my crowd
Sen Say, I know why you wanted to qualify yourself with your degree… and I could qualify what I say with the fact that I have published poetry, but it still doesn’t make what I say any more or less bullshit.
[/quote]
To quote John Lydon(Dwarf, take your shots, dicktwist!):
‘I have no time for lies or fantasy, and neither should you.’
And fuck the Ramones, they all dressed the same. And had stupid hair.
And you’re right, Molotov, I don’t like people taking art seriously. Or anything, for that matter. Literature, and poetry, especially (as well as philosophy, but that’s something else altogether) attracts a certain sort of people who like to believe they have some special window into the inner workings of the thing, which is fine, except that they also believe that the work needs to be especially abstruse and that this somehow makes it absolutely better than everything else. They consider it a badge of honor that they think (and yes, it’s always that they believe, as you’re guess to meaning is as good as mine)they know what the poet meant. Like Sinister with his Dylan Thomas. I read and comprehend just as well as anyone, and I know what he’s writing about as well as any of us can. But I’m not about to stand up and say, ‘You plebs cannot begin to understand the complex tortured soul that is Dylan Thomas! A true visionary!’ Dylan Thomas tried way too fucking hard. Even tosspots like Shakespeare sat back and just let shit flow once in a while.
You don’t have to explicitly say what you mean, obviously, but you also don’t have to cake it in so much fucking frosting that one has to hack through the foliage with a flaming fucking machete. Thomas’s work always screams, ‘I’m writing poetry! Watch as my majestic pen gushes forth verse fantastic! Tra la la!’
Who the fuck are we to say what any given writer means? Your guess is as good as mine, and if all of our guesses are equally valid, then it must mean either everything, or nothing. Either way, you’re interpretation is still bullshit of the highest degree. So is mine. So lighten the fuck up, kids.
While we’re quoting bands:
Don’t take it serious!
-The Slits
[quote]Vicomte wrote:
Molotov_Coktease wrote:
And you’re right, Molotov, I don’t like people taking art seriously. Or anything, for that matter. Literature, and poetry, especially (as well as philosophy, but that’s something else altogether) attracts a certain sort of people who like to believe they have some special window into the inner workings of the thing, which is fine, except that they also believe that the work needs to be especially abstruse and that this somehow makes it absolutely better than everything else. They consider it a badge of honor that they think (and yes, it’s always that they believe, as you’re guess to meaning is as good as mine)they know what the poet meant. Like Sinister with his Dylan Thomas. I read and comprehend just as well as anyone, and I know what he’s writing about as well as any of us can. But I’m not about to stand up and say, ‘You plebs cannot begin to understand the complex tortured soul that is Dylan Thomas! A true visionary!’ Dylan Thomas tried way too fucking hard. Even tosspots like Shakespeare sat back and just let shit flow once in a while.
You don’t have to explicitly say what you mean, obviously, but you also don’t have to cake it in so much fucking frosting that one has to hack through the foliage with a flaming fucking machete. Thomas’s work always screams, ‘I’m writing poetry! Watch as my majestic pen gushes forth verse fantastic! Tra la la!’
Who the fuck are we to say what any given writer means? Your guess is as good as mine, and if all of our guesses are equally valid, then it must mean either everything, or nothing. Either way, you’re interpretation is still bullshit of the highest degree. So is mine. So lighten the fuck up, kids.
While we’re quoting bands:
Don’t take it serious!
-The Slits
[/quote]
Good for you. I do take art seriously, and I do appreciate the work of those that achieve some level of virtuosity in their chosen medium, even if it’s only in a technical sense. I enjoy trying to figure out what led an artist to phrase or play or paint a thing the way he did, even if I’ll never really know the answer. I consider good art to be nothing more than a man’s attempt at interpreting some aspect of the human condition and human experience and then communicating it back in an interesting and unique way.
I find that really analyzing a given piece of art isn’t an athletic endeavor in the sense that I’ll reach some prized intellectual space that I can describe to others, but instead a very humbling exercise that offers a perspective that my mind might not have been capable of finding.
[quote]SinisterMinister wrote:
Vicomte wrote:
Molotov_Coktease wrote:
And you’re right, Molotov, I don’t like people taking art seriously. Or anything, for that matter. Literature, and poetry, especially (as well as philosophy, but that’s something else altogether) attracts a certain sort of people who like to believe they have some special window into the inner workings of the thing, which is fine, except that they also believe that the work needs to be especially abstruse and that this somehow makes it absolutely better than everything else. They consider it a badge of honor that they think (and yes, it’s always that they believe, as you’re guess to meaning is as good as mine)they know what the poet meant. Like Sinister with his Dylan Thomas. I read and comprehend just as well as anyone, and I know what he’s writing about as well as any of us can. But I’m not about to stand up and say, ‘You plebs cannot begin to understand the complex tortured soul that is Dylan Thomas! A true visionary!’ Dylan Thomas tried way too fucking hard. Even tosspots like Shakespeare sat back and just let shit flow once in a while.
You don’t have to explicitly say what you mean, obviously, but you also don’t have to cake it in so much fucking frosting that one has to hack through the foliage with a flaming fucking machete. Thomas’s work always screams, ‘I’m writing poetry! Watch as my majestic pen gushes forth verse fantastic! Tra la la!’
Who the fuck are we to say what any given writer means? Your guess is as good as mine, and if all of our guesses are equally valid, then it must mean either everything, or nothing. Either way, you’re interpretation is still bullshit of the highest degree. So is mine. So lighten the fuck up, kids.
While we’re quoting bands:
Don’t take it serious!
-The Slits
Good for you. I do take art seriously, and I do appreciate the work of those that achieve some level of virtuosity in their chosen medium, even if it’s only in a technical sense. I enjoy trying to figure out what led an artist to phrase or play or paint a thing the way he did, even if I’ll never really know the answer. I consider good art to be nothing more than a man’s attempt at interpreting some aspect of the human condition and human experience and then communicating it back in an interesting and unique way.
I find that really analyzing a given piece of art isn’t an athletic endeavor in the sense that I’ll reach some prized intellectual space that I can describe to others, but instead a very humbling exercise that offers a perspective that my mind might not have been capable of finding.
[/quote]
Every time I hear ‘human condition’, I vomit, just a little. And I’ve never been a fan of humbling exercises.
But if that’s your thing, brother, then ride it like you stole it.
[quote]Vicomte wrote:
SinisterMinister wrote:
Vicomte wrote:
Molotov_Coktease wrote:
And you’re right, Molotov, I don’t like people taking art seriously. Or anything, for that matter. Literature, and poetry, especially (as well as philosophy, but that’s something else altogether) attracts a certain sort of people who like to believe they have some special window into the inner workings of the thing, which is fine, except that they also believe that the work needs to be especially abstruse and that this somehow makes it absolutely better than everything else. They consider it a badge of honor that they think (and yes, it’s always that they believe, as you’re guess to meaning is as good as mine)they know what the poet meant. Like Sinister with his Dylan Thomas. I read and comprehend just as well as anyone, and I know what he’s writing about as well as any of us can. But I’m not about to stand up and say, ‘You plebs cannot begin to understand the complex tortured soul that is Dylan Thomas! A true visionary!’ Dylan Thomas tried way too fucking hard. Even tosspots like Shakespeare sat back and just let shit flow once in a while.
You don’t have to explicitly say what you mean, obviously, but you also don’t have to cake it in so much fucking frosting that one has to hack through the foliage with a flaming fucking machete. Thomas’s work always screams, ‘I’m writing poetry! Watch as my majestic pen gushes forth verse fantastic! Tra la la!’
Who the fuck are we to say what any given writer means? Your guess is as good as mine, and if all of our guesses are equally valid, then it must mean either everything, or nothing. Either way, you’re interpretation is still bullshit of the highest degree. So is mine. So lighten the fuck up, kids.
While we’re quoting bands:
Don’t take it serious!
-The Slits
Good for you. I do take art seriously, and I do appreciate the work of those that achieve some level of virtuosity in their chosen medium, even if it’s only in a technical sense. I enjoy trying to figure out what led an artist to phrase or play or paint a thing the way he did, even if I’ll never really know the answer. I consider good art to be nothing more than a man’s attempt at interpreting some aspect of the human condition and human experience and then communicating it back in an interesting and unique way.
I find that really analyzing a given piece of art isn’t an athletic endeavor in the sense that I’ll reach some prized intellectual space that I can describe to others, but instead a very humbling exercise that offers a perspective that my mind might not have been capable of finding.
Every time I hear ‘human condition’, I vomit, just a little. And I’ve never been a fan of humbling exercises.
But if that’s your thing, brother, then ride it like you stole it.[/quote]
Maybe it’s just that you cannot begin to understand the complex tortured soul that is the human condition!
[quote]SinisterMinister wrote:
Vicomte wrote:
SinisterMinister wrote:
Vicomte wrote:
Molotov_Coktease wrote:
And you’re right, Molotov, I don’t like people taking art seriously. Or anything, for that matter. Literature, and poetry, especially (as well as philosophy, but that’s something else altogether) attracts a certain sort of people who like to believe they have some special window into the inner workings of the thing, which is fine, except that they also believe that the work needs to be especially abstruse and that this somehow makes it absolutely better than everything else. They consider it a badge of honor that they think (and yes, it’s always that they believe, as you’re guess to meaning is as good as mine)they know what the poet meant. Like Sinister with his Dylan Thomas. I read and comprehend just as well as anyone, and I know what he’s writing about as well as any of us can. But I’m not about to stand up and say, ‘You plebs cannot begin to understand the complex tortured soul that is Dylan Thomas! A true visionary!’ Dylan Thomas tried way too fucking hard. Even tosspots like Shakespeare sat back and just let shit flow once in a while.
You don’t have to explicitly say what you mean, obviously, but you also don’t have to cake it in so much fucking frosting that one has to hack through the foliage with a flaming fucking machete. Thomas’s work always screams, ‘I’m writing poetry! Watch as my majestic pen gushes forth verse fantastic! Tra la la!’
Who the fuck are we to say what any given writer means? Your guess is as good as mine, and if all of our guesses are equally valid, then it must mean either everything, or nothing. Either way, you’re interpretation is still bullshit of the highest degree. So is mine. So lighten the fuck up, kids.
While we’re quoting bands:
Don’t take it serious!
-The Slits
Good for you. I do take art seriously, and I do appreciate the work of those that achieve some level of virtuosity in their chosen medium, even if it’s only in a technical sense. I enjoy trying to figure out what led an artist to phrase or play or paint a thing the way he did, even if I’ll never really know the answer. I consider good art to be nothing more than a man’s attempt at interpreting some aspect of the human condition and human experience and then communicating it back in an interesting and unique way.
I find that really analyzing a given piece of art isn’t an athletic endeavor in the sense that I’ll reach some prized intellectual space that I can describe to others, but instead a very humbling exercise that offers a perspective that my mind might not have been capable of finding.
Every time I hear ‘human condition’, I vomit, just a little. And I’ve never been a fan of humbling exercises.
But if that’s your thing, brother, then ride it like you stole it.
Maybe it’s just that you cannot begin to understand the complex tortured soul that is the human condition!
[/quote]
Ha! You’re alright, brother. For a Dylan Thomas fan.
Do any of you like epic poetry?
The Odyssey is one of the best things I’ve read. Homer knew what the fuck he was doing.
Not going to post it here for obvious reasons.
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
[quote]Agressive Napkin wrote:
Do any of you like epic poetry?
The Odyssey is one of the best things I’ve read. Homer knew what the fuck he was doing.
Not going to post it here for obvious reasons.[/quote]
Yes, I do. Exhausting, but awesome. I also particularly like Egils Saga. One badass viking…
These praises, King,
Won’t cost you dear
That I shall sing
If you will hear:
Who beat and blazed
Your trail of red,
Till Odin gazed
Upon the dead. [ . . .]
On his gold arm
The bright shield swings:
To his foes, harm:
To his friends, rings;
His fame’s a feast
Of glorious war,
His name sounds east,
From shore to shore.
And now my lord,
You’ve listened long
As word on word
I built this song:
Your source is war,
Your streams are blood,
But my springs pour
Great Odin’s flood.
James Leigh Hunt:
The Glove and the Lion
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court.
The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he signed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;
Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we’re better here than there.”
De Lorge’s love o’er heard the King, a beauteous lively dame,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;
She thought, The Count my lover is brave as brave can be;
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me;
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;
I’ll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady’s face.
“By Heaven,” said Francis, “rightly done!” and he rose from where he sat;
“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.”
I really like the last line in this.
The Ballad of Hell
‘A LETTER from my love to-day!
Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!’
She struck a happy tear away,
And broke the crimson seal.
‘My love, there is no help on earth, 5
No help in heaven; the dead-man’s bell
Must toll our wedding; our first hearth
Must be the well-paved floor of hell.’
The colour died from out her face,
Her eyes like ghostly candles shone; 10
She cast dread looks about the place,
Then clenched her teeth and read right on.
'I may not pass the prison door;
Here must I rot from day to day,
Unless I wed whom I abhor, 15
My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.
‘At midnight with my dagger keen,
I’ll take my life; it must be so.
Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,
For weal and woe.’ 20
She laughed although her face was wan,
She girded on her golden belt,
She took her jewelled ivory fan,
And at her glowing missal knelt.
Then rose, ‘And am I mad?’ she said: 25
She broke her fan, her belt untied;
With leather girt herself instead,
And stuck a dagger at her side.
She waited, shuddering in her room,
Till sleep had fallen on all the house. 30
She never flinched; she faced her doom:
They two must sin to keep their vows.
Then out into the night she went,
And, stooping, crept by hedge and tree;
Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent, 35
And caught a happy memory.
She fell, and lay a minute’s space;
She tore the sward in her distress;
The dewy grass refreshed her face;
She rose and ran with lifted dress. 40
She started like a morn-caught ghost
Once when the moon came out and stood
To watch; the naked road she crossed,
And dived into the murmuring wood.
The branches snatched her streaming cloak; 45
A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!
She hurried to the trysting-oak?
Right well she knew the way.
Without a pause she bared her breast,
And drove her dagger home and fell, 50
And lay like one that takes her rest,
And died and wakened up in hell.
She bathed her spirit in the flame,
And near the centre took her post;
From all sides to her ears there came 55
The dreary anguish of the lost.
The devil started at her side,
Comely, and tall, and black as jet.
‘I am young Malespina’s bride;
Has he come hither yet?’ 60
‘My poppet, welcome to your bed.’
‘Is Malespina here?’
‘Not he! To-morrow he must wed
His cousin Blanche, my dear!’
‘You lie, he died with me to-night.’ 65
‘Not he! it was a plot’ … ‘You lie.’
‘My dear, I never lie outright.’
‘We died at midnight, he and I.’
The devil went. Without a groan
She, gathered up in one fierce prayer, 70
Took root in hell’s midst all alone,
And waited for him there.
She dared to make herself at home
Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.
The blood-stained flame that filled the dome, 75
Scentless and silent, shrouded her.
How long she stayed I cannot tell;
But when she felt his perfidy,
She marched across the floor of hell;
And all the damned stood up to see. 80
The devil stopped her at the brink:
She shook him off; she cried, ‘Away!’
‘My dear, you have gone mad, I think.’
‘I was betrayed: I will not stay.’
Across the weltering deep she ran; 85
A stranger thing was never seen:
The damned stood silent to a man;
They saw the great gulf set between.
To her it seemed a meadow fair;
And flowers sprang up about her feet 90
She entered heaven; she climbed the stair
And knelt down at the mercy-seat.
Seraphs and saints with one great voice
Welcomed that soul that knew not fear.
Amazed to find it could rejoice, 95
Hell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer.
I walked in the door
She was dressed in silk
And said
“I’ll do what you want”
I said
“SQUATS AND MILK!”
This made her angry
Put her in a stupor
I did all I could do
And stuck it in her pooper!
-SteelyD 2009
[quote]SteelyD wrote:
I walked in the door
She was dressed in silk
And said
“I’ll do what you want”
I said
“SQUATS AND MILK!”
This made her angry
Put her in a stupor
I did all I could do
And stuck it in her pooper!
-SteelyD 2009[/quote]
bravo !! bravo !
this begs the question of if anyone WRITES poetry…and ergo…if anyone has ever been published ???
And, yes…I write…not much lately…and yes…I have been published…Baltimore Lite…I was so proud…and…I’m sure that so was the 9 year old that was published right beside me…