← Autodidact Archive · Original Dissent · Texas Dissident
Thread ID: 6907 | Posts: 13 | Started: 2003-05-25
2003-05-25 08:48 | User Profile
Well, we've done films, paintings and all kinds of musical discussions, so if there are any ODers out there like myself who are fans of the classic verse, let's have at it. I know there has to be some T.S. Eliot fans here. ;)
Although I have many, many favorites, Wordsworth's "The World is Too Much With Us" always seems to stand out:
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
2003-05-25 11:13 | User Profile
THE WRATH OF THE AWAKENED SAXON by Rudyard Kipling
It was not part of their blood, It came to them very late, With long arrears to make good, When the Saxon began to hate.
They were not easily moved, They were icy -- willing to wait Till every count should be proved, Ere the Saxon began to hate.
Their voices were even and low. Their eyes were level and straight. There was neither sign nor show When the Saxon began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd. It was not taught by the state. No man spoke it aloud When the Saxon began to hate.
It was not suddently bred. It will not swiftly abate. Through the chilled years ahead, When Time shall count from the date That the Saxon began to hate.
"This destiny does not tire, nor can it be broken, and its mantle of
strength descends upon those in its service." - Francis Parker Yockey, IMPERIUM
2003-05-25 17:38 | User Profile
Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night is a great one....
**Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. **
2003-05-27 11:17 | User Profile
Originally posted by AntiYuppie@May 25 2003, 11:20 The Waste Land is beyond question the most important piece of poetry written in the 20th century, and arguably of any century.
Oh come on AY, it's good but it's no Paradise Lost. Milton's epic has everything: action, adventure, romance, rebellion against a tyrannical Jewish G-d...
I can't wait for the Joel Schumacher silver screen version. The scene where archangel Michael(Laurence Fishburne) flings archfiend Satan(Ralph Fiennes, reprising his role from Schindler's List) from the ramparts of heaven while screaming "happy landings muthafuka" is going to rock.
2003-05-27 16:32 | User Profile
T. S. Eliot's "The Four Quartets" is about as good as it gets in 20th-century poetry (imho). "The Waste Land" is a masterpiece, too, but a tough read (as it contains a good smattering of Greek and Latin; I can read Latin ok, but can't read Greek w/o a pocket dictionary).
Charles Olson's Maximus Poems (a gigantic, multi-year effort) is probably the mightiest 20th-century burst of thought, in poetic circles (again, to my mind).
Late-era Ted Berrigan, very nice stuff (1978-82).
...too many favorites to name.
Not to big on classical poetry, for its rhyme/meter constrictions.
2003-05-27 17:15 | User Profile
My favorite poem in English is Invictus by William Ernest Henley:
"OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance 5
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 10
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate: 15
I am the captain of my soul.
"
2003-05-28 06:33 | User Profile
RESUME
Razors pain you; rivers are damp Acids stain you, and drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; nooses give Gas smells awful - you might as well live.
Dorothy Parker
2003-05-28 06:53 | User Profile
Gotta have some Robert Burns.
A Red, Red Rose
O my Luve 's like a red, red roseÃÂ That 's newly sprung in June: O my Luve 's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry: ÃÂ ÃÂ Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
2003-05-28 07:05 | User Profile
And for some pure Americana:
"I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" by Hank Wiliams
Hear that lonesome whippoorwill He sounds too blue to fly The midnight train is whining low I'm so lonesome I could cry
I've never seen a night so long When time goes crawling by The moon just went behind the clouds To hide its face and cry
Did you ever see a robin weep When leaves begin to die That means he's lost his will to live I'm so lonesome I could cry
The silence of a falling star Lights up a purple sky And as I wonder where you are I'm so lonesome I could cry
:crybaby:
2003-05-28 08:12 | User Profile
Ode to an Unknown Freeper:
The Unknown Citizen by W.H. Auden (To Js/07/m/378 This Marble Monument is Erected by the State)
He was found by the Bureau of Statistic to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked to drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day. And that his reactions to the advertisements were normal in every way. Polices taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows that he was once in the hospital but left it cured, Both Producers Research and High-grade living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace; when there was war, he went. He married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation, And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education, Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.
2003-05-28 12:08 | User Profile
Who hasn't felt this way in our most depressed times, if even for just a moment?
Macbeth
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
SONNET CXLVII
My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, At random from the truth vainly express'd; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
Theodore Roosevelt
It is not the critic who counts. Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause. Who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.
2003-05-28 23:06 | User Profile
I understand and appreciate the love of T.S. Eliot and others. A name I find missing is Phillip Larkin, whom I enjoy. But when discussing English language poetry in the 20th century, there can only be one name, William Butler Yeats. I copied some of my favorites. Then stopped. I might have filled more than 100 pages.
The Old Stone Cross
[color=blue]A STATESMAN is an easy man, He tells his lies by rote; A journalist makes up his lies And takes you by the throat;[/color] So stay at home' and drink your beer And let the neighbours' vote, Said the man in the golden breastplate Under the old stone Cross.
Because this age and the next age Engender in the ditch, No man can know a happy man From any passing wretch; If Folly link with Elegance No man knows which is which, Said the man in the golden breastplate Under the old stone Cross.
[color=blue]But actors lacking music Do most excite my spleen, They say it is more human To shuffle, grunt and groan, Not knowing what unearthly stuff Rounds a mighty scene,[/color] Said the man in the golden breastplate Under the old stone Cross. [color=red][What would he have thought of Reagan and Clinton][/color]
An Irish Airman Forsees His Death
I KNOW that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
[color=blue]Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,[/color]
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
The Second Coming
[color=blue]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.[/color]
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, [color=blue]And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?[/color]
The O'Rahilly***
SING of the O'Rahilly, Do not deny his right; Sing a "the' before his name; Allow that he, despite All those learned historians, Established it for good; He wrote out that word himself, He christened himself with blood. How goes the weather?
Sing of the O'Rahilly That had such little sense He told Pearse and Connolly He'd gone to great expense Keeping all the Kerry men Out of that crazy fight; That he might be there himself Had travelled half the night. How goes the weather?
"Am I such a craven that I should not get the word But for what some travelling man Had heard I had not heard?' Then on pearse and Connolly He fixed a bitter look: "Because I helped to wind the clock I come to hear it strike.' How goes the weather?
What remains to sing about But of the death he met Stretched under a doorway Somewhere off Henry Street; They that found him found upon The door above his head "Here died the O'Rahilly. R.I.P.' writ in blood. How goes the weather.?
[color=blue]It must be noted that the O'Rahilly came from Philadelphia to fight and die for his ancestral homeland in 1916.[/color]
All poems are at the below site: [url=http://www.geocities.com/Athens/5379/yeats_bytitle.html]http://www.geocities.com/Athens/5379/yeats...ts_bytitle.html[/url]
2003-05-29 05:49 | User Profile
Inversnaid
THIS darksome burn, horseback brown, His rollrock highroad roaring down, In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth Turns and twindles over the broth Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning, It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew, Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through, Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern, And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
Gerard Manley Hopkins