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Post by funhouse on Apr 23, 2018 16:19:51 GMT -5
Btw, the mentioning of Verlaine made me remember that I have read some of his friend Arthur Rimbaud's work. I can't remember any specific poem, but I remember how amazed, but also terrified, I felt when I learnt that he was about 16 when he wrote most of his work. One of those things you have a hard time wrapping your head around.
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Post by fiordiligi on Apr 23, 2018 16:53:13 GMT -5
M’illumino d’immenso
Mattina – Giuseppe Ungaretti
Barely 4 words to describe the most powerful feeling of being alive, that moment when you watch a sunrise and feel complete and in harmony with the universe, got invested by a an immediate realization of totality, sunlight covers you and suddenly you’re the universe, the whole universe is inside you, and “you illuminate yourself with immensity”.
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Post by Mean Mrs. Mustard on Apr 23, 2018 17:06:50 GMT -5
This is the first poem I had to study in college, my professor was obsessed with it: Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see 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 ask 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. Cool Thread! I wasn't familiar with this one but I realized within 2 lines that it's a Robert Frost one before reading it was! Love it. When I was in school, we also got taught about poetry in English class and this well known one by Robert Frost has always been one of my favourites ever since: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come 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 traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
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Post by Mean Mrs. Mustard on Apr 23, 2018 17:08:48 GMT -5
Although I have somehow forgotten which bands I even mean by that. But I've definitely encountered some... Smiths is probably one? Ha! I actually wanted to reply to this thread with "I love poetry! But I don't want to go all typical Morrissey goth chick on you all!"
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Post by mystoryisgory on Apr 23, 2018 21:57:47 GMT -5
石室詩士施氏,嗜獅,誓食十獅。氏時時適市視獅。十時,適十獅適市。是時,適施氏適市。氏視是十獅,恃矢勢,使是十獅逝世。氏拾是十獅屍,適石室。石室濕,氏使侍拭石室。石室拭,氏始試食是十獅屍。食時,始識是十獅,實十石獅屍。試釋是事。 This is a poem composed by 趙元任 called 施氏食獅史, which translates to "Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den". It consists of only one syllable (shi) but with different tones and takes advantage of the fact that Mandarin has tons of near-homophones that are only distinguishable by their tones or context. Paste it into Google Translate and listen to it if you want to know what I'm talking about.
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Post by shannee on Apr 23, 2018 22:08:29 GMT -5
I was just reading this to dh because we were watching The Verve at Glastonbury on YouTube London BY WILLIAM BLAKE I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
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Post by shannee on Apr 23, 2018 22:27:21 GMT -5
I love Frost, something warm and fuzzy about him. When I was a kid I memorized Natures first green is gold after reading The outsiders 😂 I can still remember it. It’s funny how once you start you can remember the whole thing because of the rhythm, like a song, even if it’s been 10 years or more since you even thought about it. Probably my favorite poem is this section of Song of Myself by Whitman
Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
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Post by Beady’s Here Now on Apr 23, 2018 22:56:24 GMT -5
1,2,3 you and me 7,8,9 no wasting time
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Post by Deleted on Apr 24, 2018 3:38:52 GMT -5
R.L. Sharpe
'A Bag of Tools'
Isn't it strange That princes and kings, And clowns that caper In sawdust rings, And common people Like you and me Are builders for eternity?
Each is given a bag of tools, A shapeless mass, A book of rules; And each must make— Ere life is flown— A stumbling block Or a steppingstone.
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Post by supernovadragon on Apr 24, 2018 4:20:36 GMT -5
John Cooper Clarke - I Wanna Be Yours
I wanna Be Yours...
I wanna be your vacuum cleaner breathing in your dust I wanna be your Ford Cortina I will never rust If you like your coffee hot let me be your coffee pot You call the shots I wanna be yours
I wanna be your raincoat for those frequent rainy days I wanna be your dreamboat when you want to sail away Let me be your teddy bear take me with you anywhere I don’t care I wanna be yours
I wanna be your electric meter I will not run out I wanna be the electric heater you’ll get cold without I wanna be your setting lotion hold your hair in deep devotion Deep as the deep Atlantic ocean that’s how deep is my devotion
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Post by funhouse on Apr 29, 2018 14:43:42 GMT -5
Been writing on a poem for the first first time since I finished school. If I only could find a good way to end it :/
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Post by Elie De Beaufour on May 1, 2018 0:04:55 GMT -5
Jerusalem ["And did those feet in ancient time"] BY WILLIAM BLAKE And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon Englands mountains green: And was the holy Lamb of God, On Englands pleasant pastures seen! And did the Countenance Divine, Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills? Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of fire! I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, In Englands green & pleasant Land.
Bruce Dickinson's Jerusalem has part at the end
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Post by funhouse on May 1, 2018 8:41:57 GMT -5
"The ants" by funhouse
*clears throat*
I was in the garden earlier today Something had to be done, I guess When facing the grass I got a real nice view Of life so far from common stress
I watched the ants walk round and round Probably for half an hour Thoughts arrived, concern took over What's the point to live with no power? To wander aimlessly, then die Felt so depressed, had to go inside Upon the couch I wondered why I'd been so affected by those six-legged lives
Then later it hit me, at half past ten I really couldn't help but smile I said it out loud while staring at the ceiling "Because their lives are just like mine"
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Post by theyknowwhatimean on May 6, 2018 7:43:58 GMT -5
I was just reading this to dh because we were watching The Verve at Glastonbury on YouTube London BY WILLIAM BLAKE I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse Blake got me into poetry, and I think this was the first poem of his I ever read. Read the first half of a biography on him by Peter Ackroyd once--it was an interesting read. To have written what he did, under the circumstances in which he lived, I definitely think he was touched by genius. I love everything about his story: how he rejected the doctrines of the Church; how he went largely unnoticed in his lifetime but became popular over time; how he invented his own mythology; and how he did it all himself, writing his words up alongside pictures he'd drawn and then engraved and then coloured, all in his kitchen or whatever, paying for all the materials himself.
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Post by theyknowwhatimean on May 6, 2018 7:51:47 GMT -5
'Ozymandias', by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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 the colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away."
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Post by shannee on May 6, 2018 22:07:23 GMT -5
I was just reading this to dh because we were watching The Verve at Glastonbury on YouTube London BY WILLIAM BLAKE I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse Blake got me into poetry, and I think this was the first poem of his I ever read. Read the first half of a biography on him by Peter Ackroyd once--it was an interesting read. To have written what he did, under the circumstances in which he lived, I definitely think he was touched by genius. I love everything about his story: how he rejected the doctrines of the Church; how he went largely unnoticed in his lifetime but became popular over time; how he invented his own mythology; and how he did it all himself, writing his words up alongside pictures he'd drawn and then engraved and then coloured, all in his kitchen or whatever, paying for all the materials himself. Adding this to my amazon cart, sounds interesting
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Post by funhouse on Jun 2, 2018 14:48:53 GMT -5
'Romanesque arches', by Tomas Tranströmer (English translation)
Tourists have crowded into the half-dark of the enormous Romanesque church. Vault opening behind vault and no perspective. A few candle flames flickered.
An angel whose face I couldn't see embraced me and his whisper went all through my body: Don't be ashamed to be a human being—be proud! Inside you one vault after another opens endlessly. You'll never be complete, and that's as it should be.
Tears blinded me as we were herded out into the fiercely sunlit piazza, together with Mr and Mrs Jones, Herr Tanaka and Signora Sabatini— within each of them vault after vault opened endlessly.
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Post by theyknowwhatimean on Jun 3, 2019 10:43:57 GMT -5
Some early John Keats:
There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never ending; Or, by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
...lines 15-22 of 'I stood tiptoe upon a little hill' (Poems, 1817).
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Post by Deleted on Jun 3, 2019 10:52:47 GMT -5
Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her poor daughter a dress But when she got there the cupboard was bare And so was her daughter I guess.
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Post by RocketMan on Jun 3, 2019 16:06:26 GMT -5
I went to a poetry slam once and ive never seen so many snobs. Horrible. But i do like poetry. It rhymes.
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Post by Bonehead's Barber on Jun 3, 2019 16:43:06 GMT -5
I froze your tears and made a dagger, and stabbed it in my cock forever. It stays there like Excalibur, Are you my Arthur? Say you are.
Take this cool dark steeled blade, Steal it, sheath it, in your lake. I’d drown with you to be together. Must you breathe? Cos I need Heaven.
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Post by mancraider on Jun 3, 2019 18:10:27 GMT -5
Some early John Keats: There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye To peer about upon variety; Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never ending; Or, by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves....lines 15-22 of 'I stood tiptoe upon a little hill' ( Poems, 1817). love a bit of Keats. Spent an entire term in college studying Eve of St Agnes. Also bit of a soft spot for Oscar Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol. St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
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Post by Bright Star on Jul 4, 2019 1:11:03 GMT -5
Some more Keats to go with my forum nick
Bright Star
Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
Verlaine and Rimbaud are great. So is Baudelaire. Poetry is as much my world as music (and art).
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Post by carlober on Jul 4, 2019 2:26:02 GMT -5
Some more Keats to go with my forum nick Bright Star Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death. Verlaine and Rimbaud are great. So is Baudelaire. Poetry is as much my world as music (and art). Welcome to the forum... and great avatar!
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Post by mimmihopps on Jul 4, 2019 3:39:56 GMT -5
Some more Keats to go with my forum nick Bright Star Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors— No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever—or else swoon to death. Verlaine and Rimbaud are great. So is Baudelaire. Poetry is as much my world as music (and art). Love Keats. and they made a brilliant (and very sad) film with the same title. It's one of my all time favourite films.
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