poetry

[DavidP]

The first time I met her I knew she was the one,
It was too late, her bright smile had left its' mark,
Her long, straight hair flowed down her back,
And her eyes had fire with a jade green glow,
I said hi, and I introduced myself,
and I got to know her, taking it slow,
Her personality was awesome, and shone through her face,
She had the best personality of any girl I had ever met,
The time finally came and I could no more wait yet,
And I gave her twelve roses as soft was white lace,
for my love for her I did want to show,
She said they were sweet, but there was something about herself,
She said there was another guy she was getting to know,
Even though she knew of my love, I hoped our friendship would not slack,
But she stopped talking to me, and left me in the dark,
And now we are none...


What do you think of it? I call it a chiasmatic poem by the way, because it rhymes in this order:

A
B
C
C
B
A

[dbaryl]

Hey, I think it's great! You did not write that yourself, did you?:)

[face_master]

haha - poetry

How's that for a one liner, eh?

[johnc]

<finger snapping> verry nice. </finger snapping>

[Aran]

A poetry thread, eh? i've gotta get in on some of this tomfoolery.

Mind
The inner workings of the mind
Have always puzzled manunkind
He tries so hard, day and night
To decipher it’s uncommon flight
And when he comes close to finding it out
He is forced to work backwards from his own doubt.
And so he ends where he had started
Never finding places that are as yet uncharted.
He takes a break from his work
As it begins to drive him berserk.
He stares at an undecorated cealing
And divines of choices unappealing.
One day he finds the answer,
His life cut short by cancer.
He dies soon thereafter
And unleashes no disaster.

(c) aran elus 2002

[stevey]

Rudyard Kipling
Poems

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER


When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old *****;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!


now THATS poetry.....take note of the last verse !!! :( the soldiers would keep a bullet in reserve to 'top' themselves...otherwise the women would mutilate and torture any wounded soldiers for hours, genitals being a favourite area...cruel cruel times....

[doubleanti]

><finger snapping> verry nice. </finger snapping><

haha, i got it after a few seconds... but at first i thought you mean the snapping like "uh uh girlfriend, no you didn't!!" hehe...

[tim545666]

stevey, that's closer to a novel than a poem.

[doubleanti]

What is the purpose behind your structure David?

[johnc]

yea, i didn't think to many people would get the finger snapping thing but, did it anyways. lol. but you figured it out!

[stevey]

Originally posted by tim545666
stevey, that's closer to a novel than a poem.

good tho' int it....i love poetry, "charge of the light brigade- cannon to the left of them, cannon to the right of them...into the valley of death rode the six hundred....." brilliant !!!!

heres a top class poem i wrote myself in only 10 minutes !!

Baby Stevey's got a dummy,
to replace the teat of his mummy.

Baby Stevey's got a nappy,
but he's really rather happy....

well his diaper's full of pooh,
but hey whats it to you,
saves on trips to the loo!
tho' its really rather smelly,
when you've **** up to your belly,
and he's getting a little rash,
from sitting in his own slash!
don't end up like me says he,
always go to the loo, when you're gonna pee! he hee!!
yes its really starting to hum,
cos he's cack all round his bum !
how much cack in weight??
dunno, but its affecting the poor wee lads gait!
its a fair weight to tote around,
mebe as much as an English pound!
yep its definitely wiffy,
still he's got his big fat spliffy!

the poor wee lad's no hair (like his daddy),
and i mean none anywhere!
still, he's got his big fat spliff,
so hey what's the diff ??

i might try to get it published....

[DavidP]

>Hey, I think it's great! You did not write that yourself, did you?

Actually, yeah, I did write that myself.

>What is the purpose behind your structure David?

I actually had a very good purpose behind that structure. First I will explain what a chiasmus is. A chiasmus is a style used in literature which is basically like a nested loop in programming.

Chiasmus form:

A
B
C
C
B
A

Nested loop:

for ( ___ )
{
for ( ___ )
{
}
}

like my analogy? :-)

If you are familiar with Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, it is one huge chiasmus, because it starts out as one person's story, then goes to the story of a person in that story, then to the story of a person in that story, and then it goes back out again, one by one.

Now that I have explained that, I will explain the purpose of my use of a chiasmus for the rhyming.

Obviously this poem is about a situation I had with a girl. I wanted to express how you start out and get deeper and deeper and deeper into it...and then right at the climax it starts going back....moment by moment....

Like you might get to know a girl, you might ask her out, she might say yes, you go out for a couple months, then she gets hesitant, you start to argue, you finally brake up, and then you might stay friends or you might not.

You see how it has a chiasmatic feel?

Well I wanted to use that chiasmatic feel in this poem to express how it got deeper and deeper, and then she said no to me, and then it started going backwards from there.

So that was my purpose in using the chiasmus in rhyming of the lines.

[stevey]

i don't want to be funny, cos its an interesting idea, but your poem actually rymes like this

ABCDEFGHHGFEDCBA

ie it doesn't rhyme at all, it doesn't rhyme when you say it, you can only see the rhyme when its written( unless you have an amazing memory)...with poetry you need to hear the rhyme when the poem is spoken...ie ABABA, AABB (like Aran's), ABBACC etc.
of course thats only my opinion, in fact some would say poetry doesn't even need to rhyme, but thats not what i call poetry...

Poetry of Wilfred Owen

Anthem for Doomed Youth


What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? A
Only the monstrous anger of the guns. B
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle A
Can patter out their hasty orisons. B
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells, C
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -- D
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; C
And bugles calling for them from sad shires. D

What candles may be held to speed them all? A
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes B
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. B
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; A
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, C
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. C

[DavidP]

>some would say poetry doesn't even need to rhyme

it doesnt need to rhyme...if you think it needs to rhyme...you should read more poetry...there is some beautiful poetry out there.

>ABCDEFGHHGFEDCBA

I know it rhymes that way, I was shortening it to:

ABCCBA

for the sake of examples, not to be exact.

[stevey]

aaahhhhh are you impying i know nothing of poetry and haven't read any ??? ive been reading poetry for more than 25 years and i am a traditionalist ie poetry should ryhme, not always in obvious AABB ways, but it should rhyme or else i do not consider it poetry at all. many poets/lovers of poetryhold this view not just me, in fact probably most.... it sounds pleasant to the ear, if it doesn't rhyme its just a collection of words.....i think ALL the great poems rhyme.....try posting a classic poem that doesn't rhyme....

but as i said, thats my opinion, you please yourself.....whatever you like to write/read...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves:
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

[fyodor]

try posting a classic poem that doesn't rhyme....

ummm...The Wasteland, Paradise Lost...
I don't mind it it does not rhyme as long as has rhythm, not like a bunch of modern crap.

[stevey]

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.

[Yoshi]

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.

[stevey]

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......

[Dissata]

<<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.

[stevey]

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

[fyodor]

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.

[novacain]

Always liked Wilfred Owen

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

[stevey]

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 !!!:) ]

[fyodor]

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.

[stevey]

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.

[Da-Spit]

Aaaaaaaargh!!!! Too.... Much!

FDSytgrdtgfbv%BN TEXGHTDFTJ6TRDFDSB FB *goes insane*

[stevey]

this is quite a good link

http://www.everypoet.com

[johnc]

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)

[Hillbillie]

My favorite (I think) poem is "Invictus" by William E. Henley. The rythmn (not rhyme scheme, but rythmn) is awesome. :)

You guys should head on over to FD for the poetry readings we have over there. I'm sure Wraith and Aran would love the company.

[Unregistered]

without my chair

the road i follow
dearest to me
blinds and troubles
endlessly

a companion needed
for lonelyness stays
enchant the fleeting
momentary rays

a connection lost
with no hope at all
a download corrupted
brimming with flaws

the moments flying
searing the screen
a rest to be taken
sit back to lean

the floor you embrace
with arms open wide
your companion you found
albeit its ground

joy abounding
a plug replaced
truly most astounding
corruption erased.


-a poemish type thing by a newbie(at poetry, i'm pro at evry thing else, like spellng and stuff)

[Scourfish]

Sometimes my old man can be a real dick, and here's the bull**** that results from it:

Some don't know
Very few do
intention leaks
reasons skew
no one can smell
no one can hear
that purpose reeks
with skid-marked smear
You're no different
You can't see
You don't know
My meaning to be


It's short and it sucks, but it's a lot better than kicking a hole in the wall.

[Aran]

horatio's ratio

Horatio's ratio;
the sum of all means.
he had no heart
and he had no spleen.

He had a lung
and maybe a liver
he had a hand
but it always would shiver.

he collected organs
keyboards, rather
the notes were all
the shampoo he could lather.

His hair was gray
his voice was soft
he lived above me
in the loft.

And when he came down
for dinner and tea
he would take out a trinket
and give it to me.

Everynight a different
trinket i would recieve
and he lost more wisdom
he couldn't retrieve.

and so one night
he came down blind
his eyes were on a chain
and trailing behind.

He gave them to me
as he laid down to die
and all they would do
is cry and cry.

A year went by
and the eyes were haunting
i wanted to return them
but the task was too daunting.

One day i gathered
the might and the power
to put the curtains
back onto the shower.

So i went to his grave
and dug it up real quick
i had in hands a shovel
and by my side: a stick.

As i stood there
staring at the man
i couldn't bring myself
to finish my plan.

i searched his body
and found a note
it was signed "horatio"
and on it was wrote:

"to my friend,
to you i have endowed
the one thing that
so long had my heart cowed.

"thank you for listening
and taking my toys
because, you know,
they are meant for boys."

and with that
the note concluded
and so i had found
what my mind had eluded.

[lightatdawn]

Okay. These are all really long. I rarely write past 6 or seven lines.


A knowing old man
Screaming 'What?' in my face
Thousand years before him
They closed the bloody mines
Now thousands new machines
Sing in my ears


I also rarely title anything I write. Cant really see the point.


Got a letter
Waiting for time to slip by
It said
'Get up'
I did not
Now its rains on red tin roof
Slides down dusted glass



Not all of them make a lot of sense immediatly.


Laugh and hit my head
Drowning lights
Sit and smile at me
More skin revealed
Bottled weights
Bring the curtain down

[Sorensen]

John Hall

On an Houre-glasse

MY Life is measur'd by this glasse, this glasse
By all those little Sands that thorough passe.
See how they presse, see how they strive, which shall
With greatest speed and greatest quicknesse fall.
See how they raise a little Mount, and then
With their owne weight doe levell it agen.
But when th' have all got thorough, they give o're
Their nimble sliding downe, and move no more.
Just such is man whose houres still forward run,
Being almost finisht ere they are begun;
So perfect nothings, such light blasts are we,
That ere w'are ought at all, we cease to be.
Do what we will, our hasty minutes fly,
And while we sleep, what do we else but die?
How transient are our Joyes, how short their day!
They creepe on towards us, but flie away.
How stinging are our sorrowes! where they gaine
But the least footing, there they will remaine.
How groundlesse are our hopes, how they deceive
Our childish thoughts, and onely sorrow leave!
How reall are our feares! they blast us still,
Still rend us, still with gnawing passions fill;
How senselesse are our wishes, yet how great!
With what toile we pursue them, with what sweat!
Yet most times for our hurts, so small we see,
Like Children crying for some Mercurie.
This gapes for Marriage, yet his fickle head
Knows not what cares waite on a Marriage bed.
This vowes Virginity, yet knowes not what
Lonenesse, griefe, discontent, attends that state.
Desires of wealth anothers wishes hold,
And yet how many have been choak't with Gold?
This onely hunts for honour, yet who shall
Ascend the higher, shall more wretched fall.
This thirsts for knowledge, yet how is it bought
With many a sleeplesse night and racking thought?
This needs will travell, yet how dangers lay
Most secret Ambuscado's in the way?
These triumph in their Beauty, though it shall
Like a pluck't Rose or fading Lillie fall.
Another boasts strong armes, 'las Giants have
By silly Dwarfes been drag'd unto their grave.
These ruffle in rich silke, though ne're so gay,
A well plum'd Peacock is more gay then they.
Poore man, what art! A Tennis ball of Errour,
A Ship of Glasse toss'd in a Sea of terrour,
Issuing in blood and sorrow from the wombe,
Crauling in teares and mourning to the tombe,
How slippery are thy pathes, how sure thy fall,
How art thou Nothing when th' art most of all!

[stevey]

""Not all of them make a lot of sense immediatly. ""

you can miss out the word immediately in that sentance!!
:)

you'd have to explain em to me ! mebe i'm thick.

[lightatdawn]

>>you'd have to explain em to me

Heh. Not sure I'd want to. Mostly they're about a moment or place that caught my attention. Sometimes I'd rather noone knew what they were about.

I'll throw a few more out there.


Sunken chest cavity
Maggots eat the body slouched against cold wall
Wonder if hes seeing light
Now hes at the end of his tunnel
Doubting it
Theres no light in mine
This is what happens
When your mind reaches the end of the track
And falls off


I'd better explain the next one or you'll all think I'm whako. I was listening to the Deftones when it struck me: I'm enjoying listening to somebody else sing about their pain.


On Display

Oh oh
Scream
Your vocal chords are bleeding
I like your pain
It amuses me
Oh oh
You scream
I'm smiling

This ones intent should be a little more obvious. (?)


Childs toy
Spins fast once released
We spun fast once too
Time and friction take their toll
The top falters
Dings the floor
We all watch in horror
Waiting
Wanting thet child
Spin us again



BTW Aran, I enjoyed that 'horatio's ratio'. Very nice.

[stevey]

:) even i can get those. you shouldn't explain poetry anyway, its like explaining jokes.....rather defeats the point.

[Aran]

Sun to none.

Floating dreams
the ransom of my mind.
thoughts more sublime
trouble my mind.

Deft speakers
feed you my life
now, with a spoon longer
than the plank i stand on.

All alone
i take one last drink
to the things i know
and to the things i think,
or rather i think i know....
does the mind not grow?
too bad mine just got swollen;
when the ice applied
gone was my wit
my intelligence

clever?
i am no longer.
Life?
i am no longer.

i make hello into goodbye
day to night
sun to rain...

sun to rain?
no, rain is too temporary.

sun to none.

[Vicious]

Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
Poo poo stinks,
And Stevey so do you.


I need some kleenex. I make myself cry.

[stevey]

:D

hey, thats a lot better than Aran's !!

Baby Stevey's rather hyper,
tho' he's weighed down by his diaper,
that diaper really honks,
and it has done for some yonks,
should really go and empty it,
and hence be bereft of s.hit !!

[PsychoBrat]

Here's one I wrote. Its a little long, but its easy to follow and apparently funny. :P

Oh and if u like it i've got heaaaps more

Lambs of War

There were two lambs in a paddock,
Munching on the grass,
When suddenly a bomber,
Made a swooping pass.

The lambs were frozen solid,
Not knowing what to do,
For these two little lambs,
Did not know metal flew.

The bomber doubled back,
Heading where it had come from,
Leaving two bewildered lambs,
Gazing at a falling bomb.

Several seconds passed,
Then it hit the ground,
With a blinding flash of light,
And a massive rumbling sound.

The lambs were blasted backwards,
Landing in the grass,
Staring up into the sky,
Getting cut by falling glass.

Once they had recovered,
They struggled to their feet,
Shook off bits of rubble,
And began to bleat.

Their mother waddled over,
Soaked in her own blood,
Gave each of them a tender lick,
Then fell, dead, in the mud.

The lambs were devastated,
Filled with bitter hate,
They gathered up their strength,
And jumped over the gate.

They ran as fast as possible,
Heading for the house,
Then crept passed the farmers dog,
As quiet as a mouse.

They found what they were looking for,
And headed back outside,
Crouched behind the pick-up truck,
They'd fight until they died.

There was a distant rumble,
The plane was coming near,
The little lambs were trembling,
Shaking, full of fear.

The plane shot overhead,
The lambs fired the gun,
The plane was blown to pieces,
The little lambs had won.

-out-
PsychoBrat

[stevey]

well i like it.
lambs to the slaughter eh? the lambs that turned?

[Unregistered]

uhm... here..its about cprogramming.com hehe

with the visual workspace for c
programming was the job for me;
it left me full and never doubting
always right for lack of pouting;
my code flowed free as a river of rain
debuging, simple, never full of shame;

until the day on which i died
not physically, but in my mind;
my code was a wreak, all jumbled and confused
my memory was sad, it felt abused;
so help did i seek, a while in looking
cprogramming.com was now my beautiful rookie;

day in an out it waits for me
always on the job, no resting spree;
advice it lends when im in need
articles it hides when im wont to read;
a friendly shoulder to me it lends
cprogramming.com is my only friend.



-dedicated to all the hard working posters(people who post) at cprogramming.com


-a poemish type thing by a newbie(at poetry, i'm pro at evry thing else, like spellng and stuff)