The Poetry Thread

[Staubach12]

Now let's not turn this into some joke. Post your favorite poems, poets, etc, maybe even a poem you've writtten yourself. I'll begin with my favorite.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, `` What is it? ''
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ``Do I dare?'' and, ``Do I dare?''
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: ``How his hair is growing thin!'']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.''

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
``That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[S4L]

Haikus are awesome
But they don't always make sense
Electricity

[RoyHall#1]

Worker bees can leave
Even drones can fly away
The queen is their slave.

[fenikz]

I wrote a bad ass poem once, I think it's a sonnet, not a poet by any means though



Initial taste of a true addiction
At the mercy of our final good bye
Might as well have been his crucifixion
For this demise of a natural high
Society full of expectations
And a December sky will bare witness
It was not just a simple vacation
Mutual silence left him action less
In the gentle greens we stood side by side
In parking lots we only grew closer
The end was a result of self pride
Nothing on his sleeves stoned wall composure

She released the doves from the rusted cage
New material as he takes the stage

[Rich Jr]

I wrote these when I was "love stricken".

What is love?

What exactly is love and when do you know your in love?

Is it when you get those butterflies in your stomach?

Or when she's on your mind 24/7?

Is it when you are inspired to write your first poem ever?

When you'd do anything to put a smile on her face?

When you know you'd take a bullet for her?

When you wake up from a dream and that dream was of her?

When you try and talk to her but all you can do is stutter?

I'll tell you what love is.

It's when you wipe that tear from her eye and do whatever it takes to make it stop.

When your there just to hold her because he needs to be held.

It means you not only hear her problems, but you listen to your problems.

It's when you call her voice-mail to just to hear her voice.

It's doing what it takes to make her dreams come true.

It's buying her flowers, just because.

Simply put, it's the way I feel every single time I look into her eyes and I see that love being returned to me.
----------------------------------------------------

I swear this one is so corny.

My Love

I'll treat you like no other guy has, or ever will treat you

For the one I love
The one that makes my dreams come true

You're like a gift from above
I think about the first time I met you

I can't remember, I was only seven
You were only five and it's weird to think back when

Looking at it now, you my gift from heaven
I'll love you unconditionally and always

It's going to be too long until the next time I see you, I count the days
Two weeks seems like forever, I don't know how I'll get through

So when that day finally comes
And I get to stare into those beautiful eyes

The anticipation leading up to it will come
If anything would happen to you I'd die

I want to make you the happiest woman alive
And I hope those feelings are returned to me

I'm at my best when I'm with you
You push me, you make me thrive

I'll make you the happiest woman in the world
I can't wait to see it in your eyes on our wedding day

Oh what a sight it will be
----------------------------------------------------
This one was after I got cheated on.

It's ok

It's ok that you did what you did

It's ok because i'll still live

It's ok because you live and you learn

It's ok that I got burned

It's ok because i'll love again

It's ok that it won't be you

It's ok because the next person that gets my heart, i'll know it's ture.

[Turtlepower]

Shel Silverstein was the man.

http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/c3/c18171.jpg

[slightlyaraiderfan]

my motto is "id **** her...but thats not saying much about her"
becuz i have very broad range of broads id hog out
esp. after a night of debotchery

-bored of education

[bored of education]

that is just wow, Robert Frostesque!

[TimDris]

I have Jim Morrison's biography and another book of poems. I'll post them later. They are dark and deep but very interesting.

[bigmac076]

Edgar Allen Poe FTW!
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/27/Edgar_Allan_Poe_2.jpg/200px-Edgar_Allan_Poe_2.jpg (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Edgar_Allan_Poe_2.jpg)

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

[TimDris]

POWER

I can make the earth stop in
its tracks. I made the
blue cars go away.

I can make myself invisible or small.
I can become gigantic & reach the
farthest things. I can change
the course of nature.
I can place myself anywhere in
space or time.
I can summon the dead.
I can perceive events on other worlds,
in my deepest inner mind,
and in the minds of others.

I can

I am

Jim Morrison

[LLoyd Floyd-Boyd]

There once was a man from Nantucket...............

[Rich Jr]

There once was a man from Nantucket...............I still don't know how that ends.

[Staubach12]

Edgar Allen Poe FTW!
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/27/Edgar_Allan_Poe_2.jpg/200px-Edgar_Allan_Poe_2.jpg (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Edgar_Allan_Poe_2.jpg)

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

EA Poe is fantastic. Any body like ee cummings?

Pity this busy monster not by ee cummings

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victum(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
-electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go

[cardsalltheway]

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

[locseti]

Ambition, Direction, what do these words mean?

To me, nothing yet, that remains to be seen

Tolkien once said "Not all who wander are lost"

The ones he refers to refuse to pay the cost

Of the scandalous salary our world demands

That funnels and falls into the evilest of hands

And into the grasp of this foolish administration

Who by using a cell phone can pinpoint your location

Can somebody tell me, whats the meaning of this?

Why do they want to know where i'm taking a piss?

So I'm gonna take the GPS outta mine

Cause NOFX was right, we've began the decline

What will be next, a bar code on my hand?

So that no longer in a line i'll have to stand?

Quite a large price for my identity

I've become a number, in lieu of me

A Brave New World is inching nearer and near

Fueled by ego, driven by fear

So in response to Tolkien's quote, I ponder:

Maybe its more like "Not all who are lost wander"

[kalbears13]

This kind of reminds me of this old thread we had, it was nfl draft poems: http://www.nfldraftcountdown.com/forum/showthread.php?t=7085&highlight=poems

This was my Shakespearean Sonnet...

“The Browns are on the clock”,
It’s sweet music to my ears.
This year is gonna rock,
And soothen all my fears.

With the third overall pick,
The Browns choose Thomas.
All my friend’s will get a kick,
Especially that kid Khomas. (Thomas doesn’t rhyme with anything.)

Brady Quinn the quarterback,
Dropped down to twenty-two.
Who was gonna trade back?
Only Phil and I knew who.

The smartest pick was for Quinn:
The future leader of our team,
Will give us a sure playoff win,
And instead of an arm, a Laser-beam.

After all that’s said and done,
It is the Browns, who have won.

[Cashmoney]

I still don't know how that ends.

That's the point. It has so many endings. I prefer the vulgar ones myself.

[someone447]

THE FLEA.
by John Donne


MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

Come on, it is all about trying to convince a woman to sleep with him. I win.

[fenikz]

Steve Kerr Is A Ass
Shaquille Is Not The Answer
Bye Bye Run N' Gun

my haiku

[JJJ888]

One of my favorite Shel Silverstein's:

Ok, let's play, I think we have everyone we need.
I'll be the strong armed pitcher,
Who can throw with blinding speed.
And Pete will be the catcher,
Who squats and pounds his mitt.
And Mike will be the home run king,
Who stands and waits to hit,
One loud, long and way up high
Up over the wall,
So let's get start--What? You?
Oh yes, you can be the ball!

Heh that punchline gets me every time.

Now my favorite Robert Frost for a change of pace:

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

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

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

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

And finally, some Grateful Dead, a verse of the Dead's classic, Ripple:

There is a road,
No simple highway,
Between the dawn,
And the dark of night,
And if you go,
No one may follow,
That path is for
Your steps alone...

You who choose,
To lead must follow,
But if you fall,
You fall alone,
If you should stand,
Then who's to guide you?
If I knew the way,
I would take you home.




I LOVE THIS THREAD.

[TimDris]

I'm posting the lyrics to a Two Gallants song, Threnody.


gather 'round, you wounded people
shadows fall upon the steeple,
soon shall come the closing of,
the closing of the gates

for there is a word of plague among us
curse the one whose poison stung us,
all along the alleyways
the satyrs wait their fate

but who's to blame when all are guilty
morals stained & conscience filthy
abreast your idol replicas
your replicas of lust,
in the sky i hear the threshing
dare to watch your lord undressing
while you beg forgiveness,
you feed on his disgust -

but if perhaps the salt might stain your skin
and if perhaps the smoke might weep your eyes
listen while the threnodies begin
know no one in here gets out alive.

but let your frailty not deceive you
a little pinprick, rest relieves you,
and dream of all the days that are,
the years that are to come -

for you will dance & you'll be nimble
pirouettes upon a thimble
& i will be beside you
lest i lose you once again.

but if perhaps my sorrows all are show
and i should find a crack among the gates,
guilt shall follow me where'er i go
though i try i know i can't escape

and when you're gone the earth will crumble
i will try but i will stumble
and all through these city streets
my robes shall drag the ground

hear the children swing with sorrow,
yesterday was once tomorrow
no more i'll be troubled by the troubles of this world

but if i lose my step along the way
and if the speech of victim fills my throat
out beyond the cliffs that shape the day
it's there i'll wander, there i'll stray

it's there i'll look for you when all my trials are done
i feign sleep to save my breath,
this love is loss, this life is theft,
and all that's left is some vain need to carry on

and though i fear the tightening of the skies
against the dawn i'll watch you rise
oh lord, the company i keep within my head

the scent of flesh might tease the nose
it claims the calm, it clings the clothes

could that be you, my love?
your dust upon the wind?

I bolded my favorite lines

[Paul]

The the impotence of proofreading
By Taylor Mali


Has this ever happened to you?
You work very horde on a paper for English clash
And then get a very glow raid (like a D or even a D=)
and all because you are the word¹s liverwurst spoiler.
Proofreading your peppers is a matter of the the utmost impotence.

This is a problem that affects manly, manly students.
I myself was such a bed spiller once upon a term
that my English teacher in my sophomoric year,
Mrs. Myth, said I would never get into a good colleague.
And that¹s all I wanted, just to get into a good colleague.
Not just anal community colleague,
because I wouldn¹t be happy at anal community colleague.
I needed a place that would offer me intellectual simulation,
I really need to be challenged, challenged dentally.
I know this makes me sound like a stereo,
but I really wanted to go to an ivory legal collegue.
So I needed to improvement
or gone would be my dream of going to Harvard, Jail, or Prison
(in Prison, New Jersey).

So I got myself a spell checker
and figured I was on Sleazy Street.

But there are several missed aches
that a spell chukker can¹t can¹t catch catch.
For instant, if you accidentally leave a word
your spell exchequer won¹t put it in you.
And God for billing purposes only
you should have serial problems with Tori Spelling
your spell Chekhov might replace a word
with one you had absolutely no detention of using.
Because what do you want it to douch?
It only does what you tell it to douche.
You¹re the one with your hand on the mouth going clit, clit, clit.
It just goes to show you how embargo
one careless clit of the mouth can be.

Which reminds me of this one time during my Junior Mint.
The teacher read my entire paper on A Sale of Two Titties
out loud to all of my assmates.
I¹m not joking, I¹m totally cereal.
It was the most humidifying experience of my life,
being laughed at pubically.

So do yourself a flavor and follow these two Pisces of advice:
One: There is no prostitute for careful editing.
And three: When it comes to proofreading,
the red ***** your friend.

[TimDris]

I really like this thread... interesting reads

[JJJ888]

I doubt any of you guys remember, but we used to have Haiku contests every April...those were the days.

[Xiomera]

I doubt any of you guys remember, but we used to have Haiku contests every April...those were the days.

YES! I saw that you had the last post in this thread, and that's the first think I thought of. I was disappointed to see that you hadn't made one . . .

[TimDris]

Okay so in english we're doing a poetry unit. And in it we had to analyze a poem and compare it with a song. this is what i picked.

The Second Coming by William Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Threnodies by Two Gallants

(i posted that song last page) http://www.nfldraftcountdown.com/forum/showpost.php?p=882159&postcount=22

I owned it. Both are about the end of the world (basically).

[bored of education]

The Second Cumming...

[bigmac076]

Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson, although I dont think Emerson was quite a poet, he wrote some great essays.

[Staubach12]

Okay so in english we're doing a poetry unit. And in it we had to analyze a poem and compare it with a song. this is what i picked.

The Second Coming by William Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Threnodies by Two Gallants

(i posted that song last page) http://www.nfldraftcountdown.com/forum/showpost.php?p=882159&postcount=22

I owned it. Both are about the end of the world (basically).

That's a fantastic poem, I've read it before. The novel Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe gets it's title from this poem.

[Staubach12]

Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson, although I dont think Emerson was quite a poet, he wrote some great essays.

Yes, Emerson was more of an philosopher and essayist than a poet. Though Whitman is incredible. Song of Myself is beautiful.

[villagewarrior]

POWER

I can make the earth stop in
its tracks. I made the
blue cars go away.

I can make myself invisible or small.
I can become gigantic & reach the
farthest things. I can change
the course of nature.
I can place myself anywhere in
space or time.
I can summon the dead.
I can perceive events on other worlds,
in my deepest inner mind,
and in the minds of others.

I can

I am

Jim Morrison

Love The Doors, Morrison was a genius.

[MicktheGreat]

My Top 5 Favorite Poems are:
1. "The Idea of Order at Key West" by Wallace Stevens
2. "The Fish" by Elizabeth Bishop
3. "Quarantine" by Eavan Boland
4. "Buffalo Bill's" by ee cummings
5. "Moss-Gathering" by Theodore Roethke

The first two ("The Idea of Order..." & "The Fish") are too long to post here. However, you should definitely look them up at some point, if you're interested. Below are the others (which are a little shorter):

"Quarantine" by Eavan Boland
In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking -- they were both walking -- north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last head of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.


"Buffalo Bill's" by ee cummings
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons justlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what I want to know is
how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death


"Moss-Gathering" by Theodore Roethke
To loosen with all ten fingers held wide and limber
And lift up a patch, dark green, the kind for lining cemetery baskets,
Thick and cushiony, like an old-fashioned doormat,
The crumbling small hollow sticks on the underside mixed with roots,
And wintergreen berries and leaves still stuck to the top, --
That was moss-gathering.
But something always went out of me when I dug those loose carpets
Of green, or plunged my elbows in the spongy yellowish moss of the marshes:
And afterwards I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,
As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;
Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,
By pulling off flesh from the living planet;
As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.

[TimDris]

For my English final I am doing an alternate assessment. I decided to make a small poetry book (pamphlet). I'm writing 3-5 poems that relate the themes used in the novels we read this year. The poem itself doesn't discuss the novels. I already wrote one on Isolation (The Metamorphosis). Any ideas on other topics?

Works ----- Themes
Life Of Pi - Religion, Illusion/Reality
The Odyssey - Epic Journey, Epic Hero
A Doll's House - Feminism
Things Fall Apart - Tribal, Epic Hero, Apocalyptic
Cannery Row - Nostalgic, Humorous, Depressing

I'm thinking one on Illusion and the Apocalypse

[CJSchneider]

Hey, I'm an English teacher
I guess I have to add to this thread.

Rudyard Kipling

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!


The Touch of the Master's Hand
It was battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,
"Who starts the bidding for me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it three?"
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"
As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"
"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't understand."
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply.
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune
All battered with bourbon and gin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

Myra Brooks Welch


Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
We Wear the Mask


WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

[Brent]

This is a call out to all the youth in the ghettos, suburbs, villages, townships. To all the kids who download this song for free. By any means. To all the kids short on loot but high on dreams. To all the kids watching T.V., like, "Yo, I wish that was me." And all the kids pressing rewind on Let's Get Free. I hear you. To all the people within the sound of my voice.

I didn't vote for this state of affairs. My emotional state's got me prostrate, fearing my fears. In all reality I'm under prepared. 'Cause I'm ready for war but not sure if I'm ready to care. And that's why I'm under prepared. 'Cause I'm ready to fight, but most fights have me fighting back tears. 'Cause the truth is really I'm scared. Not scared of the truth, but just scared of the length you'll go to fight it. I tried to hold my tongue, son. I tried to bite it. I'm not trying to start a riot or incite it. 'Cause Brutus is an honorable man. It's just coincidence that oil men would wage war on an oil rich land. And this one goes out to my man, taking cover in the trenches with a gun in his hand, then gets home and no one flinches when he can't feed his fam. But Brutus is an honorable man.

If you have tears prepare to shed them now. For you share the guilt of blood spilt in accordance with the Dow Jones. Dow drops fresh crop skull and bones. A machete in the heady: Hutu, Tutsi, Leone. An Afghani in a shanty. Doodle dandy yank on! An Iraqi in Gap khaki. Coca Coma come on! Be ye bishop or pawn, in the streets or the lawn, you should know that these example could go on and on and what since does it make to keep your ears to the street? As long as oils in the soil, truth is never concrete. So we dare to represent those with the barest of feet. 'Cause the laws to which we're loyal keep the soil deplete. It's our job to not let history repeat.

So here's the plan. The ides of march are always at hand. And when the power hungry strike, they strike the poorest of man. And if you dare put up a fight, they'll come and fight for your land. And they'll call it liberation or salvation. A call to the youth! Your freedom ain't so free, it's just loose. but the power of your voice could redirect every truth. Shift and shape the world you want and keep your fears in a noose. Let them dangle from a banner star spangled. I'm willing and able. To lift my dreams up out of their cradle. Nurse and nurture my ideals 'til they're much more than a fable. I can be all I can be and do much more than I'm paid to. And I won't be a slave to what authorities say do. My desire is to live within a nation on fire, where creative passions burn and raise the stakes ever higher. Where no person is addicted top some twisted supplier who promotes the sort of freedom sold to the highest buyer. We demand a truth naturally at one with the land, not a plant that photosynthesizes bombs on demand, or a search for any weapons we let fall from our hands. I got beats and a plan. I'm gonna do what I can. And what you do is question everything they say do, every goal ideal or value they keep pushing on you. If they ask you to believe it question whether it's true. If they ask you to achieve, is it for them or for you. You're the one they're asking to go carry a gun. Warfare ain't humanitarian. You're scaring me, son. Why not fight to feed the homeless, jobless, fight inflation?! Why not fight for our own healthcare and our education?! And instead, invest in that erasable lead, 'cause their twisted propaganda can't erase all the dead. And the pile of corpses pyramid on top of our heads. Or nevermind, said the shotgun to the head.

-Saul Williams

[KCJ58]

I like Charles Bukowski, he's a great poet

[MetSox17]

This is a call out to all the youth in the ghettos, suburbs, villages, townships. To all the kids who download this song for free. By any means. To all the kids short on loot but high on dreams. To all the kids watching T.V., like, "Yo, I wish that was me." And all the kids pressing rewind on Let's Get Free. I hear you. To all the people within the sound of my voice.

I didn't vote for this state of affairs. My emotional state's got me prostrate, fearing my fears. In all reality I'm under prepared. 'Cause I'm ready for war but not sure if I'm ready to care. And that's why I'm under prepared. 'Cause I'm ready to fight, but most fights have me fighting back tears. 'Cause the truth is really I'm scared. Not scared of the truth, but just scared of the length you'll go to fight it. I tried to hold my tongue, son. I tried to bite it. I'm not trying to start a riot or incite it. 'Cause Brutus is an honorable man. It's just coincidence that oil men would wage war on an oil rich land. And this one goes out to my man, taking cover in the trenches with a gun in his hand, then gets home and no one flinches when he can't feed his fam. But Brutus is an honorable man.

If you have tears prepare to shed them now. For you share the guilt of blood spilt in accordance with the Dow Jones. Dow drops fresh crop skull and bones. A machete in the heady: Hutu, Tutsi, Leone. An Afghani in a shanty. Doodle dandy yank on! An Iraqi in Gap khaki. Coca Coma come on! Be ye bishop or pawn, in the streets or the lawn, you should know that these example could go on and on and what since does it make to keep your ears to the street? As long as oils in the soil, truth is never concrete. So we dare to represent those with the barest of feet. 'Cause the laws to which we're loyal keep the soil deplete. It's our job to not let history repeat.

So here's the plan. The ides of march are always at hand. And when the power hungry strike, they strike the poorest of man. And if you dare put up a fight, they'll come and fight for your land. And they'll call it liberation or salvation. A call to the youth! Your freedom ain't so free, it's just loose. but the power of your voice could redirect every truth. Shift and shape the world you want and keep your fears in a noose. Let them dangle from a banner star spangled. I'm willing and able. To lift my dreams up out of their cradle. Nurse and nurture my ideals 'til they're much more than a fable. I can be all I can be and do much more than I'm paid to. And I won't be a slave to what authorities say do. My desire is to live within a nation on fire, where creative passions burn and raise the stakes ever higher. Where no person is addicted top some twisted supplier who promotes the sort of freedom sold to the highest buyer. We demand a truth naturally at one with the land, not a plant that photosynthesizes bombs on demand, or a search for any weapons we let fall from our hands. I got beats and a plan. I'm gonna do what I can. And what you do is question everything they say do, every goal ideal or value they keep pushing on you. If they ask you to believe it question whether it's true. If they ask you to achieve, is it for them or for you. You're the one they're asking to go carry a gun. Warfare ain't humanitarian. You're scaring me, son. Why not fight to feed the homeless, jobless, fight inflation?! Why not fight for our own healthcare and our education?! And instead, invest in that erasable lead, 'cause their twisted propaganda can't erase all the dead. And the pile of corpses pyramid on top of our heads. Or nevermind, said the shotgun to the head.

-Saul Williams

Do you know the name of this, or if there's video or audio of this?

[Canadian_kid16]

Hey, I'm an English teacher
I guess I have to add to this thread.

Rudyard Kipling

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!


The Touch of the Master's Hand
It was battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,
"Who starts the bidding for me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it three?"
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"
As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"
"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't understand."
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply.
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune
All battered with bourbon and gin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

Myra Brooks Welch


Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
We Wear the Mask


WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

english teacher eh, if I may ask you a poetry question?

I'm doing a comparison essay on two poem's of a certain poet. The poet that I chose is Robert Frost. Which two poem's of his would you recommend for my essay?

[KCJ58]

english teacher eh, if I may ask you a poetry question?

I'm doing a comparison essay on two poem's of a certain poet. The poet that I chose is Robert Frost. Which two poem's of his would you recommend for my essay?


The Road Not Taken & Nothing Gold Can Stay

[trkaline]

Heres one I've written and I am no way suicidal at all but i thought it was a good premise....

Im not lookin for love or an answer from up above, im just lookin for me, but these glazed eyes refuse to see. I look to the future, its all out of focus, im too far gone to carry on and my will is broken. I've burnt up all my bridges and exhausted all of my options, What can I do? What will I do? A voice gnawing at the back of my head replies, "What needs to be done." What needs to be done? Another swig of the whiskey and i feel braver, bolder more eager to reach my ultimate goal. What is my ultimate goal? The final solution, the only way you can truly choose your own fate. The world will do it eventually anyway.

Why not deprive it of this one sick pleasure? The destiny seeker is in my hand, many thoughts flood through my mind, some happy, some sad, majority sad, though they are all tainted by the bright light of the pure moments. No I will not be swayed. Survival is the brains primary function but, a few more sips of the burning potion will shut it down. Ok let it ride, let it roll. I pull back the hammer of the destiny seeker, it's cool to the touch. Sleek...shiny, it starts wars, ends war, ends disputes, ends suffering ends pain, and starts it all a new. It's my time, I'm ready to go, I place it on my temple. Then I open wide and insert the barrel into my mouth, then it flies across the room and lands with a plunk in the corner. I'm not as strong as I thought I was, I faultered in my moment of weakness, and now it's time to face it all again......

[CJSchneider]

The Road Not Taken & Nothing Gold Can Stay

Those two are good, especially if you want to use your essay to explain the literary elements of analogy and paradox.
I also suggest The Road Not Taken and Fire and Ice. Where one demonstrates just how important our choices are. With Fire and Ice, you could say the poem demonstrates that with some things any choice will do.
Do me a favor, do not write about The Road Not Taken if you are going to imply that in no way could this poem have a negative implication.
Allow me to explain-
In the First line of the 4th stanza, Frost writes "I shall be telling this with a sigh". The question is, is it a good sigh -I'm glad that's over, or a bad sigh -oh no, what have I done?.
The difference that Frost refers to is never described as a good or bad one. Frost wants us to know that choice is important but we can not determine its' value until after we have made it.

[Staubach12]

english teacher eh, if I may ask you a poetry question?

I'm doing a comparison essay on two poem's of a certain poet. The poet that I chose is Robert Frost. Which two poem's of his would you recommend for my essay?

Do one of his lesser known poems: Desert Places.

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.



That's my favorite of his. Also, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening is a classic:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it *****
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.