Poetry!!!

[TANGODANCER]

she's like the poet laureate of sex... here's the start of her poem 'Ecstasy'

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop but went
into it, and into it, and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we
rose through the air, until we were above
timber line.

Poet Laureate of sex? Sorry, must be me WTW, but that's almost juvenile.

[William the White]

she's like the poet laureate of sex... here's the start of her poem 'Ecstasy'

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop but went
into it, and into it, and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we
rose through the air, until we were above
timber line.

Poet Laureate of sex? Sory, must be me WTW, but that's almost juvenile.

It's you.

Anyone who rates the Charge of the Light Brigade will hate Sharon Olds.

[TANGODANCER]

she's like the poet laureate of sex... here's the start of her poem 'Ecstasy'

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop but went
into it, and into it, and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we
rose through the air, until we were above
timber line.

Poet Laureate of sex? Sory, must be me WTW, but that's almost juvenile.

It's you.

Anyone who rates the Charge of the Light Brigade will hate Sharon Olds.

Fair enough. I'll live with it.

[Little Green Man]

Here's one of Weldon Kees' cheerier ones for your delectation.

Praise to the mind
That slowly grows
In solid breadth, that knows
Its varied errors, shows
And will admit
Its witlessness.

Praise to the single mind
That sees no street
Run through this world, complete,
That does not meet,
Bending at end,
Remorselessly, its source.

Praise to the mind
That moves toward meaning,
Kindness; mixes keenness
With routine of
Grace, has space,
And finds its place.

[Bruce Rioja]

Here's one of Weldon Kees' cheerier ones for your delectation.

Praise to the mind
That slowly grows
In solid breadth, that knows
Its varied errors, shows
And will admit
Its witlessness.

Praise to the single mind
That sees no street
Run through this world, complete,
That does not meet,
Bending at end,
Remorselessly, its source.

Praise to the mind
That moves toward meaning,
Kindness; mixes keenness
With routine of
Grace, has space,
And finds its place.

My word. Now that's a poem.

[thebish]

Here's one of Weldon Kees' cheerier ones for your delectation.

that's fantastic - I have an education to gain here (partly why I made my resolution) - I have never heard of Weldon Kees.....


I'm glad hoboh led us into this

[Prufrock]

"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. "

[Dujon]

A Change of Life


An immigrant an emigrant
does it matter
when arrived?

An emigrant an immigrant
doesn't matter
when arrived

A country new a country old
does it matter
when arrived?

A country old a country new
doesn't matter
when arrived

A language new a language old
does it matter
when arrived?

A language old a language new
doesn't matter
when arrived

A future new a future old
does it matter
when arrived?

A future old a future new
doesn't matter
when arrived

A task that's new a task that's old
does it matter
when arrived?

A task that's old a task that's new
doesn't matter
when arrived

A death that's new a death that's old
does it matter
when arrived?

Resurrection's new
Resurrection's old
When it truly has arrived.

[TANGODANCER]

The wordly hope men set their hearts upon,
Turns ashes-or it prospers and anon,
Like snow upon the desert's dusty face,
Lighting a little hour or two-is gone.

And those who husbanded the golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like rain
Alike to no such aureate earth are turned,
As buried once, men want dug up again.

Edward FitzGerald from Omar Khayyam.

[mummywhycantieatcrayons]

she's like the poet laureate of sex... here's the start of her poem 'Ecstasy'

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop but went
into it, and into it, and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we
rose through the air, until we were above
timber line.

Poet Laureate of sex? Sory, must be me WTW, but that's almost juvenile.

It's you.

Anyone who rates the Charge of the Light Brigade will hate Sharon Olds.

Fair enough. I'll live with it.

I'd guess I'd be honouring the noble six hundred before Sharon Olds, too.

Maybe I am repressed, but I don't like art or literature that is about sex (as opposed to eroticism) either... I suppose this gets to why I have so little appreciation for much of what Emin does.

[mummywhycantieatcrayons]

A Change of Life

Strewth, Jon - I realise the subject matter has some personal significance for you, but that's some of the most tedious anaphora I've ever read....!

[ratbert]

I.
Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England--now!!

II.
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge--
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
--Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

[Puskas]

How about:

There was a young man from Nantucket....

Or am I not getting the point of this?

[thebish]

How about:

There was a young man from Nantucket....
Or am I not getting the point of this?

"point of this" should really rhyme with "Nantucket".... boooooooooooooooo

[thebish]

I'd guess I'd be honouring the noble six hundred before Sharon Olds, too.

Maybe I am repressed, but I don't like art or literature that is about sex (as opposed to eroticism) either... I suppose this gets to why I have so little appreciation for much of what Emin does.

Surely it is not a necessary corollary of disliking Olds to like the Charge of the Light Brigade? Poetry does not boil down to a choice of one or the other!

The Charge of the light Brigade (I believe) stirs the Boys-Own passions of a certain sector simply by telling a stirring story (though - as we all know - one which should perhaps elicit feelings of shame and anger at such a stupid waste of life by stupid generals.)

but as "poetry" - it's doggerel surely? very poorly crafted - no?

[Little Green Man]

I have never heard of Weldon Kees.....

An American poet who is believed to have topped himself by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge in the Fifties. (Or some think he nipped off to Mexico.)

Here's a bleaker one


Squat, unshaven, full of gas,
Joseph Samuels, former clerk
in four large cities, out of work,
waits in the darkened underpass.

In sanctuary, out of reach,
he stares at the fading light outside:
the rain beginning: hears the tide
that drums along the empty beach.

When drops first fell at six o'clock,
the bathers left. The last car's gone.
Sun's final rays reflect upon
the streaking rain, the rambling dock.

He takes an object from his coat
and holds it tightly in his hand
(eyes on the stretch of endless sand).
And then, in darkness, cuts his throat.

[mummywhycantieatcrayons]

I'd guess I'd be honouring the noble six hundred before Sharon Olds, too.

Maybe I am repressed, but I don't like art or literature that is about sex (as opposed to eroticism) either... I suppose this gets to why I have so little appreciation for much of what Emin does.

Surely it is not a necessary corollary of disliking Olds to like the Charge of the Light Brigade? Poetry does not boil down to a choice of one or the other!

Just taking William literally:

It's you.

Anyone who rates the Charge of the Light Brigade will hate Sharon Olds.

The Charge of the light Brigade (I believe) stirs the Boys-Own passions of a certain sector simply by telling a stirring story (though - as we all know - one which should perhaps elicit feelings of shame and anger at such a stupid waste of life by stupid generals.)

but as "poetry" - it's doggerel surely? very poorly crafted - no?

Of course it's the noble six hundred who are admired, and not the blundering generals.

I have no idea whether it would be considered poorly crafted and don't have the tools readily available for much of an analysis.

Seems to run at the appropriate pace and rhythm for the story though, and contains some pleasingly distinctive word ordering ("theirs not reason why, theirs but to do and die" contributing two phrases to English that have endured separately from the poem).

[Bruce Rioja]

I must thank our old pal Sluffy who initially brought this to my attention by using the opening two lines as his sig.

It was written in 1937 by John Betjeman. Those that are familiar with Slough, or anywhere similar, will know that it's every bit as relevant today as it was when it was written. And there's been a war since then!

Slough

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

[thebish]

I must thank our old pal Sluffy who initially brought this to my attention by using the opening two lines as his sig.

It was written in 1937 by John Betjeman. Those that are familiar with Slough, or anywhere similar, will know that it's every bit as relevant today as it was when it was written. And there's been a war since then!

has always been a favourite of mine... cracking rant! I love the way you are kind of expecting an 8-syllable 4th line - and yet he jarringly halves it to give fantastic emphasis..... (it is on my list of poems to learn for the year)

[Bruce Rioja]

she's like the poet laureate of sex... here's the start of her poem 'Ecstasy'

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop but went
into it, and into it, and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we
rose through the air, until we were above
timber line.

I have to say, William, that for me that's just Reader's Wives for the whimsical. Sorry, Chief.