Fifty
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Greasy Knoll, enough.
What is poetry?
- Thread starter Agent327
- Start date
Snorrius
Librivorator
I woke up
And made this up
The DOW should fall
And be four k small!
And made this up
The DOW should fall
And be four k small!
Well, at least it rhymes...
I agree. (And thanks for that Hart Crane poem, by the way - very nice indeed.)
For people interested in Iliad translations (and direct quotes from the original), http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iliad#Famous_passages contains several links to this effect.
I agree. (And thanks for that Hart Crane poem, by the way - very nice indeed.)
For people interested in Iliad translations (and direct quotes from the original), http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iliad#Famous_passages contains several links to this effect.
Zenon_pt
Civing on the real world
For me, poetry is freedom of thought. It may ryme or not. But you need to put in one idea (or more) and handycraft it.
John Donne- At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow (Holy Sonnet VII)
At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise
From death, you numberlesse infinities
Of soules, and to your scattered bodies goe,
All whom the flood did, and the fire shall o'erthrow,
All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe.
But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,
For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,
When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,
Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good
As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.
King of Town
Adventuring
I woke up this morning to Led Zepplin
The song Kashmir, was a bit too loud
I walked to the bathroom to start the day
Looked in the mirror, and was not proud
Walked to the computer to write this down
Face not shaved, and body unclean
I'm also a bit hungover since
Last night I raved, and drank too much jim beam
Little parties always leave a large mess
glasses on the table, and plates in the sink
if it were not winter I'd open a window because
like a stable, this room does stink
not bad for 5:25 in the moring off the top of my head
The song Kashmir, was a bit too loud
I walked to the bathroom to start the day
Looked in the mirror, and was not proud
Walked to the computer to write this down
Face not shaved, and body unclean
I'm also a bit hungover since
Last night I raved, and drank too much jim beam
Little parties always leave a large mess
glasses on the table, and plates in the sink
if it were not winter I'd open a window because
like a stable, this room does stink
not bad for 5:25 in the moring off the top of my head
Fifty
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
If Poisonous Minerals - John Donne
If poisonous minerals, and if that tree
Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious
Cannot be damned, Alas! why should I be?
Why should intent or reason, born in me,
Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?
And mercy being easy, and glorious
To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he?
But who am I, that dare dispute with thee,
O God? O! of thine only worthy blood,
And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,
And drown in it my sin's black memory;
That thou remember them, some claim as debt,
I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
Quite a philosophically rich poem! It asks a bunch of philosophy questions, some of which are of quite contemporary relevance:
1. What is the relationship between intentionality and moral responsibility? This is a major topic in action theory.
2. How can morality depend on accidental features of the world? This is a major topic in meta-ethics, as well as political philosophy.
3. Is the debt conception of the Atonement tenable? A major topic in philosophical theology.
4. If consequentialism is false, then how is it that what we take to be non-consequentialist features of morality are morally relevant? In virtue of what do things other than the consequences matter? A major topic in normative ethics.
If poisonous minerals, and if that tree
Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,
If lecherous goats, if serpents envious
Cannot be damned, Alas! why should I be?
Why should intent or reason, born in me,
Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?
And mercy being easy, and glorious
To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he?
But who am I, that dare dispute with thee,
O God? O! of thine only worthy blood,
And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,
And drown in it my sin's black memory;
That thou remember them, some claim as debt,
I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.
Quite a philosophically rich poem! It asks a bunch of philosophy questions, some of which are of quite contemporary relevance:
1. What is the relationship between intentionality and moral responsibility? This is a major topic in action theory.
2. How can morality depend on accidental features of the world? This is a major topic in meta-ethics, as well as political philosophy.
3. Is the debt conception of the Atonement tenable? A major topic in philosophical theology.
4. If consequentialism is false, then how is it that what we take to be non-consequentialist features of morality are morally relevant? In virtue of what do things other than the consequences matter? A major topic in normative ethics.
I don't read much poetry. For a long time I've been meaning to but the prose keeps me too occupied. Still I've read enough to know my tastes.
I guess I'm an old timer - I like form, rhyme and rhytm. Poets like Edgar Allan Poe, and old Finnish ones like Kaarlo Kramsu and Uuno Kailas are among my few favorites.
In all it's simplicity and bleakness this short one by Uuno Kailas is one of my favorite poems (couldn't find an official translation so the english abomination below original Finnish one is entirely my doing - only trying to translate the meanings, not making a poem):
I guess I'm an old timer - I like form, rhyme and rhytm. Poets like Edgar Allan Poe, and old Finnish ones like Kaarlo Kramsu and Uuno Kailas are among my few favorites.
In all it's simplicity and bleakness this short one by Uuno Kailas is one of my favorite poems (couldn't find an official translation so the english abomination below original Finnish one is entirely my doing - only trying to translate the meanings, not making a poem):
Code:
Talo
Nous taloni yhdessä yössä –
kenen toimesta, Herra ties.
– Se auttoiko salvutyössä,
se Musta Kirvesmies? –
On taloni kylmä talo,
sen ikkunat yöhön päin.
Epätoivon jäinen palo
on tulena liedelläin.
Ei ystävän, vieraan tulla
ole ovea laisinkaan.
Vain kaks on ovea mulla,
kaks: uneen ja kuolemaan.
House
My house rose in a single night -
by whom, Lord knows.
- Did he help in building,
the Black Carpenter? -
My house is a cold house,
its windows towards the night.
Freezing flame of despair
is the fire upon my stove.
No door at all
to allow a friend or visitor.
For I only have two doors,
two: to dream and to death.Sorry for not responding immediately; sometimes bleak can be just what the doctor ordered. Also, the best poets won't refrain from writing such poems.
With regard to If poisonous minerals: very good - although on first lecture I wouldn't have noticed such metaphysical questions as you mention. Which only goes to show that the essence of good poetry is in the mind of the reader - as well as the writer -, to paraphrase the cliché.
With regard to If poisonous minerals: very good - although on first lecture I wouldn't have noticed such metaphysical questions as you mention. Which only goes to show that the essence of good poetry is in the mind of the reader - as well as the writer -, to paraphrase the cliché.
It just so happens that my homework is to name the technique that is employed by Donne in the use of the word 'But' at the beginning of the sestet. Anyone know?
Japanrocks12
tired of being a man
I am quite fond of the first of the Duino Elegies. All of these were written while Rainer Maria Rilke inhabitated the aforementioned castle. I admire his stringing together of various thoughts into a seamless narrative. Let me know what you think!
The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic
Orders? And even if one were to suddenly
take me to its heart, I would vanish into its
stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but
the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear,
and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains
to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry
of a darkened sobbing. Ah, who then can
we make use of? Not Angels: not men,
and the resourceful creatures see clearly
that we are not really at home
in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains
some tree on a slope, that we can see
again each day: there remains to us yesterdays street,
and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit
that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of space
wears out our faces whom would she not stay for,
the longed-for, gentle, disappointing one, whom the solitary heart
with difficulty stands before. Is she less heavy for lovers?
Ah, they only hide their fate between themselves.
Do you not know yet? Throw the emptiness out of your arms
to add to the spaces we breathe; maybe the birds
will feel the expansion of air, in more intimate flight.
Yes, the Spring-times needed you deeply. Many a star
must have been there for you so you might feel it. A wave
lifted towards you out of the past, or, as you walked
past an open window, a violin
gave of itself. All this was their mission.
But could you handle it? Were you not always,
still, distracted by expectation, as if all you experienced,
like a Beloved, came near to you? (Where could you contain her,
with all the vast strange thoughts in you
going in and out, and often staying the night.)
But if you are yearning, then sing the lovers: for long
their notorious feelings have not been immortal enough.
Those, you almost envied them, the forsaken, that you
found as loving as those who were satisfied. Begin,
always as new, the unattainable praising:
think: the hero prolongs himself, even his falling
was only a pretext for being, his latest rebirth.
But lovers are taken back by exhausted Nature
into herself, as if there were not the power
to make them again. Have you remembered
Gastara Stampa sufficiently yet, that any girl,
whose lover has gone, might feel from that
intenser example of love: Could I only become like her?
Should not these ancient sufferings be finally
fruitful for us? Isnt it time that, loving,
we freed ourselves from the beloved, and, trembling, endured
as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be, in its flight,
something more than itself? For staying is nowhere.
Voices, voices. Hear then, my heart, as only
saints have heard: so that the mighty call
raised them from the earth: they, though, knelt on
impossibly and paid no attention:
such was their listening. Not that you could withstand
Gods voice: far from it. But listen to the breath,
the unbroken message that creates itself from the silence.
It rushes towards you now, from those youthfully dead.
Whenever you entered, didnt their fate speak to you,
quietly, in churches in Naples or Rome?
Or else an inscription exaltedly impressed itself on you,
as lately the tablet in Santa Maria Formosa.
What do they will of me? That I should gently remove
the semblance of injustice, that slightly, at times,
hinders their spirits from a pure moving-on.
It is truly strange to no longer inhabit the earth,
to no longer practice customs barely acquired,
not to give a meaning of human futurity
to roses, and other expressly promising things:
no longer to be what one was in endlessly anxious hands,
and to set aside even ones own
proper name like a broken plaything.
Strange: not to go on wishing ones wishes. Strange
to see all that was once in place, floating
so loosely in space. And its hard being dead,
and full of retrieval, before one gradually feels
a little eternity. Though the living
all make the error of drawing too sharp a distinction.
Angels (they say) would often not know whether
they moved among living or dead. The eternal current
sweeps all the ages, within it, through both the spheres,
forever, and resounds above them in both.
Finally they have no more need of us, the early-departed,
weaned gently from earthly things, as one outgrows
the mothers mild breast. But we, needing
such great secrets, for whom sadness is often
the source of a blessed progress, could we exist without them?
Is it a meaningless story how once, in the grieving for Linos,
first music ventured to penetrate arid rigidity,
so that, in startled space, which an almost godlike youth
suddenly left forever, the emptiness first felt
the quivering that now enraptures us, and comforts, and helps.
The First Elegy
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the Angelic
Orders? And even if one were to suddenly
take me to its heart, I would vanish into its
stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but
the beginning of terror, that we are still able to bear,
and we revere it so, because it calmly disdains
to destroy us. Every Angel is terror.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the cry
of a darkened sobbing. Ah, who then can
we make use of? Not Angels: not men,
and the resourceful creatures see clearly
that we are not really at home
in the interpreted world. Perhaps there remains
some tree on a slope, that we can see
again each day: there remains to us yesterdays street,
and the thinned-out loyalty of a habit
that liked us, and so stayed, and never departed.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of space
wears out our faces whom would she not stay for,
the longed-for, gentle, disappointing one, whom the solitary heart
with difficulty stands before. Is she less heavy for lovers?
Ah, they only hide their fate between themselves.
Do you not know yet? Throw the emptiness out of your arms
to add to the spaces we breathe; maybe the birds
will feel the expansion of air, in more intimate flight.
Yes, the Spring-times needed you deeply. Many a star
must have been there for you so you might feel it. A wave
lifted towards you out of the past, or, as you walked
past an open window, a violin
gave of itself. All this was their mission.
But could you handle it? Were you not always,
still, distracted by expectation, as if all you experienced,
like a Beloved, came near to you? (Where could you contain her,
with all the vast strange thoughts in you
going in and out, and often staying the night.)
But if you are yearning, then sing the lovers: for long
their notorious feelings have not been immortal enough.
Those, you almost envied them, the forsaken, that you
found as loving as those who were satisfied. Begin,
always as new, the unattainable praising:
think: the hero prolongs himself, even his falling
was only a pretext for being, his latest rebirth.
But lovers are taken back by exhausted Nature
into herself, as if there were not the power
to make them again. Have you remembered
Gastara Stampa sufficiently yet, that any girl,
whose lover has gone, might feel from that
intenser example of love: Could I only become like her?
Should not these ancient sufferings be finally
fruitful for us? Isnt it time that, loving,
we freed ourselves from the beloved, and, trembling, endured
as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be, in its flight,
something more than itself? For staying is nowhere.
Voices, voices. Hear then, my heart, as only
saints have heard: so that the mighty call
raised them from the earth: they, though, knelt on
impossibly and paid no attention:
such was their listening. Not that you could withstand
Gods voice: far from it. But listen to the breath,
the unbroken message that creates itself from the silence.
It rushes towards you now, from those youthfully dead.
Whenever you entered, didnt their fate speak to you,
quietly, in churches in Naples or Rome?
Or else an inscription exaltedly impressed itself on you,
as lately the tablet in Santa Maria Formosa.
What do they will of me? That I should gently remove
the semblance of injustice, that slightly, at times,
hinders their spirits from a pure moving-on.
It is truly strange to no longer inhabit the earth,
to no longer practice customs barely acquired,
not to give a meaning of human futurity
to roses, and other expressly promising things:
no longer to be what one was in endlessly anxious hands,
and to set aside even ones own
proper name like a broken plaything.
Strange: not to go on wishing ones wishes. Strange
to see all that was once in place, floating
so loosely in space. And its hard being dead,
and full of retrieval, before one gradually feels
a little eternity. Though the living
all make the error of drawing too sharp a distinction.
Angels (they say) would often not know whether
they moved among living or dead. The eternal current
sweeps all the ages, within it, through both the spheres,
forever, and resounds above them in both.
Finally they have no more need of us, the early-departed,
weaned gently from earthly things, as one outgrows
the mothers mild breast. But we, needing
such great secrets, for whom sadness is often
the source of a blessed progress, could we exist without them?
Is it a meaningless story how once, in the grieving for Linos,
first music ventured to penetrate arid rigidity,
so that, in startled space, which an almost godlike youth
suddenly left forever, the emptiness first felt
the quivering that now enraptures us, and comforts, and helps.
Death be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
-John Donne
its my favourite poem. +1 internet for anyone who can guess why i know it.
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
-John Donne
its my favourite poem. +1 internet for anyone who can guess why i know it.
You have an unhealthy obsession with death, who you regard to be rather powerless?
Not really a technique, but it marks the 'volta' or turn that occurs in line nine of your bog-standard sonnet.
no.................
Japanrocks12
tired of being a man
A Derek Walcott poem was posted here a while back; I wanted to bring him back again. He wrote the following very political poem that also hearkens to universal themes. It's called "A Far Cry from Africa"
A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt
Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies,
Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.
Corpses are scattered through a paradise.
Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:
"Waste no compassion on these separate dead!"
Statistics justify and scholars seize
The salients of colonial policy.
What is that to the white child hacked in bed?
To savages, expendable as Jews?
Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break
In a white dust of ibises whose cries
Have wheeled since civilizations dawn
>From the parched river or beast-teeming plain.
The violence of beast on beast is read
As natural law, but upright man
Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain.
Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars
Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum,
While he calls courage still that native dread
Of the white peace contracted by the dead.
Again brutish necessity wipes its hands
Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again
A waste of our compassion, as with Spain,
The gorilla wrestles with the superman.
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can I face such slaughter and be cool?
How can I turn from Africa and live?
A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt
Of Africa, Kikuyu, quick as flies,
Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.
Corpses are scattered through a paradise.
Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:
"Waste no compassion on these separate dead!"
Statistics justify and scholars seize
The salients of colonial policy.
What is that to the white child hacked in bed?
To savages, expendable as Jews?
Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break
In a white dust of ibises whose cries
Have wheeled since civilizations dawn
>From the parched river or beast-teeming plain.
The violence of beast on beast is read
As natural law, but upright man
Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain.
Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars
Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum,
While he calls courage still that native dread
Of the white peace contracted by the dead.
Again brutish necessity wipes its hands
Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again
A waste of our compassion, as with Spain,
The gorilla wrestles with the superman.
I who am poisoned with the blood of both,
Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
I who have cursed
The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
Betray them both, or give back what they give?
How can I face such slaughter and be cool?
How can I turn from Africa and live?
Fifty
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thanks very much. I think that's what I'm meant to be looking for.
No, Taliesin is completely wrong. The truth is that the device employed is a mixture of two devices, the homonym and the double entendre. While the word is "but", Donne urges the reader to form an association with "butt", thus making the poem ambiguous: is the poet addressing God, or addressing his butt? Or is he equating God with his butt, thus turning the entire poem on its head and making it positively subversive?
