Poetry!

bruce

Owing to the huge success(!) of our book thread I have decided to make one on poetry too!

Who are your favourite poets and what is your favourite poem?

My favourite poetry compilation is Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge since it marked the start of a whole literature movement. My favourite poem from it is Goody Blake and Harry Gill. And guess what, I'm going to post it for you down there ↓.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the 'canty' Dame
Would sit, as any linnet, gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake!
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead:
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could any thing be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected--
That he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
--He hears a noise--he's all awake--
Again?--on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!

Right glad was he when he beheld her:
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.
When with her load she turned about,
The by-way back again to take;
He started forward, with a shout,
And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,
And by the arm he held her fast,
And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"--
Then Goody, who had nothing said,
Her bundle from her lap let fall;
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God that is the judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm--
"God! who art never out of hearing,
O may he never more be warm!"
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
Young Harry heard what she had said:
And icy cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
That day he wore a riding-coat,
But not a whit the warmer he:
Another was on Thursday brought,
And ere the Sabbath he had three.

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
And blankets were about him pinned;
Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter;
Like a loose casement in the wind.
And Harry's flesh it fell away;
And all who see him say, 'tis plain,
That, live as long as live he may,
He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
A-bed or up, by night or day;
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

Hamelin

FOR ART'S SAKE I'M NOT GOING TO DO THIS WHOLE POST IN CAPS.

I posted a few things in the book thread, but since I'm such a nerd I'll include this here:

Blue Wizard Is About To Die!: Prose, Poems, and Emoto-Versatronic Expressionist Pieces About Video Games (1980-2003)

I thourally enjoyed most of the poems by Mr. Barken in this collection. They're not all the absolute best things ever, but the ooze of fondness and emotion.

My favorite one is "Interesting Concept" a poem about great games with weird and awesome premises but stupid names.

I'm not going to type out the whole thing, so here's a few lines:

first of all, it must be said
that the titles were almost always universally horrible:
"Streets of Rage", "Faxanadu", "Bayou Billy"...
ARKANOID: Revenge of DOH
... I mean, what the fuck does the title
"Space Harrier" have to do
with running across an endless
field for eternity, shooting gigantic centipedes?

I guess it's the fault of the story; usually,
there isn't one; especially in the good old days...
"so, um, why am I killing all these people with this tank?"
or
"Ok, I get the premise that I am in a helicopter,
but, why is it called Tiger Heli, and
why am I destroying civilian targets?"
or, the best of all:
"why am I the only guy fighting this war?
what, they expect one guy to take out an entire army?"
--the answer is, of course, yes.

Other poems I particularly enjoyed were "Mario in Exile," "Joust" and "Kid Icarus."

Unfortunately the book seems to not be available on amazon, I hope it's not out of print, but I'd think books of poetry tend to have shorter runs than novels.

It only retailed for 15 bucks. I think I'd like to get around to picking up his other books, apparently the latest one is written through the eyes of Dr. Strangelove.

DrLeopoldStrabismus

THAT EXCERPT WASN'T A POEM. WHERE WAS THE RHYME?
READING SOMETHING SANS METER IS A WASTE OF MY TIME.

Hamelin

SCREW YOU, FREE VERSE IS A LEGITIMATE FORM OF POETRY.

DrLeopoldStrabismus

JUST LIKE LIBERTARIANS CLAIM TO BE
A LEGITIMATE U.S. POLITICAL PARTY
FOR THE SAKE OF AMIABILITY
I WILL AGREE TO DISAGREE.

Agentcel

CANDLES ARE GOOD,
FIRECRACKERS ARE GREAT
ROCKETS ARE DANGEROUS
THEY'RE ILLEGAL IN MY STATE

I WROTE IT MYSELF.

illithid235

What a great thread! I really like Goody Blake and Harry Gill... it's so fun to see when poets take meter and rhyme into account. Of course, free verse can still be awesome, but it's obviously more dependent upon the content. And if someone puts video games into poetry, that's awesome enough content for me.

Here's one of my favorites, Adam's Curse by W.B. Yeats.

We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'

. . . . . . . . . And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born woman is to know-
Although they do not talk of it at school-
That we must labour to be beautiful.'

I said, 'It's certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

Behemoth

I NEVER REALLY HAD ANY GREAT APPRECIATION FOR POETRY, BUT IT GREW INTO A DISTINCT DISLIKE WHEN I WAS FORCED TO READ MY CREATIVE WRITING PROFESSOR'S SEX-OBSESSED RAMBLINGS WHILE HE CRITICIZED MY FORMULA PERFECT SHAKESPEAREAN SONNETS AS BEING AN 'OK ATTEMPT'. I JUST CAN'T APPRECIATE MOST POETRY FOR THE SAME REASONS MOST PEOPLE DON'T LIKE EMO.

illithid235

HUH.... YOU MIGHT WANT TO GO INTO THAT ANALOGY A LITTLE BIT. I'M CONFUSED.

Hamelin

DON'T LET THAT ONE EXPERIENCE BRING YOU DOWN, SOME PROFESSORS ARE KIND OF CRAPPY THAT WAY.

MY POETRY PROFESSOR WAS A RECOVERING ALCOHOLIC, HE WAS FAIRLY AWESOME AND GAVE US LEGITIMATE CRITICISM ON OUR WORK.

I WROTE A POEM ABOUT HIM, HERE, YOU CAN READ IT (GOSH I HAD TO LOOK FOR A WHILE BEFORE I REMEMBERED WHAT I TITLED IT):

resistor

from streetlamps to showers of sparks
the neighborhood freedom fighter
touts with him his three feet of cold steel justice.

kicking gravel and sand aside
he pauses, features sharp blue and white
against the impassionate yellow searchlight trained on him.
his raised hand holding the rod echoes
past every guard stationed on the lonely path
the night grows darker by one additional victory

liberating one house, then the next
footsteps at a time
cast the dank concrete aisle
into sulfide and ozone shadows
thicker than the paste that
binds together the patchwork pathway
beneath the soles of his doc martins.

ALSO, HERE IS ONE I GOT PUBLISHED IN THE SCHOOL POETRY JOURNAL MY SOPHOMORE YEAR, BECAUSE I'M PROUD OF IT.

They Do It Backwards

I
He was unlucky like western animation,
anvils fell in his wake
and always missed.

II
She often sat near the windows
outside ancient tin can homes,
always trying to peer inside.

III
She walks like an Escher painting,
red-eyed goats fall endlessly down stairs.

IV
His mother found the pot in the washer,
hung it out to dry and folded it
neatly inside his underwear drawer.

V
Her pencils were all fascists,
they slid across paper like lightning
moving across the harsh tundra.

VI
Tears fell on a monotone piano
when her boyfriend’s van vanished
into the void of the Midwest.

VIII
Everyone says she has wings and a halo.
Really, she’s an artist.

IX
She danced only on cloudy days with the shades drawn.

X
He would only solve the backs of
jigsaw puzzles. He has a pile of them,
all soldered together, in his room.

XI
It was dinnertime.
She went to the library to steal croutons
and pictures of other people’s boyfriends.

I REALLY SHOULD BE REVISITING MY OLD STUFF AND WORKING ON SOME NEW THINGS, I MISS IT.

illithid235

YOU KNOW, HAMELIN, I REALLY ENJOYED BOTH OF THOSE SAMPLES. IMAGES FLY AT YOU REALLY FAST.

BUT I ALSO SHOULD SAY THAT I THINK YOUR POETRY IS TO POETRY AS ABSTRACT ART IS TO ART. I THINK THIS IS THE TYPE OF POETRY THAT ANTI-POETRY PEOPLE HATE THE MOST BECAUSE IT LACKS A SOLID, REGULAR FORM AND A DEFINITE THRUST. BUT I STILL THINK IT'S BEAUTIFUL. I LOVE IT WHEN WORDS SMACK ME IN THE FACE, LIKE 'ALL SOLDERED TOGETHER'. I DON'T KNOW WHY, BUT THAT LINE SMACKED ME IN THE FACE. EXCELLENT WORK.

hlavco

THE FACT THAT THAT FIRST VIDEO GAME ONE IS CONSIDERED POETRY IS THE REASON WHY I HATE POETRY. IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE FANCY LINE BREAKS IT WOULD JUST BE A SOMEWHAT ENTERTAINING PARAGRAPH. BUT THE FACT THAT IT ADVERTISES ITSELF AS POETRY MAKES ME HATE IT A LOT.

THIS IS A
POEM

AM I
DOING
IT RIGHT?

illithid235

IT'S FUNNY THOUGH, BECAUSE I FEEL THE SAME WAY ABOUT ABSTRACT ART, BUT NOT ABOUT ABSTRACT POETRY. I LOOK AT MOST ABSTRACT ART AND WONDER WHY IT'S CONSIDERED ART WHEN IT LOOKS MORE LIKE A KINDERGARTENER THREW PAINT ONTO A CANVAS.

THE LINE BETWEEN INTERESTING POETRY AND WORDS ARRANGED ODDLY IS A FINE ONE. BUT, IF YOU WANT A CLARIFICATION, POETRY REALLY IS WRITING THAT ISN'T IN PROSE, PROSE BEING SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. IT'S ONLY A DESCRIPTION OF HOW SOMETHING IS WRITTEN. OF COURSE, MOST PEOPLE NOW THINK OF POETRY AS HAVING RHYME, METER, ETC. SO WHILE YOU STILL MAY NOT CONSIDER IT GOOD POETRY, IT'S STILL POETRY.

SO WHAT YOU SHOULD BE SAYING IS THAT YOU HATE FREE VERSE, NOT ALL POETRY.

I THINK, ANYWAY. CORRECT ME IF I'M OFF.

DrLeopoldStrabismus

I THINK ART IS LIKE ANYTHING
- AND LET ME GET TO THE GIST -
THERE ARE SIMPLE RULES GOVERNING
WHETHER IT MAY EXIST.

THINGS THAT CAN SELF-REPLICATE
(LIKE BIPEDAL BAGS OF MEAT)
NEED TO TANGO HARDER THAN
THEIR NEIGHBORS DOWN THE STREET.

BUT PARASITIC INTANGIBLES
LIKE FREEDOM, ART, AND JAZZ
ARE TOTALLY DEPENDENT ON
A DIFF'RENT RAZZAMATAZZ.

AS TAUGHT TO US BY RON PAUL
THE FREE MARKET WILL DECIDE
WHICH IDEAS ARE EMBRACED
AND WHICH ARE CAST ASIDE.

SO IF AN IDEA OFFENDS YOU
AND YOU SEEK IT'S HOLOCAUST
DON'T AIM FOR THE CONCEPT
KILL THE PATRONS OF THE THOUGHT.

Behemoth

I WAS TRYING TO GET OUT TWO THOUGHTS AT ONCE IN MY EARLIER POST. MY CREATIVE WRITING PROFESSOR WAS REALLY JUST A UNIQUE ASSHOLE. THE WORKS HE PRESENTED TO US AS THE IDEAL OF CREATIVE WRITING WE AS FOLLOWS: A CLICHED ATTEMPT TO ENNOBLE A BLACK STRIPPER HE SAW BY COMPARING HER TO A JUNGLE CAT OF SOME SORT, 2 PERSONAL EXPERIENCE STORIES WRITTEN BY FORMER STUDENTS; ONE ABOUT A BOY LOSING HIS VIRGINITY OVER SUMMER VACATION, ANOTHER ABOUT A GIRL BEING MOLESTED AS A CHILD, AND A MYRIAD OF CRAPPY POEMS AND SONNETS THAT HE WROTE THAT TOOK FAR TOO MANY LIBERTIES WITH THEIR STRUCTURAL RESTRAINTS (TWO EXTRA SYLLABLES AT THE END OF A SONNET).

THE POETRY IS LIKE EMO MUSIC THING IS ABOUT HOW BOTH SEEM TO BE FULL OF FORCED, FAKE EMOTION. I MAY SIMPLY HAVE A MUCH TOO RIGID WAY OF LOOKING AT THING, BUT IT SEEMS THAT AT LEAST ONE COMMONALITY FOR ALL POETRY IS THAT IT IS MEANT TO CONVEY AN ABSTRACT CONCEPT OF SOME SORT. I GUESS WHAT REALLY ANNOYS ME ARE PEOPLE WHO THINK THEY'RE BEING CLEVER OR DEEP WHEN THEY ARE JUST EASILY CONFOUNDED. I VIEW THE ABILITY TO EXPRESS AN EMOTION IN THE SAME WAY. I DON'T LIKE PHILOSOPHERS VERY MUCH EITHER. I GUESS I JUST DON'T LIKE PEOPLE WHO THINK THEY'RE TACKLING THE GREAT MYSTERIES OF OUR TIME WHEN THEY ARE THE ONLY ONES WHO WERE EVER CONFUSED. BUT THEY CAN ALWAYS CLAIM THAT THERE IS DEEPER MEANING TO THEIR POETRY THAT YOU SIMPLY CANNOT UNDERSTAND.
I DO LIKE SOME POETRY. I LIKE WHEN SOMEONE IS ABLE TO TELL A MUNDANE STORY IN A ROUNDABOUT WAY TO MAKE IT SEEM FAR MORE IMPORTANT THAN IT IS. LIKE WHEN SOMEONE CAN USE A FULL PAGE TO DESCRIBE A 2-SECOND EVENT. THAT ACTUALLY TAKES TALENT, TOO.

Serephel

This is for you Andrew.

The Red Wheelbarrow, by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

geoko

I always loved Neil Gaiman's poems, even though most of his stuff is novels, his poems are great.

The Day the Saucers Came

That day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn't notice it because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-man's nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold, and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling gods day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across the land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of the Time Machine day,
You didn't notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.

illithid235

*applauds* Gaiman, again, amazes me. Thank you, geoko, for making my day a little brighter. And Ryan, I hate you. You're reminding people of how stupid poetry can get.

DrLeopoldStrabismus

This looks like a problem that can be solved by fisticuffs.

illithid235

I agree. We shall have a physical confrontation next time we see each other.

Behemoth

Can I play, too? I love fisticuffs!

illithid235

You're too big. You'll kill me with one punch. It'll be like in Shaolin Soccer when Stephen Chow *ding*s the ball right at the start of the practice match. Too much power, too weak a recipient.