From: Woman:) ® 03/04/2002 12:22:05
Subject: Poetry VII post id: 2007

by
Eric Idle
(whose birthday was in the last few days)
last verse from
The Meaning of Life
The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
In all of the directions it can whizz
As fast as it can go, at the speed of light, you know,
Twelve million miles a minute, and that's the fastest speed there is.

So remember, when you're feeling very small and insecure,
How amazingly unlikely is your birth,
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space,
'Cause there's bugger all down here on Earth.


pssst, could someone cleverer than I put up the links to the previous poetry threads, please?:)

From: Shell ® 03/04/2002 12:35:01
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 2022
just making sure this is in it - havent time to see if it is, but just in case its missed:)

www.arabiannights.org/rubaiyat/index2.html
From: pandrew ® 03/04/2002 12:46:33
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 2034
That's not the meaning of life, I think it's the universe song or something. The Meaning of Life:
Why are we here
What's life all about
is God really real
or is there some doubt

Well tonight we're going to sort it all out
This is the meaning of life....
From: pandrew ® 03/04/2002 12:50:22
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 2037
What's the point of all this hoax
Is it the chicken and egg time, are we just yolks?
Or perhaps, we're just one of God's little jokes
Ca ces't the meaning of life

Is life just a game where we make up the rules
while we're searching for something to say
or are we just simply spiraling coils
of self-replicating dna...
From: geoff d ® 03/04/2002 13:29:01
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 2083
MAN IN PINK: Whenever life gets you down, Mrs. Brown,
And things seem hard or tough,
[clunk]
And people are stupid, obnoxious, or daft,
And you feel that you've had quite enough,

[boom]

[singing]
Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving
And revolving at nine hundred miles an hour,
That's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned,
A sun that is the source of all our power.
The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see
Are moving at a million miles a day
In an outer spiral arm, at forty thousand miles an hour,
Of the galaxy we call the 'Milky Way'.

Our galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars.
It's a hundred thousand light years side to side.
It bulges in the middle, sixteen thousand light years thick,
But out by us, it's just three thousand light years wide.
We're thirty thousand light years from galactic central point.
We go 'round every two hundred million years,
And our galaxy is only one of millions of billions
In this amazing and expanding universe.

[boom]

[slurp]

The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding
In all of the directions it can whizz
As fast as it can go, at the speed of light, you know,
Twelve million miles a minute, and that's the fastest speed there is.
So remember, when you're feeling very small and insecure,
How amazingly unlikely is your birth,
And pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space,
'Cause there's bugger all down here on Earth.

[clunk]

From http://www.montypython.net/meaningmm3.php

From: andy 03/04/2002 20:22:21
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 2649
now that kept me going. ta Z.
From: gav ® 03/04/2002 21:47:59
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 2776
hey woman and all, not really a poem but
seeing as we are on 'the meaning of life'


[boardroom discussion about results of meaning of life project]

michael palin: "firstly, people are not wearing enough hats.
second, matter is energy. in the universe there are many energy fields which we cannot normally perceive. some energies have a spiritual source which act upon a person's soul. however this soul does not exist ab initio as orthodox christianity teaches, but has to be brought into existence through a process of guided self-observation. however this is rarely achieved due to man's unique ability to be distracted from spiritual matters by everyday trivia."

terry jones (i think) : "what was that about hats?"

[enter the pirate accountants........]
From: C.O. ® 09/04/2001 02:29:07
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 5172
I was gonna read the posts
but the forum died
I was gonna read the FAQ
but the forum died
I ended up in damned Yahoo
and do you know why?
‘cause the forum died,
the forum died
the forum died

I surfed the internet
‘cause the forum died
I had to Google into the archives
‘cause the forum died
I even read the ” ORANGE” thread
and do you know why??
‘cause the forum died
the forum died
the forum died

From: The Phantom Menace ® 09/04/2001 02:37:46
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 5175
I REASON, earth is short,
And anguish absolute.
And many hurt;
But what of that?

I reason, we could die:
The best vitality
Cannot excel decay;
But what of that?

I reason that in heaven
Somehow, it will be even,
Some new equation given;
But what of that?


Emily D.

:)

;)

(not here really)

From: sarahs mum ® 09/04/2002 11:53:41
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 5267
as time goes whizzing by me
and the days are but a blurr
i will drop into the forearm
to find out where i are.

i've dropped into the forearm now
and much to my chagrin
none of my bestest buddies
are posting there therein.

das Forum ist unterbrochen
unterbrochen it surely is
will the lab rats fix it soon?
coz its flat and has no fizz.

a fizzy forum is what i need
to make my gob a griff
so fix it now you dirty rats
and give us back a liff.
From: felice 23/04/2002 11:57:14
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 21527
.
From: sarahs mum ® 25/04/2002 15:11:20
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 24962
http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/~zierke/steeleye.span/songs/lowlandsofholland.html
[Trad. (Child #92) Arr. Steeleye Span]


The love that I have chosen I therewith be content
And the salt sea shall be frozen before that I repent
Repent it shall I never until the day I dee
But the lowlands of Holland has twined my love and me.

My love lies in the salt sea and I am on the side
It's enough to break a young thing's heart what lately was a bride.
But lately was a bonny bride with pleasure in her e'e.
But the lowlands of Holland has twined my love and me.

My love he built a bonny ship and set her on the sea
With seven score good mariners to bear her company.
But there's three score of them is sunk and three score dead at sea
And the lowlands of Holland has twined my love and me.

My love has built anither ship and set her on the main
And nane but twenty mariners all for to bring her hame.
But the weary wind began to rise, the sea began to roll
And my love then and his bonny ship turned withershins about.

There shall nae a quiff come on my head nor comb come in my hair
And shall neither coal nor candlelight shine in my bower mair.
And neither will I marry until the day I dee
For I never had a love but one and he's drowned in the sea.

Oh hold your tongue my daughter dear, be still and be content.
There's men enough in Galloway, you need not sore lament.
Oh there's men enough in Galloway, alas there's none for me
For I never had a love but one and he's drowned in the sea.

From: H.  ® 25/04/2002 15:16:13
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 24968

(Not sure who the author is... maybe someone we know... (or not))


It's only water
In a stranger's tear
Looks are deceptive
But distinctions are clear

A foreign body
And a foreign mind
Never welcome
In the land of the blind

You may look like we do
Talk like we do
But you know how it is
You're not one of us

Not one of us
No you're not one of us
Not one of us
No you're not one of us

There's safety in numbers
When you learn to divide
How can we be in
If there is no outside

All shades of opinion
Feed an open mind
But your values are twisted
Let us help you unwind

You may look like we do
Talk like we do
But you know how it is
You're not one of us

Not one of us
No you're not one of us

From: Woman:) ® 25/04/2002 15:28:54
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 24986
:)...Not sure who the author is... maybe someone we know... (or not)

may be I dont know him, but he knows about me;-)

Here is one of Robert Frost's (1875-1963) most famous ones:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged ina yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads converged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference



From: beowulf ® 25/04/2002 15:35:38
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 24997

Here is one of Robert Frost's (1875-1963) most famous ones:

The Road Not Taken

I love that poem......I studied that in yr 10 English. I also like his poem about the apple and the cow (both in the same poem). Does anyone know what this poem is called?
From: H.  ® 25/04/2002 15:48:41
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 25019

Woman, sometimes the road less-travelled, is less travelled, for a reason.



Crumblin' Down (J. Mellencamp, 1983)


Some people, ain't no damn good.
You can't trust 'em, you can't love 'em.
No good deed goes unpunished.
I don't mind, being their whipping boy.
I've had that pleasure for years and years.

No no I never was a sinner - but tell me what else can I do?
Second best is what you get 'til you learn to bend the rules.
And time respects no person - what you lift up must fall.
They're waiting outside to claim my tumblin' walls...

Saw my picture in the paper!
Read the news around my face.
And now some people, don't want to treat me the same!

(When the walls, come tumbling down...)

Some people, say I'm obnoxious and lazy.
I'm uneducated - my opinion means nothin'.
But I know - I'm a real good dancer...
Don't need to look over my shoulder, to see what I'm after.

Everybody's got their problems - ain't no new news here,
I'm the same old problem you've been havin' for years.
Don't confuse the problem with the issue girl, It's perfectly clear...

Just a human desire to have you come near.
Wanna put my arms around you,
Feel your breath in my ear...
You can bend me, you can break me,
But you'd better stand clear!

When the walls, come tumblin' down!
When the walls, come tumblin' tumblin', crumblin' crumblin', down...

From: Toni 25/04/2002 15:52:46
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 25023
Martha say she don't need no stinking man making no decisions for her.
She don't need his money, she don't need him between the sheets,
She ain't gonna sleep on the edge of the bed for no stinking man.
And that's the way she lives 'cause I saw her last night
Pouring water on a drowning man in the moonlight, saying:
Hi-de-hi-de-hi, brother,
Hi-de-hi-de-hey now, Martha.
Hi-de-hi-de-hi, sister.
Say what, hey you, look out, Martha.

Martha say she don't need no revolver to shoot some idiot down.
She can do it with her eyes, she can do it with her smile,
She can do it with a conversation just walking down the hall.
Man, now ain't that the truth 'cause I saw her take a bite out of
Some macho dude laying some corn ball line on her last night, saying:


Say what, look out, shake it up Martha.

Martha say say she ain't changin', no nothin' for nobody for
no damn good reason.
It's the way that she wants it, it's the way that she gets it.
Well, the girl loves playing hardball, it leaves me in a
no win situation saying:



Martha say she don't need no stinking man making no decisions for her.

From: beowulf ® 25/04/2002 15:56:28
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 25027

Found it.

THE COW IN APPLE-TIME - Robert Frost

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.
From: 4D Specs ® 25/04/2002 16:01:27
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 25034
I rediscoved this song recently. I think it's good.

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: H.  ® 25/04/2002 16:11:11
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 25047

Well (Toni)... speaking of Big Daddy...


-To Live- (John Mellencamp)


Sometimes fly a little high,
Then you know better dig yourself.
Sometimes get a little lost,
Then you know you got to find yourself.
Happens to everyone and Lord, I don't know why.

I want, I want,
I need, I need.
I want, I want to live,
To see it all,
Laugh, touch it all.

Sometimes we say silly things,
And act like two little kids.
Like the tail wagging the dog,
We both get hurt by what was said,
That's okay, that's allright with me,
...

I want, I want,
I need, I need.
I want, I want to live,
To see it all,
Laugh, touch it all.


From: boxhead ® 28/04/2002 02:05:24
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 27066

Lovecats

We move like cagey tigers
We couldn't get closer than this
The way we lovecats
The way we talk
The way we stalk
The way we kiss
We slip through the streets
While everyone sleeps
Getting bigger and sleeker
And wider and brighter
We bite and scratch and scream all night
Let's go and
Throw all the songs we know
Into the sea
You and me
All these years and no one heard
I'll show you in spring
It's a treacherous thing
We missed you hissed the lovecats

We're so wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully
Wonderfully pretty
Oh you know that I'd do anything for you
We should have each other to tea huh?
We should have each other with cream
Then curl up by the fire
And sleep for awhile
It's the grooviest thing
It's the perfect dream

Hand in hand
Is the only way to land
And always the right way round
Not broken in pieces
Like hated little meeces
How could we miss
Someone as dumb as this

I love you ... let's go
Oh ... solid gone ...
How could we miss someone as dumb
As this?


The Cure

From: boxhead ® 28/04/2002 02:07:47
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 27067

Lovecats

We move like cagey tigers
We couldn't get closer than this
The way we lovecats
The way we talk
The way we stalk
The way we kiss
We slip through the streets
While everyone sleeps
Getting bigger and sleeker
And wider and brighter
We bite and scratch and scream all night
Let's go and
Throw all the songs we know
Into the sea
You and me
All these years and no one heard
I'll show you in spring
It's a treacherous thing
We missed you hissed the lovecats

We're so wonderfully wonderfully wonderfully
Wonderfully pretty
Oh you know that I'd do anything for you
We should have each other to tea huh?
We should have each other with cream
Then curl up by the fire
And sleep for awhile
It's the grooviest thing
It's the perfect dream

Hand in hand
Is the only way to land
And always the right way round
Not broken in pieces
Like hated little meeces
How could we miss
Someone as dumb as this

I love you ... let's go
Oh ... solid gone ...
How could we miss someone as dumb
As this?


The Cure

From: The Phantom Menace ® 02/05/2002 02:54:18
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 30442

Well, it is Mayday (somewhere in the world)....


Faces In The Street

Henry Lawson

They lie, the men who tell us for reasons of their own
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet
While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street
Flowing in, flowing in,
To the beat of hurried feet
Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,
Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street
Grinding body, grinding soul,
Yielding scarce enough to eat
Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,
Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat
Drifting round, drifting round,
To the tread of listless feet
Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street
Ebbing out, ebbing out,
To the drag of tired feet,
While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,
For while the short 'large hours' toward the longer 'small hours' trend,
With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street
Sinking down, sinking down,
Battered wreck by tempests beat
A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,
For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street
Rotting out, rotting out,
For the lack of air and meat
In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
They haunted me the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
Flitting by with noiseless feet,
And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.

Once I cried: 'Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,
To a drum's dull distant beat,
And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.

Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet
Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street
The dreadful everlasting strife
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death the city's cruel street.


...and that reminds me of this...


London

William Blake<
From: The Phantom Menace ® 02/05/2002 02:55:18
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 30443

"bugger"

...and that reminds me of this...


London

William Blake

I wander through each chartered street
Near where the chartered Thames doth flow,
And mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear;
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear.

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals;
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.

But most in midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts each newborn infant's tear
And blights with sighs the marriage hearse.


...whose author's grave I inadvertently came across on the weekend, in Bunhill Fields...

...naturally there is a photo available at www.findagrave.com...




...and I'm sure there is a sub-theme in here somewhere...


Deus Absconditus

Edward Dowden

Since Thou dost clothe Thyself to-day in cloud,
Lord God in heaven, and no voice low or loud
Proclaims Thee,--see, I turn me to the Earth,
Its wisdom and its sorrow and its mirth,
Thy Earth perchance, but sure my very own,
And precious to me grows the clod, the stone,
A voiceless moor's brooding monotony,
A keen star quivering through the sunset dye,
Young wrinkled beech leaves, saturate with light,
The arching wave's suspended malachite;
I turn to men, Thy sons perchance, but sure
My brethren, and no face shall be too poor
To yield me some unquestionable gain
Of wonder, laughter, loathing, pity, pain,
Some dog-like craving caught in human eyes,
Some new-wak'd spirit's April ecstacies;
These will not fail nor foil me; while I live
There will be actual truck in take and give,
But Thou hast foil'd me; therefore undistraught,
I cease from seeking what will not be sought,
Or sought, will not be found through joy or fear;
If still Thou claimst me, seek me. I am here.


sweet dreams ;)
From: The Max Factor ® 02/05/2002 06:27:05
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 30456
Who was that masked man??

Ah, Blake. Ooooooh.

Max
From: boxhead ® 03/05/2002 13:17:05
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 32483

Another Brick in the Wall Part 2

We don't need no education
We dont need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

"Wrong, Do it again!"
"If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?"
"You! Yes, you behind the bikesheds, stand still laddy!"


Outside the Wall

All alone, or in two's,
The ones who really love you
Walk up and down outside the wall.
Some hand in hand
And some gathered together in bands.
The bleeding hearts and artists
Make their stand.

And when they've given you their all
Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy
Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

"Isn't this where...."

"...we came in?"


Roger Waters, Pink Flyod.

From: Woman:) ® 05/05/2002 12:25:52
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 33985

Hi 'Prodigial Son', The Phantom Menace:)))

What a lovely surprise to see you, all the way from London:):)... your elegant contributions are sooooo missed, especially on Sundays :-(

Ahhh so you are retracing the steps of William Blake..."...whose [...] grave I inadvertently came across on the weekend, in Bunhill Fields..."

*Inadvertently"??...You must have helped this encounter along a little, or did you go to the cemetery "inadvertently"?..;-)

The names you will find in English and European cemeteries would have to bowl anyone over who has ever heard anything of the past...

Here is one of Blake, which might seem a little quaint, but only if we forget that it was written in 1789:


The Little Black Boy

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kisséd me,
And pointing to the east, began to say:

"Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noon day.

"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love,
And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,
Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love & care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.' "

Thus did my mother say and kisséd me;
And thus I say to little English boy:
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.




From: Rev Dr Doug ® 05/05/2002 12:32:47
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 33987
On the subject of poetry, I have to admit: I don't get it.

I mean, it just doesn't 'move' me.

I'm not saying anything like it's bad or otherwise; just that I don't feel anything for it. But why is that?

I'm intelligent enough, have emotions, and certainly can appreciate beauty in may forms. But I don't get poetry.

Do I need to attend a poetry appreciation class?

If I did need to attend in order to appreciate it, would that not saying something significant about it? That I needed to be instructed before I could appreciate it?

Hmmmm
From: Woman:) ® 05/05/2002 12:36:50
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 33989
Hi Rev Dr. Doug:)

On the subject of poetry, I have to admit: I don't get it.

I mean, it just doesn't 'move' me...

I'm no expert, but if "you dont get it" it's simply that you have not come across *your* kind of poetry yet.

But have you never gotten goosepimples with any song for example?...Or something what a lover said to you?...*That's* poetry (in my ...errr...book)...

fwiw :)


From: Rev Dr Doug ® 05/05/2002 12:41:41
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 33991
There are certainly film clips, movies, and songs that do that, but not poetry.

Maybe I haven't got a poetry appreciation gland.
From: ruby. ® 05/05/2002 12:45:19
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 33993
Oh,come on,Rev.
Surely you can't help but be moved when you hear the stirring lines "The boy stood on the burning deck........"
From: Woman:) ® 05/05/2002 12:47:00
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 33994
There are certainly film clips, movies, and songs that do that, but not poetry.

The difference between poetry and non-poetry is a judgement - and *you* be the judge:). Gosh, some film clips and movies and songs *are* poetry !!:) Some people say that "Mathematics" is Poetry, they get goosepimples ....

Geometry
is Poetry (whoops, that even rhymes hehehe)...



Last one from me for this Sunday...my personal favorite by Robert Frost:)


Fire and Ice

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: Wazup ® 05/05/2002 13:53:52
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34028
>>Maybe I haven't got a poetry appreciation gland.
<<

Maybe I haven't got a poetry secretion gland?

From: My Evil Twin, Beryl ® 05/05/2002 14:01:25
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34031
Wazup, it's a bit like the Andrew-Lloyd Webber syndrome...if you're really strong and very careful, you can avoid poetry and musicals.


;-)
From: Kelvin ® 05/05/2002 14:36:45
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34048
Friends

We all need friends
In Oh so many ways
We all need friends
In Oh so many ways

We care for our friends and
They care for us
But at the End of the day
Friends are just that
They are friends

So why does anger with a friend
Hurt and pain so much
Why does it upset us so
We should be able to walk away
and say "so what" when a friend and I fight
But we cannot do that
It is so hard to do
Beacuse our friends mean so much to us too.

Not even fighting
No raised voices or brows
Just a stern tone is all that is needed
To upset this little brown cow

They are not angry with me
But on the inside I am angry with me
I am angry with me
for casuing my friend
To have to be stern

Please forgive me my friend
please forgive me soon
so that the weight of the world can be released
From my heart and my cares.

From me to a friend

Kelvin Fox

Telfer Gold Mine WA
May 5 2002


From: misscarol ® 05/05/2002 14:56:21
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34050
I loved my friend
He went away from me
This poem ends
As soft as it began
I loved my friend
From: jj ® 05/05/2002 15:05:02
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34053
and again ...

to a friend ...

Let us join in the task
We could share the load.
You take part of mine;
I could take part of yours?

Between us, across distances, the load is lighter.
From: Zarkov ® 05/05/2002 15:08:14
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34055
Hey JJ, come to visit, thanks for the hospitality, friday night >:)
From: jj ® 05/05/2002 15:09:55
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34056
It was a beaut change of scene ... good fun ... :)
From: Zarkov ® 05/05/2002 15:20:14
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34061
Yea, you guys are just so peaceful and full of the joy d'vie ! great change, loved it!!!

From: H. ® 05/05/2002 15:40:12
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34064

"Rev Dr Doug", poetry is pattern-appreciation.

Which is also what science is.

I strongly suspect that scientists who don't "get" poetry ( or other forms of art) are not very good scientists.


(Hmm… I don't "get" opera. Or jazz. Or… hmmm… do you think… ?)


In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.

- Paul Dirac


From: Woman:) ® 05/05/2002 15:53:50
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34069

...In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite....


tsk tsk tsk, but also *lol*. Very apt description of (some) post-modern poetry ;-).




From: Fred ® 05/05/2002 19:43:46
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 34158
Feelings

To feel sad is good
To feel good is sad
Oh sadness
thank you
For this happy life I lead.

Fred
From: Deckert ® 11/05/2002 01:17:54
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 38512
From: Bubblecar ® 11/05/2002 00:39:06

Subject: re: 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


Thanks to boxhead for the link. This poem reminds me so much of Spike Milligan's work. I don't often get enthusiastic about poetry.
From: Deckert ® 11/05/2002 01:18:00
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 38514
From: Bubblecar ® 11/05/2002 00:39:06

Subject: re: 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


Thanks to boxhead for the link. This poem reminds me so much of Spike Milligan's work. I don't often get enthusiastic about poetry.
From: Woman:) ® 11/05/2002 23:35:13
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39086
"It's always Sunday somewhere" and nearly Sundy here already, so:

(
449

I died for Beauty - but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room -

He questioned softly "Why I failed?"
"For Beauty," I replied -
"And - I - for Truth - Themself are One -
We Brethren, are, " He said -

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night -
We talked between the Rooms -
Until the Moss had reached our lips -
And covered up - our names -


(a friend said that it is difficult to find a "dud Emily Dickinson"...I agree:))

From: Woman:) ® 11/05/2002 23:36:31
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39088
"It's always Sunday somewhere" and nearly Sundy here already, so:

(
449

I died for Beauty - but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room -

He questioned softly "Why I failed?"
"For Beauty," I replied -
"And - I - for Truth - Themself are One -
We Brethren, are, " He said -

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night -
We talked between the Rooms -
Until the Moss had reached our lips -
And covered up - our names -


(a friend said that it is difficult to find a "dud Emily Dickinson"...I agree:))

Attempt No. 8

From: My Evil Twin, Beryl ® 11/05/2002 23:42:08
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39093
So Does Everybody Else, Only Not So Much
by Ogden Nash

O all ye exorcizers come and exorcize now, and ye clergymen draw nigh and clerge,
For I wish to be purged of an urge.
It is an irksome urge, compounded of nettles and glue,
And it is turning all my friends back into acquaintances, and all my acquaintances into people who look the other way when I heave into view.
It is an indication that my mental buttery is butterless and my mental larder lardless,
And it consists not of "Stop me if you've heard this one," but of "I know you've heard this one because I told it to you myself, but I'm going to tell it to you again regardless,"
Yes I fear I am living beyond my mental means.
When I realize that it is not only anecdotes that I reiterate but what is far worse, summaries of radio programs and descriptions of caroons in newspapers and magazines.
I want to resist but I cannot resist recounting the bright sayins of celebrities that everybody already is familiar with every word of; I want to refrain but cannot refrain from telling the same audience on two successive evenings the same little snatches of domestic gossip about people I used to know that they have never heard of.
When I remember some titlating episode of my childhood I figure that if it's worth narrating once it's worth narrating twice, in spite of lackluster eyes and dropping jaws,
And indeed I have now worked my way backward from titllating episodes in my own childhood to titillating episodes in the childhood of my parents or even my parents-in-laws,
And what really turns my corpuscles to ice,
I carry around clippings and read them to people twice.
And I know what I am doing while I am doing it and I don't want to do it but I can't help doing it and I am just another Ancient Mariner,
And the prospects for my future social life couldn't possibly be barrener.
Did I tell you that the prospects for my future social life couldn't be barrener?

From: Captain Spalding ® 11/05/2002 23:47:54
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39096
it is difficult to find a "dud Emily Dickinson"...

I have this vision, of Emily Dickinsons rolling of the assembly line like Toyotas, but in the background, a forlorn pile of rejects, discarded by super-efficient quality-control staff.
From: boxhead ® 11/05/2002 23:51:21
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39097

A Divine Mistress

In Nature's pieces still I see
Some error, that might mended be;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or add; but my fair love
Was framed by hands far more divine,
For she hath every beauteous line.
Yet I had been far happier,
Had Nature, that made me, made her.
Then likeness might, that love creates,
Have made her love what now she hates;
Yet I confess, I cannot spare
From her just shape the smallest hair.
Nor need I beg from all the store
Of heaven for her one beauty more.
She hath too much divinity for me,
You gods, teach her some humility.

Thomas Carew


From: My Evil Twin, Beryl ® 11/05/2002 23:55:25
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39101
A. A. Milne - Disobedience



James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his Mother
Though he was only three.
James James
Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he;
"You must never go down to the end of the town, if
you don't go down with me."


James James
Morrison's Mother
Put on a golden gown,
James James
Morrison's Mother
Drove to the end of the town.
James James
Morrison's Mother
Said to herself, said she:
"I can get right down to the end of the town and be
back in time for tea."

King John
Put up a notice,
"LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES
MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HABE BEEN MISLAID.
LAST SEEN
WANDERING VAGUELY
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF
THE TOWN - FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!


James James
Morrison Morrison
(Commonly known as Jim)
Told his
Other relations
Not to go blaming him.
James James
Said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he,
"You must never go down to the end of the town with-
out consulting me."


James James
Morrison's Mother
Hasn't been heard of since.
King John
Said he was sorry,
So did the Queen and Prince.
King John
(Somebody told me)
Said to a man he knew:
"If people go down to the end of the town, well, what
can anyone do?"

(Now then, very softly)
J. J.
M. M.
W. G. du P.
Took great
C/o his M*****
Though he was only 3.
J. J.
Said to his M*****
"M*****," he said, said he:
"You-must-never-go-down-to-the-end-of-the-town-if-
you-don't-go-down-with ME!"

From: Kelvin ® 11/05/2002 23:58:20
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39104
Hi all

what do contributors to this thread feel is the best love poem of all times?

kelvin
From: boxhead ® 12/05/2002 00:08:53
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39112

Hi Kelvin,

Well, miscarols one, while maybe not being a full on love poem, is a beaut I reckon, I like them short and to the point if they work, and it does work (for me) :)

Here

From: Woman:) ® 12/05/2002 00:17:47
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 39119

Hi Kelvin:)

what do contributors to this thread feel is the best love poem of all times?

I need a little more time to think about that (I'm fickle ;-)), but this little one is *one* of my favorites:

Said the apple
to the orange
"come close to me
and kiss me to my core
and then you will know me
like no other Orange
has ever done before"

:):):)

You will pen yours here, won't you?:)


From: boxhead ® 17/05/2002 19:57:36
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 43517

Symbiote

Don't touch me you parasite
I shrink from your disease
You smell so sweet
And look so pure
As you feast upon my meat

I feel you crawl underneath my skin
And slide against my brain
Dull my senses
Sap my strength
On my heart carve out your name

Stay away from me
You haunt me like a wraith
Burn me hot as rage
Numb me cold as pain
Leech away my future and respin my web of fate

But perhaps this isn't wrong
This union birthed in guile
Feel my thoughts
Share my dreams
Still my screaming and make me smile

I need you
Really need you
Should never have let you stay

Copyright Adam Sheik 1997


From: Fantomas ® 19/05/2002 20:59:44
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 44538

The River Of Love

Lyrics by Richard Pleasance

What shall we do when river runs dry?
What shall we do when river runs dry?
Tell me where can we cleanse our bodies and our minds

The river ran deep and it stretched out for miles
The river ran deep and it stretched out for miles
Tell me where do our tears go when we start to cry

Goodnight to the time we kill
Say hello to the endless still
As we hold our breath in the river of love

I¹m watching you sleep for the very last time
I¹m watching you sleep for the very last time
Going to be with you as the day turns to night

Going to swim with you for the very last time
Going to swim with you for the very last time
Tell me where are we going when the river runs dry

Goodnight to the time we kill
Say hello to the endless still
As we hold our breath in the river of love

Goodnight to the time we kill
Say hello to the endless still
As we hold our breath in the river of love

The river of love


The River

Lyrics by Bruce Springsteen

I come from down in the valley
Where mister, when you're young
They bring you up to do like your daddy done
Me and Mary we met in high school
When she was just seventeen
We'd drive out of this valley down to where the fields are green

We'd go down to the river
And into the river we'd dive
Oh down to the river we'd ride

Then I got Mary pregnant
And, man, that was all she wrote
And for my 19th birthday I got a union card and a wedding coat
We went down to the courthouse
And the judge put it all to rest
No wedding day smiles, no walk down the aisle
No flowers, no wedding dress

That night we went down to the river
And into the river we'd dive
Oh down to the river we'd ride

I got a job working construction for the Johnstown Company
But lately there ain't been much work on account of the economy
Now all them things that seemed so important
Well, mister they vanished right into the air
Now I act like I don't remember
Mary acts like she don't care

But I remember us riding in my brother's car
Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir
At night on them banks I'd lie awake
And pull her close just to feel each breath she'd take
Now those memories come back to haunt me
They haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse

That sends me
Down to the river
Though I know the river is dry
That sends me down to the river tonight
Down to the river
My baby and I
Oh down to the river we ride


Where The Wild Roses Grow

Lyrics by Nick Cave

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day

From the first day I saw her I knew she was the one
She stared in my eyes and smiled
For her lips were the colour of the roses
That grew down the river, all bloody and wild

When he knocked on my door and entered the room
My trembling subsided in his sure embrace
He would be my first man, and with a careful hand
He wiped at the tears that ran down my face

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day

On the second day I brought her a flower
She was more beautiful than any woman I'd seen
I said, "Do you know where the wild roses grow
So sweet and scarlet and free?"

On the second day he came with a single red rose
Said: "Will you give me your loss and your sorrow"
I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed
He said, "If I show you the roses, will you follow?"

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day

On the third day he took me to the river
He showed me the roses and we kissed
And the last thing I heard was a muttered word
As he knelt (stood smiling) above me with a rock in his fist

On the last day I took her where the wild roses grow
And she lay on the bank, the wind light as a thief
And I kissed her goodbye, said, "All beauty must die"
And lent down and planted a rose between her teeth

They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day



And the moral of the story, children, is to stay away from rivers.
From: Meg ® 19/05/2002 21:13:37
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 44545
Fantomas, I always loved that Nick Cave song because it reminds me of one of my fave Browning poems.


Porphyria's Lover

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me - she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last l knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While l debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string l wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
l am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
l warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And l untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
l propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And l, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said aword!

Robert Browning (1812-1889)


From: Dreamweaver ® 22/05/2002 21:40:55
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 46670

Waiting for the Barbarians

Constantine Cavafy

 What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

      The barbarians are due here today.

 Why isn't anything happening in the senate?
 Why do the senators sit there without legislating?

      Because the barbarians are coming today.
      What laws can the senators make now?
      Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating.

 Why did our emperor get up so early,
 and why is he sitting at the city's main gate
 on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?

      Because the barbarians are coming today
      and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
      He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
      replete with titles, with imposing names.

 Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
 wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
 Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
 and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
 Why are they carrying elegant canes
 beautifully worked in silver and gold?

      Because the barbarians are coming today
      and things like that dazzle the barbarians.

 Why don't our distinguished orators come forward as usual
 to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

      Because the barbarians are coming today
      and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking.

 Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
 (How serious people's faces have become.)
 Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
 everyone going home so lost in thought?

      Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
      And some who have just returned from the border say
      there are no barbarians any longer.

 And now, what's going to happen to us without barbarians?
 They were, those people, a kind of solution.

From: My Evil Twin, Beryl ® 22/05/2002 21:43:53
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 46674
I'm glad somebody likes poetry. I dont think I've ever met someone who does.
From: mausie ® 22/05/2002 22:01:19
Subject: re: Poetry VII post id: 46691
Thank you Dreamweaver for guiding me here:)

The Snail

Where is the poet fired to sing
The snail's discreet degrees,
A rhapsody of sauntering,
A gloria of ease,
Proclaiming theirs the baser part
Who consciously forswear
The delicate and gentle art
Of never getting there.

E. V. LUCAS

I bet this won't post either;-)
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