Thread: poetry

oh i can't abide TS Elliot!!!!!
but actually those of us who want rhyme or a very closeness to rhyme, sort of rythm you call it, wouldn't be called 'traditional', but i hate the modern non-rhyming stuff, no structure or anything, its just words.
can't remember what you call poetry that should rhyme (even in quite obscure ways), but i'm sure most people prefer it (not egg head scholars but ordinary people)

The Waste Land

by T. S. Eliot


"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo."


I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
"They called me the hyacinth girl."
––Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

not what i call CLASSIC.....its awful IMO

and paradise lost, its more storytelling in brilliant language than a poem to me. bit like shakespear.

The space is nomore,
Darkness escaping
from its gruesome grave.
Human blood, hatres.

Greatness will not rise,
Shadows will not fall.
Void of Darkness
rules them all.

The void, the evil,
sucks in with no regrets.
The opened door,
but blocked passage.

The blackhole of life,
so painful, so devastating.
The life of others,
will fall for the void of darkness.

thats a good poem.

actually i was reading Dante's Inferno, and its such beautiful language that it flows.....theres no rhyme to it exactly, but it reads with rythm......

<<but actually those of us who want rhyme or a very closeness to rhyme, sort of rythm you call it, wouldn't be called 'traditional', but i hate the modern non-rhyming stuff, no structure or anything, its just words.

emotion, that is what poetry is about, making you, the reader feel what the author wants you to when he wants you to. it is easiest to do this with rhyming, it gives the easiest form of rythm. some forms of poetry, I.E lyrics, do no usually follow rhymatical schemes at all but rather, rythmatical schemes.

I like poems with rythmatical emotion, not rhymes.

true, but i'll always prefer stuff like this following rthyming poetry, to such as t s elliot. tho' i must conceed some of the poems i like don't exactly rhyme, but are so rythmical you think it does, if you see what i mean....when i mentioned classic poetry, i was thinking of your Coleridge 'Ancient mariner' etc not t s elliot type, course its only my bias.....what i'm thinking of as classics


The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door--
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore

My God I hate that poem. The rhyme scheme is repetitious and too noticeable. It just frickin stands there and yells "HEY I RHYME. MEMORIZE ME, SCHOOLCHILDREN."

actually i was reading Dante's Inferno, and its such beautiful language that it flows.....theres no rhyme to it exactly, but it reads with rythm......

Were you reading it in the original Italian? I think a lot of people do not realize the immense skill required to translate a poem like the Divine Comedy so that the translation is technically accurate and the "spirit" is (relatively) unmodified.

The Wasteland does have rhythm-it's just subtle. I was never very impressed with most lyricists/romantics (Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, etc). There is no meaning within their work (mostly), even though the form is beautiful. An exception is William Blake, of course. I'm not really a huge poetry fan at all-I prefer drama and novels. I'm planning on learning Greek so I can read Homer and all the Greek playwrights/poets in the original, The Odyssey, Prometheus Bound, Oedipus Rex, etc. And then old English so I can read the original Beowulf, even though the new Seamus Heaney translation is very good. And then Latin so I can read the "golden hexameters" of Virgil and co...So much to read, so little time

Speaking of the odyssey, I'm in the middle of Joyce's Ulysses right now? Imao, Joyce's use of English is unsurpassed by anyone, and only equalled by the Bard. If you take it really slow, say five minutes per page, and read every chapter multiple times, you actually understand what he's saying (most of the time). It's an incredible book.

Always liked Wilfred Owen

Oh what made fatous sunbeams toil,
to break cold star earth's sleep at all?

original Italian ?? i wish. speako de englo only....you're a better man than i am Gunga Din !! speaking of which, i love Rudyard Kipling. i notice in the paper a few weeks ago, the PC brigade are slamming him down as a rampant racist bigot, (fuzzy wuzzy poem esp.) they haven't a clue......he's talkin in the language of the common soldier of his day for petes sake . who thinks this is racist ???

"FUZZY-WUZZY"

(Soudan Expeditionary Force)

We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.

We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.

'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air --
You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!

[btw sloshing them with martini's is refering to the martini-henry rifle not the drink !!! ]

the PC brigade are slamming him down as a rampant racist bigot

Well , one might understand how the following might support that...

Take up the White Man's burden--
Send forth the best ye breed--
Go, bind your sons to exile
To serve your captive's need;
To wait, in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild--
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.

Take up the White Man's burden--
In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain,
To seek another's profit
And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden--
The savage wars of peace--
Fill full the mouth of Famine,
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
(The end for others sought)
Watch sloth and heathen folly
Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden--
No iron rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper--
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go, make them with your living
And mark them with your dead.

Take up the White Man's burden,
And reap his old reward--
The blame of those ye better
The hate of those ye guard--
The cry of those ye humor
(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:--
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
Our loved Egyptian night?"

Take up the White Man's burden--
Ye dare not stoop to less--
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloak your weariness.
By all ye will or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent sullen peoples
Shall weigh your God and you.

Take up the White Man's burden!
Have done with childish days--
The lightly-proffered laurel,
The easy ungrudged praise:
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers.

In my opinion, racism isn't nearly the transgression that the public holds it to be, especially when attributed to historical figures. There is some to truth to all is in the "intepration of th' times" as some wise sage said.

yeah he was a product of the times..PC brigade want to ban his poems, enid blyton etc.....
he certainly thought that 'white men' should go to foreighn countries and help and educate the ignorant locals...

but he also said 'you are a better man than me, Gunga Din' about an indian water carrier and in 'fuzzy wuzzy', he lorded the praises of the sudanese tribesmen, implying they were far better soldiers than the British (who he considered the best soldiers in the world)

he was so impressed they'd broken a british square with only spears, something Napoleons cavalry couldn't do at Waterloo..

these aren't the statements of a rabid racist as they were portraying, but of course he was an imperialist..but we can't judge from our modern perspective on that count....

in th article i read, 'fuzzy wuzzy' was held up as an awfully racist poem, but anyone reading it must surely see it isn't. the term fuzzy wuzzy is just the language of a common soldier, the style he tended to adopt. people in those days used these terms like golly wog etc, we shouldn't judge them by our standards.

this is quite a good link

http://www.everypoet.com

this is my favorite poem (or, song, but same diff.)
it's by Justin Sane:

WHERE HAS MY COUNTRY GONE?

I can hear the jackboots again
Although I'm not in Nazi Germany
And I'm Not in Red China

These are echoes in my Home-Land
Thery're every value un-American
A spit in the face to the authors of the Constitution!

These are ugly days, ugly times, ugly words
From lies and disinformation ignorance is born
Can you smell the hatred being bred from fear?
And don't you understand that when you give your rights away
There is no freedom left to die for?
Where has my country gone?!?!

Can't see the simalarities?
Can't discern reality?
'Cause when you're awake you're still dreaming!
Dreaming in the mall and in the shops of 5th Avenue
In endless choices of fashion accessories
Drowning euphoria in a sea of gluttony

Delve in deep now - these drugs are legal
Delve in deep now - these drugs thry are even encouraged - advertised!
Delve in deep now - no need to fear global corperations
Delve in deep now - let the pain, blood, and tears of sweatshop workers lull you to sleep...

Or you can look to the alternative - Turn from the conservative
The backward faciast-like prospectus that saves us by enslaving us!
Strips our rights away with no garantee of improved Homeland security
Who is gaining from these policies?
The American people? Or those looking to abuse there authority?

--Justin Sane, From the album 'Life, Love, And The Pursuit Of Justice' listed under Anti-Flag (he's the lead singer, this is his solo stuff)