| From: Woman:) ® | 08/09/2002 11:12:57 |
| Subject: Poetry VIII | post id: 162737 |
|
Time for a little poetry time for a new poetry thread ============================ Fire and Ice by Robert Frost Some say the world will end in fire; Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. | |
| From: Richard C ® | 08/09/2002 11:17:18 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162742 |
| I like Frost and I especially like this. 1. The Road Not Taken 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; 5 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, 10 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. 15 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 Robert Frost | |
| From: boxhead ® | 08/09/2002 11:17:19 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162743 |
Dognammit :) [alt 2] "Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it." | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 08/09/2002 11:21:11 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162745 |
WOW, that was fast *aplause* (((:Thank you Boxy, Poet of the Barn:))) xxx Welcome to the Poetry Thread - Richard-who-shares-his-sunsign-with-Shakespeare-C. :)))...Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference and I bet YOU did ;-) xxx | |
| From: Richard C ® | 08/09/2002 11:32:47 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162753 |
| Thank you for the welcome, Woman. I didn't know I shared Will's sun sign, I'm sure it must be significant but it hasn't rubbed off on me very much, I have no poetry writing talent whatsoever. My only claim to fame as far as poetry is concerned is when I was 10 years old, at primary school we were asked to read our favourite poem to the class so I read mine: "It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?" and continued to read all 300+ verses of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's epic. | |
| From: Adrian | 08/09/2002 13:20:25 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162823 |
| A little something i wrote: DEVIL im seen as the devil but im not on youre level im in the depths of the dark abyss youre on the high almightys cliffs i will always try to reach you but forever i will fall i will keep on trying which is the greatest love of all | |
| From: Katelyn ® | 08/09/2002 13:31:08 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162832 |
| A poem from the Fox Kids Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall Mr Humpty had a big fall All of the kings horses and all of the kings men Could not put Mr Humpty Dumpty together agin Another poem Mary had a little lamb Its fleece was as white as snow Everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go Another Little Miss muffet Sat on a tuffet Eating her Curds and whey Then came down a big spider That sat down beside her And frightened Miss Muffet away. The Fox Family | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 08/09/2002 13:34:31 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162834 |
Lovely, Young Katelyn! And Welcome :)))Thanks for making this place even nicer:) | |
| From: beowulf ® | 08/09/2002 16:39:00 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162975 |
I like Frost's poem "Cow in Apple Time" If anyone can find it and posts it here it would be greatly appreciated :o) | |
| From: marthasay ® | 08/09/2002 16:48:04 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162981 |
| THE COW IN APPLE-TIME Something inspires the only cow of late To make no more of a wall than an open gate, And think no more of wall-builders than fools. Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit, She scorns a pasture withering to the root. She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten. The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten. She leaves them bitten when she has to fly. She bellows on a knoll against the sky. Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry. - Mr. Frost. | |
| From: beowulf ® | 08/09/2002 16:50:58 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162984 |
Thankyou marthasay :o) | |
| From: lubes ® | 08/09/2002 16:54:43 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 162989 |
| A potato clock A potato clock I must get A potato clock... (Roger McGough) | |
| From: boxhead ® | 08/09/2002 17:28:38 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163030 |
If you think you are beaten, you are; If you think you dare not, you don't! If you'd like to win, but you think you can't, It's almost certain you won't. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If you think you'll lose, you're lost; For out in the world we find Success begins with a fellow's will; It's all in the state of mind! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If you think you're outclassed, you are; You've got to think high to rise. You've got to be sure of yourself Before you 'll ever win the prize. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Life's battles don't always go To the stronger or faster man; But sooner or later the man who wins Is the person who thinks he can! Author Unknown "Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it." | |
| From: boxhead ® | 08/09/2002 17:40:11 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163044 |
(Soundgarden) Hello don't you know me I'm the dirt beneath your feet The most important fool you forgot to see I've seen how you give it Now I want to receive I know that you would do the same for me I know I'm headed for the bottom But I'm riding you all the way For all of your kisses turned to spit in my face For all that reminds me which is my place For all of the times when you made me disappear This time I'm sure you will know that I'm here I know I'm headed for the bottom But I'm riding you all the way My place was beneath you but now I'm above And now I send you a message of love A simple reminder of what you won't see A future so holy without me I know I'm headed for the bottom But I'm riding you all the way Lyrics: Cornell "Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it." | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 08/09/2002 18:05:01 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163058 |
|
A Purple Cow Gelett Burgess I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one. | |
| From: mars ® | 08/09/2002 18:23:44 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163071 |
| I HOPE YOU DANCE I hope you never lose your sense of wonder You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger May you never take one single breath for granted God forbid love ever leave you empty handed I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance I hope you dance I hope you dance I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance Never settle for the path of least resistance Living might mean taking chances but they’re worth taking Loving might be a mistake but its worth making Don’t let some helping heart leave you bitter When you come close to selling out reconsider Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance I hope you dance Dance.... Author Unknown | |
| From: Dropbear ® | 08/09/2002 18:34:20 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163077 |
| No matter how you shake and you dance, the lost drop always falls in your pants Graffiti on toilet wall | |
| From: ruby. ® | 08/09/2002 18:44:25 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163085 |
| Mars,thank you for that... | |
| From: Richard C ® | 08/09/2002 19:01:16 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163097 |
| More latrine poetry: "No use standing on the seat, the crabs in here can jump ten feet". | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 08/09/2002 19:22:20 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163104 |
|
V.B. Nimble, V.B. Quick John Updike V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon, Washes, shaves and very soon Is at the lab; he reads his mail, Swings a tadpole by the tail, Undoes his coat, removes his hat, Dips a spider in a vat Of alkaline, phones the press, Tells them he is F.R.S., Subdivides six protocells, Kills a rat by ringing bells, Writes a treatise, edits two Symposia on "Will man do?," Gives a lecture, audits three, Has the sperm club in for tea, Pensions off an ageing spore, Cracks a test tube, takes some pure Science and applies it, finds, His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds, Instructs the jellyfish to spawn, And, by one o'clock, is gone. | |
| From: Dropbear ® | 08/09/2002 19:39:24 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163113 |
| here I sit, broken hearted. paid 10c and only farted -- pay-loo poetry | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:37:07 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163182 |
| How do I love thee? Let me count the ways by Elizabeth Barrett Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise, I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints -I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! -and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:38:20 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163185 |
| Time, Real and Imaginary by Samuel Taylor Coleridge An Allegory On the wide level of a mountain's head, (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother! This far outstripped the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind: For he, alas! is blind! O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, And knows not whether he be first or last. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:39:18 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163186 |
| Upon Spenser's Faerie Queene by Sir Walter Raleigh Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn; and passing by that way, To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen; At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen, For they this Queen attended; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse: Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce, - Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief, And cursed th' access of that celestial thief. | |
| From: jj ® | 08/09/2002 20:39:46 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163188 |
| and blake's "the poison tree" | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:40:08 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163189 |
| A Lament by Percy Bysshe Shelley O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more -Oh, never more! Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more -Oh, never more! | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:40:55 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163192 |
| Love's Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of Heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine In one spirit meet and mingle - Why not I with thine? See the mountains kiss high Heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea - What are all these kissings worth If thou kiss not me? | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:41:48 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163194 |
| Portia by Oscar Wilde I marvel not Bassanio was so bold To peril all he had upon the lead, Or that proud Aragon bent low his head Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold: For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold Which is more golden than the golden sun No woman Veronese looked upon Was half so fair as thou whom I behold. Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned, And would not let the laws of Venice yield Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew - O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due: I think I will not quarrel with the Bond. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:42:53 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163195 |
| Lucy Strange Fits of Passion I Have Known by William Wordsworth Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon. My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!" | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:43:35 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163199 |
| Surprised By Joy by William Wordsworth Surprised by joy -impatient as the wind I turned to share the transport -Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind - But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? -That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn, Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:44:42 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163203 |
| 1794 - Songs of Experience A Poison Tree by William Blake I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright, And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine - And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning, glad, I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree. | |
| From: jj ® | 08/09/2002 20:46:45 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163205 |
| thanks toni ... "1794 - Songs of Experience A Poison Tree by William Blake I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears Night and morning with my tears, And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright, And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine - And into my garden stole When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning, glad, I see My foe outstretched beneath the tree. | |
| From: boxhead ® | 08/09/2002 20:51:12 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163214 |
Do You Hear It? The jumbled words The crowded quiet it is peace, it is home Do you feel the isolation of it in the dark Amongst the others The peace in madness True Sanity inside psychosis This is my home This is my peace. Eric Owens "Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it." | |
| From: The Rev Dodgson ® | 08/09/2002 20:55:34 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163226 |
| AMELIA I was driving across the burning desert When I spotted six jet planes Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain It was the hexagram of the heavens it was the strings of my guitar Amelia, it was just a false alarm The drone of flying engines Is a song so wild and blue It scrambles time and seasons if it gets thru to you Then your life becomes a travelogue Of picture-post-card-charms Amelia, it was just a false alarm People will tell you where they've gone They'll tell you where to go But till you get there yourself you never really know Where some have found their paradise Other's just come to harm Oh Amelia, it was just a false alarm I wish that he was here tonight It's so hard to obey His sad request of me to kindly stay away So this is how I hide the hurt As the road leads cursed and charmed I tell Amelia, it was just a false alarm A ghost of aviation She was swallowed by the sky Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly Like Icarus ascending On beautiful foolish arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm Maybe I've never really loved I guess that is the truth I've spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude And looking down on everything I crashed into his arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm I pulled into the Cactus Tree Motel To shower off the dust And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust I dreamed of 747s Over geometric farms Dreams, Amelia, dreams and false alarms Joni Mitchell | |
| From: marthasay ® | 08/09/2002 20:56:27 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163229 |
Howling Tranquility, and The Third I sees Echelon Eight, in a triptych mirror - smeared with fetal blood, regret and monkey fears, in a Very Large Disarray - it's SETI from the other end, mate. Flood of sewage outfall petty, and a Windex wipe of pale blue tears. Off-ramp curves over a half-life's span, with double yellow lines of dread. Non-tramp Jane changes tires in the rain, while dreaming shades of pain retread. Build a, a, a, ahhh… end to all your dreams, build it down. Lift it low as you can go and pray with your legs wide spread. Dusting names off with a plastic brain, camo sweats off blades of syneth-brown. The sheep look up, but are not fed, a Sony program fills their head. Please rewind this tape. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 08/09/2002 20:57:41 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163232 |
| methinks marthasay that you need a reference to books...or
maybe bookmarks? | |
| From: jj ® | 08/09/2002 20:58:25 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163234 |
| my favourite
poem. SNAKE S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S S A snake came to my water-trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, To drink there. * * * In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree I came down the steps with my pitcher And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me. * * * He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough* And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness, He sipped with his straight mouth, Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body, Silently. * * * Someone was before me at my water-trough, And I, like a second-comer, waiting. * * * He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment, And stooped and drank a little more, Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking. * * * The voice of my education said to me He must be killed, For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous. * * * And voices in me said, If you were a man You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off. * * * But must I confess how I liked him, How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, Into the burning bowels of this earth? * * * Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured? I felt so honoured. * * * And yet those voices: If you were not afraid, you would kill him! * * * And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more That he should seek my hospitality From out the dark door of the secret earth. * * * He drank enough And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black, Seeming to lick his lips, And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, And slowly turned his head, And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face. * * * And as he put his head into that dreadful hole, And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther, A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole, Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after, Overcame me now his back was turned. * * * I looked round, I put down my pitcher, I picked up a clumsy log And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter. * * * I think it did not hit him, But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste, Writhed like lightning, and was gone Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front, At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination. * * * And immediately I regretted it. I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education. * * * And I thought of the albatross, And I wished he would come back, my snake. * * * For he seemed to me again like a king, Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, Now due to be crowned again. * * * And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords Of life. And I have something to expiate: A pettiness. --D.H. Lawrence from .... http://home.earthlink.net/~rudedog2/snake.htm | |
| From: jj ® | 08/09/2002 20:58:26 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163235 |
| my favourite
poem. SNAKE A snake came to my water-trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, To drink there. * * * In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree I came down the steps with my pitcher And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me. * * * He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough* And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness, He sipped with his straight mouth, Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body, Silently. * * * Someone was before me at my water-trough, And I, like a second-comer, waiting. * * * He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment, And stooped and drank a little more, Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking. * * * The voice of my education said to me He must be killed, For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous. * * * And voices in me said, If you were a man You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off. * * * But must I confess how I liked him, How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, Into the burning bowels of this earth? * * * Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured? I felt so honoured. * * * And yet those voices: If you were not afraid, you would kill him! * * * And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more That he should seek my hospitality From out the dark door of the secret earth. * * * He drank enough And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black, Seeming to lick his lips, And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, And slowly turned his head, And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face. * * * And as he put his head into that dreadful hole, And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther, A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole, Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after, Overcame me now his back was turned. * * * I looked round, I put down my pitcher, I picked up a clumsy log And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter. * * * I think it did not hit him, But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste, Writhed like lightning, and was gone Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front, At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination. * * * And immediately I regretted it. I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education. * * * And I thought of the albatross, And I wished he would come back, my snake. * * * For he seemed to me again like a king, Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, Now due to be crowned again. * * * And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords Of life. And I have something to expiate: A pettiness. --D.H. Lawrence from .... http://home.earthlink.net/~rudedog2/snake.htm | |
| From: jj ® | 08/09/2002 21:00:46 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163241 |
| well, it IS worth scrolling down for ... but I have no idea
what happened there ... goodnight folks ... and thankyou so much toni for
trying ... it's a humanity thing. jj | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 08/09/2002 21:02:14 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163242 |
| i love amelia. i posted it in a poetry thread this time last
year, i think. | |
| From: Captain Spalding ® | 08/09/2002 21:03:20 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163243 |
| Goodnight, jj | |
| From: The Rev Dodgson ® | 08/09/2002 21:04:48 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163247 |
| Sarahs mum My daughter bought me a Joni Mitchell CD for Fathers Day. She's a clever girl :) | |
| From: jj ® | 08/09/2002 21:05:03 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163249 |
| taa captain ... over and out (is that what i say? my partner
says that if I watched more war films I wouldn't have to ask so many
questions about planes and subs and things ... :))) goodnight now and gone. | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 08/09/2002 21:11:27 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163265 |
| >My daughter bought me a Joni Mitchell CD for Fathers
Day. She's a clever girl :) yes, she is. does it have coyote? or california? | |
| From: J.F. ® | 08/09/2002 21:12:48 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163269 |
| Thanks, jj. It reminded me that when I was in Primary School
I read and loved Kipling's "The Jungle Book". Forget the Disney version +
read the original. I have not seen the Disney version -- I was not sure I
could bear it. I once knew more lines but now all I recall is: "Anger is the egg of fear Only lidless eyes are clear" from the snake's song to Mowgli. For the text, see: http://www.cc.gatech.edu/people/home/idris/Poetry/Kipling.htm. | |
| From: Rabid Roge ® | 08/09/2002 21:13:59 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163271 |
| Ahhh Joni I could drink a case of You Artist Poet and very thoughtful musician I love her! Rr | |
| From: Rabid Roge ® | 08/09/2002 21:36:01 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163295 |
Oh i am a lonely painter I live in a box of paints I am frightened by the devil And I'm drawn to those who aint afraid I remember that time that you told me, you said "Love is touching souls" Surely you touched mine 'Cause part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time Oh you're in my blood like holy wine And you taste so bitter and you taste so sweet I could drink a case of you I could drink a case of you darling Still I'd be on my feet I'd still be on my feet I met a woman she had a mouth like yours she knew your life she knew your devils and your deeds and she said "go to him, stay with him if you can Oh but be prepared to bleed" Oh but youre on my blood like holy wine Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet Oh I could drink a case of you darling Still I'd be on my feet Still I'd be on my feet I'd still be on my feet 1972 Joni Mitchell | |
| From: The Rev Dodgson ® | 08/09/2002 21:40:54 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163300 |
| Also from 1972, or was it 2002? CALIFORNIA Sitting in a park in Paris, France Reading the news and it sure looks bad They won't give peace a chance That was just a dream some of us had Still a lot of lands to see But I wouldn't want to stay here It's too old and cold and settled in its ways here Oh, but California California I'm coming home I'm going to see the folks I dig I'll even kiss a Sunset pig California I'm coming home I met a redneck on a Grecian isle Who did the goat dance very well He gave me back my smile But he kept my camera to sell Oh the rogue, the red red rogue He cooked good omelettes and stews And I might have stayed on with him there But my heart cried out for you, California Oh California I'm coming home Oh make me feel good rock'n roll band I'm your biggest fan California, I'm coming home CHORUS: Oh it gets so lonely When you're walking And the streets are full of strangers All the news of home you read Just gives you the blues Just gives you the blues So I bought me a ticket I caught a plane to Spain Went to a party down a red dirt road There were lots of pretty people there Reading Rolling Stone, reading Vogue They said, "How long can you hang around?" I said "a week, maybe two, Just until my skin turns brown Then I'm going home to California" California I'm coming home Oh will you take me as I am Strung out on another man California I'm coming home CHORUS: Oh it gets so lonely When you're walking And the streets are full of strangers All the news of home you read More about the war And the bloody changes Oh will you take me as l am? Will you take me as l am? Will you? Joni Mitchell http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/singerAllSongs/151C1D29BAC907F748256A430005EBA7 | |
| From: furious ® | 09/09/2002 02:17:16 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163692 |
| I don't need your way of life I can't stand your attitudes I can do without your strife I don't need this f'ing world I don't need this f'ing world This world brings me down Gag with every breath This world brings me down I'm looking forward to death It seems so unreal to me So much hate and so mouch pity I can't take another day It's such a bore It gets me really sore I don't need this f'ing world I don't need this f'ing world This world brings me down Gag with every breath This world brings me down I'm looking forward to death Looking forward to death | |
| From: James R (Avatar) | 09/09/2002 02:19:54 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163695 |
| That's a bit of a downer, furious. Who wrote
it? | |
| From: furious ® | 09/09/2002 02:23:11 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163698 |
| Dead Kennedys... | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 09/09/2002 02:45:30 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163720 |
| A Reason for Breathing I pictured myself on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and nervous dysplasia. This was to be the final chapter in my life savings. I pulled the plug and boarded an Amtrak to nowhere. I had suffered insomnia all my life, but, like Issac Newton, had put it down to apples. It was hereditary (so was my forehead). I wished to remain anonymous in a world of Philadelphians. I ticked myself off and put myself in my place, a two-bedroomed brownstone of ill repute. I was convinced I'd been here before. Call it what you will, I call it daft. Had I walked these same dusty springfields before? Or was I just a victim of circumnavigation? Yea, tho' I walk thru Rudy Valle, I will fear no Evel Knievel. Junk food made me silly; fast food slowed me down; I had to get off at the next stop. I alighted to the sound of a military bandit. "Do you take this woman anywhere in particular?" the voice rang out. I panicked slowly and continued to exercise my discretion. from SKYWRITING BY WORD OF MOUTH-John Lennon | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 09/09/2002 03:00:18 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163725 |
|
by Robert Frost The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued. | |
| From: furious ® | 09/09/2002 03:12:19 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163726 |
|
William Blake Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born. Every Night & every Morn Some are Born to sweet delight. Some are Born to sweet delight, Some are Born to Endless Night. We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro' the Eye, Which was Born in a Night, to perish in a Night, When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light. God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night, But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of Day. | |
| From: furious ® | 09/09/2002 03:13:28 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163727 |
| Bugger...that was slightly wrong...did you pick it?! Try
this: William Blake Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born. Every Morn & every Night Some are Born to sweet delight. Some are Born to sweet delight, Some are Born to Endless Night. We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro' the Eye, Which was Born in a Night, to perish in a Night, When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light. God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night, But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of Day. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 09/09/2002 08:38:37 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163778 |
| I know this is silly but I think of it a lot. I used to live in New Zealand (3 Kings Primary School for those of you who may know it) and mum said I had the NZ accent, so yes was yiss and guess was gisss. I have a lovely rubber ball I bounce it high and low But should I bounce it on the road No! No! No! The road is made for motor cars And not for me I guess So should I find a safer place Yes! Yes! Yes! funny what comes back to you.... | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 09/09/2002 08:54:20 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 163799 |
|
A Clear Midnight Walt Whitman THIS is the hour, O soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best: Night, sleep, death, and the stars. | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 09/09/2002 23:12:00 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 165028 |
| An Alphabet A is for Parrot which we can plainly see B is for glasses which we can plainly see C is for plastic which we can plainly see D is for Doris E is for binoculars I'll get in five F is for Ethel who lives next door G is for orange because we love to eat when we can get them because they come from abroad H is for England and (Heather) I is for monkey we see in the tree J is for parrot which we can plainly see K is for shoetop we wear to the ball L is for Land because brown K is for Venezula where the oranges come from N is for Brazil near Venezuela (very near) O is for football which we kick about a bit T is for Tommy who won the war Q is a garden which we can plainly see R is for intestines which hurt when we dance S is for pancake or whole-wheat bread U is for Ethel who lives on the hill P is arab and her sister will V is for me W is for lighter which never lights X is for easter--have one yourself Y is a crooked letter and you can't straighten it Z is for Apple which we can plainly see This is my story both humble and true Take it to pieces and mend it with glue SKYWRITING BY WORD OF MOUTH. John Lennon. http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Lofts/8498/skywriting.html | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 10/09/2002 06:16:08 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 165223 |
| Hi Adrian:) Welcome!!:) I post your lovely poem here again, since it only just appeared now and might have been overlooked. (When you register, your posts will go straight through). ----------------- From: Adrian 08/09/2002 13:20:25 Subject: re: Poetry VIII post id: 162823 A little something i wrote: im seen as the devil but im not on youre level im in the depths of the dark abyss youre on the high almightys cliffs i will always try to reach you but forever i will fall i will keep on trying which is the greatest love of all | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 10/09/2002 07:09:48 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 165255 |
Parabolic Balad Andrei Voznesensky | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 11/09/2002 03:31:33 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 166303 |
| Railroads and Riverboats Written by - Jim Croce & Ingrid Croce The railroads and the riverboats That bred the mighty men That we read about and we dream about The men who built this land And the farmers and the lumbermen And the men who work the mills And the poor hard workin' miners Who died inside the hill Chorus: While the rivers that flow Are the blood of our land And the trucks they keep rumbling On the great concrete band And the railroads keep pushin' To be all they once were And nature is calling No one's listening to her And the immigrants by the boat load in a dozen different tongues Sang of freedom in the new land Climb the ladder rung by rung Some to Boston, some to Pittsburgh Philadelphia and St. Paul And the old ways led to new days They were welcome one and all Chorus While the rivers that flow Are the blood of our land And the trucks they keep rumbling On the great concrete band And the railroads keep pushin' To be all they once were And nature is calling No one's listening to her With the railroads and the riverboats And the breadlines far behind And the days we sang together long gone but still in mind And the men who came before us Men who brought us to today And the story still unravels from the dreams of yesterday Chorus While the rivers that flow Are the blood of our land And the trucks they keep rumbling On the great concrete band And the railroads keep pushin' To be all they once were And nature is calling No one's listening to her | |
| From: The Rev Dodgson ® | 11/09/2002 11:34:12 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 166551 |
| This song was written over 30 years ago, but it could have
been written for today: When You Find Out Who You Are by Robin Williamson It's of a strange and furious time when men did speed to pray Along the road of discontent to gods of gold and clay Some did seek security Among the seas of change And some did seek dear life to wound a furious time and strange But when you find out who you are Beautiful beyond your dreams Just look around and notice where you are Just look around and notice what you see Each moment born for you innocently But when I see what we have made What we have out with the mind's blade In the blackness feel it all Repeated faces rise and fall With ancient goals unwondering fail Further obscure the ancient trail Filling with the endless years The river of your heart's tears I swear you have the power as the angels do Spread out your fingers and make all things new Change the world by the things you say By the things you love And by the games you play And you make each new day It feels so funny in your mummy's tummy Before you get born into the world for to carry on Remember young man of the time before you first went to school How did it feel trying to live to the rule Remember young man of the time when your love stick First rose free between your legs Like a growing tree Remember you walked with your lover Like a gypsy and a gypsy queen Under the stars where the sign was seen Under the stars where the leaves were green Under the stars where the sign was seen 0 how many shining hearts With love has guided me And many I have met before in lands across the sea We used to speak of that ocean deep How little words can say It's better now to ask your friend What makes him sad today No one can do it for you Make your own sky blue Make your own dreams come true Make it come true. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 12/09/2002 21:23:23 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 168841 |
| This is from one of my favourite current generation
poets. Verse 1: Coolio Now I've seen places and faces and things you ain't never thought about thinking if you ain't peek then you must be drinking and smokin' pretending that you're locin' but you're brokin' let me get you open now little Timmy got his diploma and little Jimmy got life and Tamika round the corner just took her first hit off the pipe the other homie shot the other homie and ran off with his money and when the other homies heard about it they thought that it was funny but who's the dummy Cuz, now you done lost a hustler a down-ass brother got replaced by a buster and though I got love for ya I know I can't trust ya coz my crew is rollin' Hummers and your crew is rollin' dustas and just because of that you act like you don't like the brother no more I guess that's just the way it goes I ain't trying to preach I believe I can reach but your mind ain't prepared I'll C U when you get there Chorus: I'll see you when you get there if you ever get there see you when you get there I'll see you when you get there if you ever get there see you when you get there Verse 2: Lek Ratt (of 40 Thevz) More temptation and faith I guess we livin' for the day I seen a man get swept off his feet by a boy with an AK the situation so twisted everybody gettin lifted I'm just tryin to take care of my kids and handle my business coz it way too serious so you gotta pay close attention so you don't get caught sittin' when they come and do all the gettin' life is a big game so you gotta play it with a big heart someone's gotta run a little faster cuz we gotta lay the struggle I'd be a fool to surrender when I know I can be a contender and if everybody's a sinner then everybody can be a winner no matter you rag collar deep down we all brothers and regardless of the time somebody up there still love us I'm a scuff and struggle and y'all I'm breathless and weak I just strived my whole life to make it to the mountain peak always keep reaching sure to grab on to something I'll be there when you get there when you wit the sound bumpin' Chorus: I'll see you when you get there see you when you get there if you ever get there see you when you get there I'll see you when you get there see you when you get there if you ever get there see you when you get there Verse 3: PS (of 40 Thevz) You need to loosen up and live a little and if you got kids let them know how you feelin' for your own sake give a little oh, you don't want to hear that you busy tryin' ta stack and keeping up with the Jones's is taking advantage of your own the realest homies that you've been knowing for the longest but some ain't missing a good thing until it's gone could have built an empire if not for the jealousy that divides us we prefer to keep our eyes shut to describe when it's something wrong and we desire so hold your head up high if your poor and righteous I know time seems right and the problems seem endless but at times of despair we gotta pull ourselves together and if you feel you're out the game then you need to get back in it coz nothing worse than a quitter you gotta face responsibility one day, my brother so gather up your pity and turn it to ambition and put your vehicle and drive and stop by my side Chorus: I'll see you when you get there see you when you get there if you ever get there when you ever get there if you ever get there see you when you get there I'll see you when you get there see you when you get there if you ever get there see you when you get there (Coolio) As we walk down the road of our destiny and the time comes to choose which shall it be the wide and crooked, or the straight and narrow we got one voice to give and one life to live stand up for something or lie down in your game listen to the song that we sing it's up to you to make it be I guess I'll see you when you see me (chorus fade out) | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 13/09/2002 05:08:13 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 169276 |
| this is a serious poem about a sausage. many men learn this poem and each year thousands of speeches are addressed to sausages the whole world o'er. The closing stanza is said to have been composed extempore during a dinner at the home of John Morrison, a Mauchline cabinet-maker. The complete poem was written soon after Burns arrived in Edinburgh, and appeared in the Caledonian Mercury on 19 December 1786 and in the Scots Magazine in January 1787 --- the first of Burn's poems to be published in any periodical. Oddly enough, the earliest recipe for Haggis appeared the same year, in Cookery and Pastry by Susanna Maciver. The poem is influenced by Fergusson's `Caller Oysters', also written in the Standard Habbie stanza, which Burns made his own. Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight An' cut ye up wi' ready slight Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then, horn for horn, they strech an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve, Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit!' hums. Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit; Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o 'fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware watery That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis! | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 13/09/2002 05:15:45 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 169280 |
| and some burns suitable for the opening a the scottish
parliament... Robert Burns: A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an a' that? hangs The coward slave, we pass him by --- We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, an a' that! Our toils obscure, an a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that. gold What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodding grey, an a' that? coarse woollen cloth Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine --- A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, an a' that, Their tinsel show, an a' that, The honest man, tho e'er sae poor, Is king o men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie ca'd `a lord,' fellow Wha struts, an stares, an a' that? Tho hundreds worship at his word, He's but a cuif for a' that. fool For a' that, an a' that, His ribband, star, an a' that, The man o' independent mind, He looks an laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an a' that! But an honest man's aboon his might --- above Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! must not For a' that, an a' that, Their dignities, an a' that, The pith o' sense an pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may (As come it will for a' that), That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree an a' that. have priority For a' that, an a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the world, o'er Shall brithers be for a' that. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 13/09/2002 05:25:06 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 169285 |
Comin' Thro the Rye Robert Burns O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draigl't a' her petticoattie Comin thro' the rye. Chorus: Comin thro the rye, poor body, Comin thro the rye, She draigl't a'her petticoatie, Comin thro the rye! Gin a body meet a body Comin thro the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Comin thro the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the warld ken? | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 13/09/2002 05:27:04 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 169288 |
| |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 13/09/2002 05:30:52 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 169290 |
| Robert Burns: AULD LANG SYNE CHORUS For auld syne, my dear, old long ago For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? We twa hae run about the braes, hillsides And pou'd the gowans fine; pulled/daisies But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, Sin auld lang syne. We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, waded/stream Frae morning sun till dine, noon/dinner-time But seas between us braid hae roar'd broad Sin auld lang syne. And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine, And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught, goodwill drink For auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, pay for And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. (In a note to George Thomson (1793) he describes it as `the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing.' ) | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 15/09/2002 06:10:56 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 171235 |
|
Alone Edgar Allan Poe From childhood's hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then - in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life - was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 15/09/2002 06:12:17 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 171236 |
|
'Neath This Tall Pine Plato 'Neath this tall pine, That to the zephyr sways and murmurs low, Mayst thou recline, While near thee cooling waters flow. This flute of mine Shall pipe the softest song it knows to sing, And to thy charmèd eyelids sleep will bring. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 15/09/2002 06:18:11 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 171237 |
|
Uphill Christina Rossetti Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 15/09/2002 09:27:27 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 171267 |
| Thank you Phantom the Poet:))) what a trio to sing in Sunday
:))) Alone by E.A. Poe: I wonder how many of us will identify as deeply with this poem as I do...I bet quite a few!!;-)...Plato Poetry by Plato!!! the well known wrestler ...and the divine Christina Rossetti asks: "...Does the road wind up-hill all the way? ...Will the day's journey take the whole long day?... well, with such a start to it, I, for one, look forward to today's journey:) a graceful little epitaph on "Stella", ascribed to Plato, which Shelley has translated like so: Till thy fair light had fled; Now having died, thou art as Hosperus, giving New splendour to the dead." | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 15/09/2002 09:30:32 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 171269 |
| Some lovely stuff to be discovered in the "Good Night"
threads: From: boxhead ® 12/09/2002 23:35:26 Subject: re: Goodnight post id: 169040 Lullabye when the sky has fallen like a blanket on your shoulder and the moon is like a mother looking over you forever and the dawn is so famaliar you were meant to be together like a fog around a mountain - forever so softly - so sweetly surrounding you completely sing you a lullabye - a lullabye to you lullabye - a lullabye to you when your breathing is the wind and your crying is the rain well i know you will remember because the music is forever the living of a lover - and the loving of another like a sister to a brother like a father to a mother so softly - so sweetly surrounding you completely sing you a lullabye - a lullabye to you lullabye - a lullabye to you Performed by Concrete Blonde | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 17/09/2002 03:31:20 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 172834 |
| To the Weaver's Gin Ye Go Ein Weber-Lied von Robert Burns (1788). 1. My heart was once as blythe and free, as simmer days are lang. But a bonnie Westlin weaver lad has gart me change my sang; Chorus: Tae the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, tae the weavers gin ye go; I tell ye richt, gang ne'er at nicht, tae the weavers gin ye go. 2. My mither sent me to the town to warp a plaiden wab; but the weary, weary warpin o't has gart me sigh and sab. 3. A bonie, westlin weaver lad sat working at his loom; he took my heart as wi' a net in every knot and thrum. 4. I sat beside my warpin-wheel, and ay I ca'd it roun'; but every shot and every knock, my heart it gae a stoun. 5. The moon was sinking in the west wi' visage pale and wan, as my bonie, westlin weaver lad convoy'd me thro' the glen. 6. But what was said, or what was done, shame fa' me gin I tell; but oh! I fear the country soon will ken as wheel's mysel! http://home.t-online.de/home/pheld/1schott2.htm | |
| From: Richard C ® | 17/09/2002 03:36:30 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 172836 |
| The foggy, foggy dew Folk text Set by Benjamin Britten (1913-1976) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When I was a bachelor I lived all alone and worked at the weaver's trade And the only, only thing that I ever did wrong, was to woo a fair young maid. I wooed her in the winter time, and in the summer too . . . And the only, only thing I did that was wrong was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew. One night she came to my bedside when I lay fast asleep, She laid her head upon my bed and she began to weep. She sighed, she cried, she damn'd near died, she said: "What shall I do?" So I hauled her into bed and I covered up her head, just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew. Oh, I am a bachelor and I live with my son, and we work at the weaver's trade. And ev'ry single time that I look into his eyes, he reminds me of the fair young maid. He reminds me of the winter time, and of the summer too, And of the many, many times that I held her in my arms, just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew. I remember hearing a record of this (an old 78) in my extreme youth (like about 4) sung by Peter Pears accompanied by Benjamin Britten himself on the piano. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 17/09/2002 08:28:53 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 172892 |
Hi Woman:) Poetry by Plato!!! the well known wrestler ... I know many wrestle with Plato... I never knew he ever wrestled back! | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 17/09/2002 08:37:52 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 172898 |
| I know many wrestle with Plato... I never
knew he ever wrestled back! *lol* @ The Phantom:) HI!:) *schoolmarmish voice*: Plato was a well-known wrestler, and the name by which we know him today was his "ring name". Plato means broad or flat: presumably the former referring to his shoulders (some naughty scholars have suggested that his forehead was flat ;-)). At his birth Plato was called "Aristocles". *schoolmarmish voice off* Plato was also a little better at mathematics than I am, or so they say ;-) :):) | |
| From: Zarkov ® | 17/09/2002 08:39:38 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 172899 |
| Plato had a great teacher, I wish I was in his class
>:) | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 17/09/2002 08:44:07 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 172904 |
| Plato had a great teacher, I wish I was in
his class >:) and we all know, what happened to Socrates..eh?;-) I reckon hemlock is still being offered today, metaphorically speaking, of course ;-) | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 23/09/2002 05:42:28 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 179864 |
|
John Cain Avenue Lyrics by David Bridie In the houses by the railway line All the people in my street All tending to their gardens We keep them all bright and neat all bright and neat all bright and neat We all have our own concerns Down in our little worlds We can't worry about the global things Just those mundane and small mundane and small mundane and small Take a walk down to the railway station See the young mothers stand in line On any Wednesday you can hear Those grim adventure tales go round they go rounds and around Just living in our backstreets We talk about the sky And how the leaves will fall down soon Yeah, we watch the days go by and the winter sky and the days go by Yeah, that's what we all talk about The neighbours, Mark and me Nothing too important Just how simple things can be oh how they can be oh how they can be oh how they can be yeah how they can be | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 23/09/2002 05:50:40 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 179865 |
|
Aberystwyth Lyrics by David Bridie So cold in this here mountainside Theres's black sheep upon the hills The mist just hangs and settles there And you're so far away I stayed awake the whole night long 'cause the cider's in my brain And the sky's the lightest shade of blue 'cause that's just how I feel 'Cause I'm heading for the Western coast To Aberystwyth town For that's the place the great wind blows As I walk past the old burial ground Bright fire bombs burn the houses down 'Cause that's where the English stay And who am I to say that's wrong 'Cause it's payback, the Welsh way 'Cause I'm heading for the Western coast To Aberystwyth town For that's the place the great wind blows As I walk past the old burial ground 'Cause I'm heading for the Western coast To Aberystwyth town For that's the place the great wind blows As I walk past the old burial ground | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 25/09/2002 07:00:26 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 182294 |
| From: sarahs mum ® 25/09/2002
06:45:53 Subject: re: Chat - 20/9/2002 post id: 182287 does anybody know where we have hidden the poetry thread? i checked under the earlier posts button but i couldn't find it | |
| From: jj ® | 25/09/2002 07:02:39 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 182299 |
| g'day woman ... thanks for that ... O love poetry. It says all the important stuff for me ... to me ... now I really have to go ... jj | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 25/09/2002 07:09:30 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 182303 |
| tonight starts sarahs musical theatre performance season of
two nights. here is her little solo for the poetry thread. Les Miserables Cosette - Castle on a Cloud [Young Cosette is working as a drudge in the Thénardier's inn at Montfermeil] [YOUNG COSETTE] There is a castle on a cloud, I like to go there in my sleep, Aren't any floors for me to sweep, Not in my castle on a cloud. There is a room that's full of toys, There are a hundred boys and girls, Nobody shouts or talks too loud, Not in my castle on a cloud. There is a lady all in white, Holds me and sings a lullaby, She's nice to see and she's soft to touch, She says "Cosette, I love you very much." I know a place where no one's lost, I know a place where no one cries, Crying at all is not allowed, Not in my castle on a cloud. | |
| From: Man ® | 28/09/2002 22:12:59 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 186548 |
| She Walks in Beauty SHE walks in beauty like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to the tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One ray the more, one shade the less Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. Lord Byron, (George Gordon) | |
| From: boxhead ® | 29/09/2002 03:01:39 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 186678 |
Something To Believe In "Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it." | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 29/09/2002 08:23:02 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 186707 |
|
Autumn Song Margurite Kingman The firelight glows, The embers sigh, We dream and Doze-- The cat and I. The kitten purrs, The kettle sings, The heart remembers Little things. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 29/09/2002 08:32:48 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 186708 |
|
The Mad Gardener's Song Lewis Carroll He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. 'At length I realise,' he said, The bitterness of Life!' He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece. 'Unless you leave this house,' he said, "I'll send for the Police!' He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. 'The one thing I regret,' he said, 'Is that it cannot speak!' He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus. 'If this should stay to dine,' he said, 'There won't be much for us!' He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. 'Were I to swallow this,' he said, 'I should be very ill!' He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. 'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!' He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage Stamp. 'You'd best be getting home,' he said: 'The nights are very damp!' He thought he saw a Garden-Door That opened with a key: He looked again, and found it was A Double Rule of Three: 'And all its mystery,' he said, 'Is clear as day to me!' He thought he saw a Argument That proved he was the Pope: He looked again, and found it was A Bar of Mottled Soap. 'A fact so dread,' he faintly said, 'Extinguishes all hope!' | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 29/09/2002 10:39:55 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 186761 |
| From: Zarkov ® 29/09/2002 Subject: re: Credibility post id: 186703 T R U T H So you think you know The arrow in your bow Your search has ended The ultimate truth has surrended And what of those others as well Who agree that what is, is what they tell Surely the truth can be found Or is that none are sound And the phoenix flys and the phoenix burns And none of us mortals ever learns That all we know is only more or less An approximation to the ultimate guess For our truth depends on what we believe And what we believe is what we perceive Through senses that are interpreted much higher And coloured with our desire Truth, it could be yours, it could be mine But we should keep searching all the time To really know no matter what the cost Even if all we held before is lost This of course is quite a task Because the truth always wears a mask It slips and slides amongst the facts And never ever leaves a track Just when you are sure you know Maybe someone great has told you so It's then be sure that you are lost Because the truth can not be bought at any cost You need to honestly compare All you know in here with out there And if there is a chink of doubt Then be prepared to clean in here out That is the way of truth We only get closer when reality Is seen with increasing clarity On that you can always depend But there is never ever any end Zarkov | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 30/09/2002 00:04:13 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 187232 |
Is it still Sunday?;-) (Dont know the author.....Dorothy Parker? ...perhaps) Epitaph for a Darling Lady All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassels; Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles. Shiny day on shiny day Tumbled in a rainbow clutter, As she flipped them all away, Sent them spinning down the gutter. Leave for her a red young rose, Go your way, and save your pity; She is happy, for she knows That her dust is very pretty. ========================= | |
| From: lubes ® | 30/09/2002 00:05:34 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 187234 |
| Dot Parker had a budgie...she named it "Onan". (Because it spilled it's seed.....) :-) | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 05/10/2002 03:01:03 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 192993 |
Sortie by Pedram - A billion brothers and sisters are starving. What do I do? Order pizza. Home delivered. - Curable disease goes uncured across the globe. What do I do? Take aspirin for my headache. Self inflicted. - 100 000 are strangled to death by trade sanctions. What do I do? Go shopping. For things I don't need. - 5000 are folded into rubble in an instant. What do I do? Watch the replays. Write a poem. - My society is unjust and corrupt. What do I do? Vote once every three years. In a safe seat. - My capacity to see exceeds my capacity to act. What do I do? Sortie in a glass canoe. Return to an island of Zen surfaces. Can you hear the distant roar? Out there? The sound of capacity confliction. An aquatic ostrich, my head under water. I practice holding my breath. | |
| From: boxhead ® | 06/10/2002 19:53:00 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 194824 |
Just keep quiet and nobody will notice There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges, Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies. I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet, Because I think that is sort of sweet; No, I object to one kind of apology alone, Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own. You go to their house for a meal, And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal; They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests, And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests; If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott, And if they take you to the teahter, the apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot; They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can, But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American. I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them, I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them, Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious, And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious, And what particularly bores me with them, Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them, So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf, Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves. Ogden Nash "You can't learn anything new if you limit yourself to verifying what you already know." | |
| From: boxhead ® | 06/10/2002 19:54:05 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 194826 |
Reflection on a Wicked World Purity Is obscurity. Ogden Nash "You can't learn anything new if you limit yourself to verifying what you already know." | |
| From: boxhead ® | 06/10/2002 19:55:02 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 194829 |
Poets Poets aren't very useful Because they aren't consumeful or produceful. Ogden Nash "You can't learn anything new if you limit yourself to verifying what you already know." | |
| From: PeterT ® | 06/10/2002 19:57:26 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 194830 |
| Some primal termite chomped on wood And tasted it and found it good So that is why your cousin May Fell through the parlour floor today. Ogden Nash. | |
| From: boxhead ® | 06/10/2002 19:57:55 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 194831 |
The Purist I give you now Professor Twist, A conscientious scientist, Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!" And sent him off to distant jungles. Camped on a tropic riverside, One day he missed his loving bride. She had, the guide informed him later, Been eaten by an alligator. Professor Twist could not but smile. "You mean," he said, "a crocodile." Ogden Nash "You can't learn anything new if you limit yourself to verifying what you already know." | |
| From: jj ® | 06/10/2002 20:26:19 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 194852 |
to be read with "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" Matilda - Who Told Lies And Was Burned To Death (from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/poetry/belloc.shtml) Matilda told such Dreadful Lies, It made one Gasp and Stretch one’s Eyes; Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth, Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth, Attempted to Believe Matilda: The effort very nearly killed her, And would have done so, had not She Discovered this Infirmity. For once, towards the Close of Day, Matilda, growing tired of play, And finding she was left alone, Went tiptoe to the Telephone And summoned the Immediate Aid Of London’s Noble Fire-Brigade. Within an hour the Gallant Band Were pouring in on every hand, From Putney, Hackney Downs and Bow. With Courage high and Hearts a-glow, They galloped, roaring through the Town, ‘Matilda’s House is Burning Down!’ Inspired by British Cheers and Loud Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd, They ran their ladders through a score Of windows on the Ball Room Floor; And took Peculiar Pains to Souse The Pictures up and down the House, Until Matilda’s Aunt succeeded In showing them they were not needed; And even then she had to pay To get the men to go away! It happened that a few Weeks later Her Aunt was off to the Theatre To see that Interesting Play The Second Mrs Tanqueray. She had refused to take her Niece To hear this Entertaining Piece: A Deprivation Just and Wise To Punish her for Telling Lies. That Night a Fire did break out - You should have heard Matilda Shout! You should have heard her Scream and Bawl, And throw the window up and call To People passing in the Street - (The rapidly increasing Heat Encouraging her to obtain Their confidence) - but all in vain! For every time She shouted ‘Fire!’ They only answered ‘Little Liar!’ And therefore when her Aunt returned, Matilda, and the House, were Burned. Hilaire Belloc. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 13/10/2002 18:21:59 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 202403 |
|
Autumn Day Rainer Maria Rilke Translated by Stephen Mitchell Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by. Now overlap the sundials with your shadows, and on the meadows let the wind go free. Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine; grant them a few more warm transparent days, urge them on to fulfillment then, and press the final sweetness into the heavy wine. Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 13/10/2002 18:26:43 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 202405 |
|
Ignorant Before The Heavens Of My Life Rainer Maria Rilke Translated by Stephen Mitchell Ignorant before the heavens of my life, I stand and gaze in wonder. Oh the vastness of the stars. Their rising and descent. How still. As if I didn't exist. Do I have any share in this? Have I somehow dispensed with their pure effect? Does my blood's ebb and flow change with their changes? Let me put aside every desire, every relationship except this one, so that my heart grows used to its farthest spaces. Better that it live fully aware, in the terror of its stars, than as if protected, soothed by what is near. | |
| From: Toni D ® | 14/10/2002 00:11:34 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 202637 |
| But 'tis strange: And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, With us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence. ****** Furtum ingeniosus ad omne, Qui facere assueret, patriae non degener artis, Candida de nigris, et de candentibus atra ****** So may the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? ****** Astutam vapido servas sub pectore vulpem ****** Thou speak'st like him's untutored to repeat: Who makes the fairest show means most deceit. ****** Wir betrugen und schmeicheln niemanden durch so feine Kunstgriffe als uns selbst ****** Altera manu fert lapidem, altera panem ostentat ****** Hinc nunc praemium est, qui recta prava faciunt | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 20/10/2002 05:39:15 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 210197 |
| Ecce Homo by Friedrich Nietzsche Ja! Ich weiß, woher ich stamme! Yes! I know from whence I spring Ungesättigt gleich der Flamme Unsated like the flame Glühe und verzehr’ ich mich. Do I glow and eat myself Licht wird alles, was ich fasse, To light turns everything I grasp Kohle alles, was ich lasse. To cinder everything I leave Flamme bin ich sicherlich! Yes, I sure am flame. (my translation) | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 20/10/2002 06:37:13 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 210209 |
|
Is It For Now Or For Always Philip Larkin Is it for now or for always, The world hangs on a stalk? Is it a trick or a trysting-place, The woods we have found to walk? Is it a mirage or miracle, Your lips that lift at mine: And the suns like a juggler's juggling-balls, Are they a sham or a sign? Shine out, my sudden angel, Break fear with breast and brow, I take you now and for always, For always is always now. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 20/10/2002 07:06:27 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 210213 |
Next, Please Philip Larkin Always too eager for the future, we Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; every day Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear Sparkling armada of promises draw near. How slow they are! And how much time they waste, Refusing to make haste! Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked, Each rope distinct, Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden tits Arching our way, it never anchors; it's No sooner present than it turns to past. Right to the last We think each one will heave to and unload All good into our lives, all we are owed For waiting so devoutly and so long. But we are wrong: Only one ship is seeking us, a black- Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break. | |
| From: jj ® | 20/10/2002 07:29:25 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 210237 |
| yes ... a heartfelt yes. | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 20/10/2002 07:48:16 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 210241 |
| Yes!! Darkly exhilarating!! I heard it's your birthday today Phantom the Poet:) Cannot find a birthday poem in the hurry, so I'll try to post this - copied from one of SM's postings - perhaps it works:) Happy Birthday to our Phantom Poet :):):) 
| |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 20/10/2002 08:14:40 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 210255 |
What? Who? I don't have a birthday! ;) :) | |
| From: Meg ® | 26/10/2002 16:20:24 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 218795 |
| I love this song even though it's not really my normal fare.
I think it's because of the italicized lyrics... Lyrics by Train Now that she's back in the atmosphere With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey She acts like summer and walks like rain Reminds me that there's time to change, hey, hey Since the return from her stay on the moon She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey Tell me did you sail across the sun Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded And that heaven is overrated Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star One without a permanent scar And did you miss me while you were looking at yourself out there Now that she's back from that soul vacation Tracing her way through the constellation, hey, hey She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo Reminds me that there's time to grow, hey, hey Now that she's back in the atmosphere I'm afraid that she might think of me as plain ol' Jane Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day And head back to the Milky Way And tell me, did Venus blow your mind Was it everything you wanted to find And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken Your best friend always sticking up for you even when I know you're wrong Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance five-hour phone conversation The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day And head back toward the Milky Way http://www.trainline.com/ss_lyrics_dropsofjupiter.html | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 31/10/2002 09:59:11 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 224209 |
| Corpus Christi
Carol Anonymous Lully, lulley; lully, lulley; The faucon hath born my make away. He bare hym up, he bare hym down; He bare hym into an orchard brown. In that orchard ther was an hall, That was hangid with purpill and pall. And in that hall ther was a bede; Hit was hangid with gold so rede. And yn that bed ther lythe a knyght, His wowndes bledying day and nyght. By that bedes side ther kneleth a may, And she wepeth both nyght and day. And by that beddes side ther stondith a ston, 'Corpus Christi' wretyn theron. | |
| From: woman:) ® | 31/10/2002 10:15:30 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 224232 |
| Thank you The Phantom Menace:) for bringing up the current
Poetry Thread again:))) My Dream This is my dream, It is my own dream, I dreamt it. I dreamt that my hair was kempt. Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it. (Odgden Nash) | |
| From: woman:) ® | 31/10/2002 10:18:31 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 224239 |
To Put One Brick Upon Another To put one brick upon another, Add a third and then a forth, Leaves no time to wonder whether What you do has any worth. But to sit with bricks around you While the winds of heaven bawl Weighing what you should or can do Leaves no doubt of it at all. (Philip Larkin) ;-) | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 03/11/2002 21:14:00 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 228866 |
| Dedicated to all those who, wherever they are,
even if that be the house where they were born, are "not from 'round
here". They'll say, "She must be from another country" Imtiaz Dharker When I can’t comprehend why they’re burning books or slashing paintings, when they can’t bear to look at god’s own nakedness when they ban the film and gut the seats to stop the play and I ask why they just smile and say, "She must be from another country." When I speak on the phone and the vowel sounds are off when he consonants are hard and they should be soft, they'll catch on at once they'll pin it down they'll explain it right away to their own satisfaction, they'll cluck their tongues and say, "She must be from another country." When my mouth goes up instead of down, when I wear a tablecloth to go to town, when they suspect I'm black or hear I'm gay they won't be surprised, they'll bite their lips and say, "She must be from another country" When I eat up the olives and spit out the pits when I yawn at the opera in the tragic bits when I pee in the vineyard as if it were Bombay, flaunting my bare ass covering my face laughing through my hands they'll turn away, shake their heads quite sadly, "She doesn't know any better," they'll say, "She must be from another country" Maybe there is a country where all of us live, all us of freaks who aren't able to give our loyalty to fat old fools, the crooks and thugs who wear the uniform that gives them the right to wave a flag, puff out their chests, put their feet on our necks, and break their own rules. But from where we are it doesn’t look like a country, It’s more like the cracks that grow between borders behind their backs. That’s where I live. And I’ll be happy to say "I never learned your customs. I don’t remember your language or know your ways. I must be from another country" Englishman in New York Lyrics by Sting I don't drink coffee I take tea my dear I like my toast done on the side And you can hear it in my accent when I talk I'm an Englishman in New York See me walking down Fifth Avenue A walking cane here at my side I take it everywhere I walk I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York If "manners maketh man" as someone said Then he's the hero of the day It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile Be yourself no matter what they say I'm an alien I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York Modesty, propriety can lead to notoriety You could end up as the only one Gentleness, sobriety are rare in this society At night a candle's brighter than the sun Takes more than combat gear to make a man Takes more than license for a gun Confront your enemies, avoid them when you can A gentleman will walk but never run If "manners maketh man" as someone said Then he's the hero of the day It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile Be yourself no matter what they say I'm an alien I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York I'm an alien I'm a legal alien I'm an Englishman in New York | |
| From: Langy ® | 03/11/2002 21:15:30 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 228867 |
| Congratulations on your performance, Woodie. You did us all
proud even if we didn't see you :-) | |
| From: Echelon 8 ® | 03/11/2002 21:48:54 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 228900 |
| For the Ice Princess. Her life, her quilts, her scars. For
all the Good she did, regardless.
Stitches. Stitches? Evil dwells so close at times, it goes unseen, unfelt. Stitched over with time and fear, yet ice does sometimes melt. How can such a scented rose grow from such a poisoned patch? How can such a shapely swan from such an ugly duckling hatch? Stitches? Stitch a patch of years and tears over that mean unloving test. Stitch your wounded heart with thread of love and jagged pain divest. Stitch a silver shining soul into the Lord's loving starry breast. Stitch a life so bright and good into the host of the most blessed. Stitch a quilt of living panels, rich and wise, and angel-pure. Comfort us with that coverlet and our broken spirits cure. It's threads of love that bind us, and seams of pain obscure. You humbled us with your holy light, of that you can be sure. | |
| From: woman:) ® | 03/11/2002 22:58:23 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 228982 |
| ...Dedicated to all those who, wherever
they are, even if that be the house where they were born, are "not from
'round here"... Awwww, the Phantom Menace. There are quite a few of them around here too, thankfully!!:) They'll say, "She must be from another country" That title really rings a bell for me;-) I shall look out for Imtiaz Dharker ======== Hi Echelon 8:))) Welcome back! For the Ice Princess. Her life, her quilts, her scars. For all the Good she did, regardless. Stitches. from the quill of Paul H.?;-) =========== I came across this little gem...does someone know its author? Don't know about the people Approaching my village: Don't know about the people, but all the scarecrows are crooked. :) | |
| From: woman:) ® | 03/11/2002 23:15:24 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 228998 |
| From: Bubblecar ® 11/05/2002
>Subject: Reality in the Dark Discussion Thread post id: 38485 Day-to-day Reality, with cups of tea & wine & Brie, & sweet congeniality, Is ultimate enough for me, & those you'd call "the likes of me" The universe is big & bare & much more emptier than air, It may be ancient & all that But doesn't even wear a hat The cosmos bold & naked spins & dwarfs our hopes & fears & sins & mocks the virtues of our kind - But doesn't even have a mind But human beans, so small & cute, Though humbler than the infinute, We do have minds & thoughts & dreams, & love & hate, & Shortbread Creams ========= I miss Bubblecar | |
| From: sarahs mum ® | 03/11/2002 23:19:57 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 229005 |
| i miss bubblecar. i know he's out there..just over there..if i left the mountain i might even bump into him.. | |
| From: woman:) ® | 03/11/2002 23:28:05 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 229025 |
| sarahs mum:) i know he's out there..just
over there..if i left the mountain i might even bump into him... if
you do could you please let him know that for some of us (many I think)
his departure left a big hole. ========== My last one for this Sunday: I found it in a battered old second hand anthology...and it moved me...reading it out loud makes it very haunting. Dreams in German by David Martin Undated dreams: the sea of Heringsdorf, The Brocken behind Schierke and the snow That falls like sugar on the Christmas trees They're selling in the square. It's hard to know This land in English. What is Grunewald, And what is Weissensee and what the name I seek for her who lies there? All my keys Are lost. Die Schlüssel sind verloren. Do I still, As I return to Brandenburg at night, Declare my landmarks in the tongue I knew, Say Deutscher Wald when I'm with Rosenrot Deep in the forest? No, for life went ill With all my fairies, and in nightmares only I call by name the giant Schlagetot Who killed my people and stays close to me Wherever I may sleep. Yes, not until He dies shall I go home to childhood. Say it now: Say Rosenrot, Schneeweisschen, how they came Tief aus dem Walde, and how Schlagetot Schlug alle tot and took my book away... Snow White and Rose Red, they are not the same, Stretch out your hand and gather what is left: The frieze upon the nursery wall, a light Kept covered on the landing, or the face Of Lotte in Charlottenburg that day: But in translation, like a gazeteer. Du liebes Land! To call my country dear Still burns the mouth. But Buchenwald flows right From German lips into my English ear. | |
| From: boxhead ® | 16/11/2002 14:18:28 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 245568 |
Walking in London this deja-vu feeling i know quite well this psychic confusion this living hell a cosmic connection with someone somewhere is coming from your direction i swear, i swear and i've been running all this time and i'm running out of places to go and i am oh so sick and tired of every face that i know everything i do, everything i say everything in my head, every night, every day i've been east, i've been west, i've been north, i've been south i feel your arms, i hear your voice, i feel your hands, i kiss your mouth and i am walking in london and you are watching me walk talking italian and you are hearing me talk singing in sydney and you were sitting right there feeling you in me - everywhere, everywhere an invisible touch on the back of my neck fingerprints lingering warm breath i'm either going insane or i'm a human wire receiving a signal desire, desire and i've been running all this time and i'm running out of places to go and i am oh so sick and tired of every face that i know everything i do, everything i say everything in my head, every night, every day i've been east, i've been west, i've been north, i've been south i hear your voice, i see your face, i feel your hands, i kiss your mouth and i'm walking in london and you are watching me walk talking italian and you are hearing me talk singing in sydney and you were sitting right there feeling you in me - everywhere, everywhere i've been east, i've been west, i've been north, i've been south i've been east, i've been west, i've been north, i've been south i've been east, i've been west, i've been north, i've been south i feel your arms, i hear your voice, i feel your hands, i kiss your mouth and i'm walking in london and you are watching me walk talking italian and you are hearing me talk singing in sydney and you were sitting right there feeling you in me - everywhere, everywhere Concrete Blonde | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 18/11/2002 00:35:44 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 247122 |
| Since it is still Sunday somewhere...in London (Hi TPM:))and
even in Perth (Hi Pumpkin Head:)) *points down to the LORCA thread*) and
since someone started a thread about Garcia Lorca, one of the greatest
poets...here is a little pearl...to get its full beauty, one should really
*hear* it in *Spanish*... if you have a chance to do that - even if you
dont know Spanish...it's haunting.... Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias (fragment) 1. Cogida and death At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone at five in the afternoon. The wind carried away the cottonwool at five in the afternoon. And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel at five in the afternoon. Now the dove and the leopard wrestle at five in the afternoon. And a thigh with a desolate horn at five in the afternoon. The bass-string struck up at five in the afternoon. Arsenic bells and smoke at five in the afternoon. Groups of silence in the corners at five in the afternoon. And the bull alone with a high heart! At five in the afternoon. When the sweat of snow was coming at five in the afternoon, when the bull ring was covered in iodine at five in the afternoon. Death laid eggs in the wound at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. Exactly at five o'clock in the afternoon. A coffin on wheels in his bed at five in the afternoon. Bones and flutes resound in his ears at five in the afternoon. Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead at five in the afternoon. The room was iridescent with agony at five in the afternoon. In the distance the gangrene now comes at five in the afternoon. Horn of the lily through green groins at five in the afternoon. The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon, and the crowd was breaking the windows at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon! 2. The Spilled Blood I will not see it! Tell the moon to come for I do not want to see the blood of Ignacio on the sand. I will not see it! The moon wide open. Horse of still clouds, and the grey bull ring of dreams with willows in the barreras. I will not see it! Let my memory kindle! Warm the jasmines of such minute whiteness! I will not see it! The cow of the ancient world passed her sad tongue over a snout of blood spilled on the sand, and the bulls of Guissando, partly death and partly stone, bellowed like two centuries sated with treading the earth. No. I do not want to see it! I will not see it! Ignacio goes up the tiers with all his death on his shoulders. He sought for the dawn but the dawn was no more. He seeks for his confident profile and the dream bewilders him. He sought for his beautiful body and encountered his opened blood. I will not see it! I do not want to hear it spurt each time with less strength: that spurt that illuminates the tiers of seats, and spills over the corduroy and the leather of a thirsty multitude. Who shouts that I should come near! Do not ask me to see it! His eyes did not close when he saw the horns near, but the terrible mothers lifted their heads. And across the ranches, an air of secret voices rose, shouting to celestial bulls, herdsmen of pale mist. There was no prince in Seville who could compare to him, nor sword like his sword nor heart so true. Like a river of lions was his marvellous strength, and like a marble toroso his firm drawn moderation. The air of Andalusian Rome gilded his head where his smile was a spikenard of wit and intelligence. What a great torero in the ring! What a good peasant in the sierra! How gentle with the sheaves! How hard with the spurs! How tender with the dew! How dazzling the fiesta! How tremendous with the final banderillas of darkness! But now he sleeps without end. Now the moss and the grass open with sure fingers the flower of his skull. And now his blood comes out singing; singing along marshes and meadows, sliding on frozen horns, faltering soulless in the mist, stumbling over a thousand hoofs like a long, dark, sad tongue, to form a pool of agony close to the starry Guadalquivir. Oh, white wall of Spain! Oh, black bull of sorrow! Oh, hard blood of Ignacio! Oh, nightingale of his veins! No. I will not see it! No chalice can contain it, no swallows can drink it, no frost of light can cool it, nor song nor deluge of white lilies, no glass can cover it with silver. No. I will not see it! | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 18/11/2002 08:05:52 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 247168 |
Hi Woman:):) Still sunday here... ;) Here's a couple for you... The Meaning of Existence Les Murray Everything except language knows the meaning of existence. Trees, planets, rivers, time know nothing else. They express it moment by moment as the universe. Even this fool of a body lives it in part, and would have full dignity within it but for the ignorant freedom of my talking mind. Peace on Earth William Carlos Williams The Archer is wake! The Swan is flying! Gold against blue An Arrow is lying. There is hunting in heaven-- Sleep safe till to-morrow. The Bears are abroad! The Eagle is screaming! Gold against blue Their eyes are gleaming! Sleep! Sleep safe till to-morrow. The Sisters lie With their arms intertwining; Gold against blue Their hair is shining! The Serpent writhes! Orion is listening! Gold against blue His sword is glistening! Sleep! There is hunting in heaven-- Sleep safe till to-morrow. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 18/11/2002 08:10:47 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 247171 |
A Dream Within a Dream Edgar Allan Poe Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 01/12/2002 00:36:15 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 261578 |
from Song of Myself Walt Whitman Trippers and askers surround me, People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation, The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new, My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues, The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love, The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations, Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events; These come to me days and nights and go from me again, But they are not the Me myself. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. | |
| From: Angel Eyes ® | 01/12/2002 19:56:42 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 262093 |
| From: ern malleyscrub ® 01/12/2002 19:54:29 Subject: Pure Science post id: 262092 Is There Such a thing as Pure Science? We walk in the world of fact and physics, we talk in terms of the field of math, science measures the details of our lives logic guides our minds beyond religions mystic path, through fields of forces, through fractal courses, through tangents,cosines,elements,doubt, through vast millenia,and blip nanoseconds, we challenge those questions that might never be worked out. These journeys are both free,and are caught by the rapture and capture of pure thought. I ask us not to sully these echoing halls with the distraction of gossip,myth,and magic, there is more amazement in the real universe than in all of fictions battles,joyful,tragic, and within religions promise is merely a curse. Let's find a noble note to our intellectual airs talk of noble gas might easily smell like a fart there's little so brittle as scientific pride, it may not be our aim to turn truth into art, but surely,as the world turns, the world is changed by what we feel inside. Science is not merely information,or dry bones, science is not mere whim or numbered map, science speaks through many voices and choices, science seeks to avoid the well hidden trap of the popular and easy answers and the heroic but mistaken ideal, science may stumble,like those dancers who seek to express what they feel but are swept away by the musics beat and find the floor too slick for their feet. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 01/12/2002 20:05:29 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 262097 |
| They Said It Could Not Be Done Benny Hill They said that it could not be done, He said "Just let me try." They said, "Other men have tried and failed," He answered, "But not I." They said, "It is impossible," He said, "There's no such word." He closed his mind, he closed his heart... To everything he heard. He said, "Within the heart of man, There is a tiny seed. It grows until it blossoms, It's called the will to succeed. Its roots are strength, its stem is hope, Its petals inspiration, Its thorns protect its strong green leaves, With grim determination. "Its stamens are its skills Which help to shape each plan, For there's nothing in the universe Beyond the scope of man." They thought that it could not be done, Some even said they knew it, But he faced up to what could not be done... And he couldn't bloody do it! | |
| From: ern malleyscrub ® | 01/12/2002 20:09:34 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 262100 |
| post script- gee,didnt look to find poetry thread! sorry 'bout that! | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 22/12/2002 21:15:12 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 287375 |
| because it's Sunday...and because I have a
toothache... Reflections Dental by Phillis McGinley How pure, how beautiful, how fine Do teeth on television shine! No flutist flutes, no dances twirls But comes equipped with matching pearls. Gleeful announcers all are born With sets like rows of hybrid corn. Clowns, critics, clergy, commentators, Ventriloquists and roller skaters, M.C.s who beat their palms together, The girl who diagrams the weather, The crooner crooning for his supper - All flash white treasures, lower and upper. With miles of smiles the airwaves teem, And each an orthodontist’s dream. “Twould please my eye as gold a miser’s - One charmer with uncapped incisors. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 24/12/2002 11:39:31 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 288391 |
|
O Tannenbaum O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum Wie treu sind deine Blätter Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit, Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit. O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, Wie treu sind deine Blätter. O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, Du kannst mir sehr gefallen. Wie oft hat nicht zur Weihnachtszeit Ein Baum von dir mich hoch erfreut. O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, Du kannst mir sehr gefallen. O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, Dein Kleid will mich was lehren. Die Hoffnung und Beständigkeit, Gibt Trost und Kraft zu jeder Zeit! O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum, Das will dein Kleid mich lehren. | |
| From: Farnsworth ® | 24/12/2002 11:46:21 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 288396 |
| Bloody pine trees and winter talk for an Aussie Christmas.
Shame on you TPM, be at home among the gum trees | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 24/12/2002 11:53:02 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 288400 |
Oh I am at home with the gum trees... This is just for those who feel at home when the world is cold...  | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 24/12/2002 12:13:03 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 288422 |
| *popPing* Awwwwwww The Phantom Menace:) Oh I am at home with the gum trees... This is just for those who feel at home when the world is cold... Thank you and for the "Tannenbaum"...you represent what for me is the quintessence of what makes many "Australians" soooo adorable.:) Yes, around Christmas I'm homesick for Germany and for Snow and for Pine Trees.... | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 12/01/2003 00:22:58 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 296545 |
| The author of this poem, Arthur Guiterman, American
humorist, poet, journalist, and librettist, born of American parents at
Vienna, Austria, Nov. 20, 1871, died exactly 60 years today,
11.1.1943. "Ode To The Amoeba" Recall from Time's abysmal chasm That piece of primal protoplasm The First Amoeba, strangely splendid, From whom we're all of us descended. That First Amoeba, weirdly clever, Exists today and shall forever, Because he reproduced by fission; He split himself, and each division And subdivision deemed it fitting To keep on splitting, splitting, splitting; So, whatsoe'er their billions be, All, all amoebas still are he. Zoologists discern his features In every sort of breathing creatures, Since all of every living species, No matter how their breed increases Or how their ranks have been recruited, From him alone were evoluted. King Solomon, the Queen of Sheba And Hoover sprang from that amoeba; Columbus, Shakespeare, Darwin, Shelley Derived from that same bit of jelly. So famed is he and well-connected, His statue ought to be erected, For you and I and William Beebe Are undeniably amoebae! from:http://www.newtrix.com/poems/backpage.htm#G | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 17/01/2003 09:09:36 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 299141 |
|
The Stars by Mary Mapes Dodge They wait all day unseen by us, unfelt; Patient they bide behind the day's full glare; And we who watched the dawn when they were there, Thought we had seen them in the daylight melt, While the slow sun upon the earthlink knelt. Because the teeming sky seemed void and bare, When we explored it through the dazzled air, We had no thought that there all day they dwelt. Yet were they over us, alive and true. In the vast shades far up above the blue, -- The brooding shades beyond our daylight ken -- Serene and patient in their conscious light Ready to sparkle for our joy again, -- The eternal jewels of the short-lived night. | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 22/01/2003 12:43:20 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 306113 |
| I like A.A.Milne's poetry. Where's the
poetry thread?.. A votre service :) But we are still waiting for answers from the Lab, where the losts posts have gone... | |
| From: Pete ® | 22/01/2003 12:49:38 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 306131 |
| (Best recited out loud with a marching beat) Lines and Squares A.A.Milne Whenever I walk in the London street I'm ever so careful to watch my feet And I walk in the squares... And the masses of bears Who wait on the corners all ready to eat The sillies who walk on the lines in the street Go back to their lairs... And I say to them "Bears! "Just look how I'm walking in all the squares!" And the little bears say to each other "He's mine! "As soon as he's silly and steps on a line!" And some of the bigger bears try to pretend That nobody cares Whether you walk on the lines or the squares... But only the sillies believe their talk It's ever so 'portant how you walk And it's ever so jolly to call out "Bears! "Just watch me walking in all the squares!" | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 22/01/2003 13:08:15 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 306181 |
| (Best recited out loud with a marching
beat) Lines and Squares A.A.Milne... I did, it marched ;-) :D =========================== Someone challenged me once to find even "one dud" by Emily Dickinson...I didn't. I wonder what she would have posted in a few of the present threads... 435 Much Madness is divinest Sense To a discerning Eye Much Sense - the starkest Madness 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail Assent - and you are sane - Demur - you're straightway dangerous - And handled with a Chain - (Emily Dickinson) | |
| From: Woman:) ® | 25/01/2003 18:55:28 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 312395 |
From: Bubblecar ® 25/01/2003 11:33:05 Subject: re: Mixing drinks post id: 311906 Well, last night ruby mixed: Chardonnay with Whiskey, & Cooper's Ale with Rum - (The former made her frisky, The latter made her numb) But she downed it all heroically & just for science' sake, To find out if such mixtures Would cause her skull to ache.... But luckily they didn't & she woke up feeling fine, To break her fast with Dubonnet Washed down with strong Port Wine! :) From: ruby. ® 25/01/2003 18:27:50 Subject: re: Mixing drinks post id: 312363 *wipes tear away from eye* That's beautiful,Bubblecar. Even nicer that you wrote numb and not dumb... :) Thanks to all for the humour too,rather takes away the need for self medication,does humour... | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 09/02/2003 04:52:02 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 332964 |
|
The Sun Rising John Donne Busy old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late schoolboys, and sour prentices, Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long: If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear: "All here in one bed lay." She is all states, and all princes I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compar'd to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy 's we, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. | |
| From: The Phantom Menace ® | 16/02/2003 11:01:22 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 343564 |
Three takes on Relativity... Relativity A. H. Reginald Buller There was a young lady named Bright Whose speed was far faster than light; She set out one day, In a relative way And returned on the previous night. Relativity David Herbert Lawrence I like relativity and quantum theories because I don't understand them and they make me feel as if space shifted about like a swan that can't settle, refusing to sit still and be measured; and as if the atom were an impulsive thing always changing its mind. Relativity Robert Service I looked down on a daisied lawn To where a host of tiny eyes Of snow and gold from velvet shone And made me think of starry skies. I looked up to the vasty night Where stars were very small indeed, And in their galaxy of light They made me think of daised mead. I took a daisy in my hold; Its snowy rays were tipped with rose, And with its tiny boss of gold I thought--how like a star it glows! I dreamt I plucked from Heaven's field A star and held it in my hand. Said I: "The might of God I wield, The Great and Small I understand." For when the All is said and done, In Time and Space I seem to see A daisy equal to a sun, Between heart-beats--Eternity Well it is Sunday! | |
| From: Preacher77 ® | 16/02/2003 11:30:59 |
| Subject: re: Poetry VIII | post id: 343586 |
| I don't think this has much to do with science, but I just
wrote it and decided to share it with you. What an "amazing coincidence" that there was a "Poetry" thread here ready for me to paste into? God KNOWS how that would happen ;) PROCRASTINATION Inc. We have a major problem here, this fire can escape; We need to put a BACK-BURN in, to keep it in its place; But no, we cannot do it yet, decisions must be made: By those back in an office, mostly those more highly paid. We start the ball a rolling, contact with them through the air; We tell them of the danger, of the grave concern we share; We explain there must be action, that this line must go in now; To be told to wait till they get back, or face a heated row. The office staff controllers, in a huddle post our call; Discuss the situation, draw some lines upon a wall; Some may pore their maps with avid eyes, discuss the long-term plan; While we sit back and wait this out, all useless to a man. Have they thought of doing this or that, I think they should go here; Are the lunches ready to be sent, they’re hot on that round here; The forecast is for rain you know, so that should put it out; And wait we do, us useless men, and watch the fire rout. Procrastination Inc has caused the fire to escape; We relay this too through the air, suggest another take; But WAIT they say, don’t do that yet, we’ll have to think this through; We’ll get back to you when we can, to tell you what to do. This is the “modern” way that we fight fires in this age; Decisions come down from the top, through ether thick and vague; The Fire-Fighters ON THE LINE, don’t dare this system buck; So fires grow, while those who KNOW, could put them out - with luck. These words might seem to many an attack on rear control; But for me it goes much deeper, to our country’s heart and soul; For these measures have arisen through the LITIGATION line; Where if things go wrong, you could be faced, with Gaol or hefty fine. The Lawyers and the litigants, don’t see like you or I; They only see the dollar sign, or tears they had to cry; They cannot see decisions made, were made with good intent; And this mindset blames the fireman - after the event. We NEED the rear controllers to ensure that things get done; We need them for logistics, Air Attack, but not for one; We don’t need them to prevent escapes, can’t have the TIME DELAY; For it leads to bigger fires at the end of the long day. ******************** | |
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