Poetry......where's the goodstuff?
Discussion
I always detested the English language in its artistic forms as I was forced fed it. I've come to the conclusion that I've probably been missing something and should have a dabble to see what wordsmiths are capable of.
A quick peruse of some old books has led me to realise that quite a lot of "creative writing" is utter shite. I figure like fine wine, classical music and cigars, there is probably someone on here who can point me in a good direction.
Fire away chaps/esses
A quick peruse of some old books has led me to realise that quite a lot of "creative writing" is utter shite. I figure like fine wine, classical music and cigars, there is probably someone on here who can point me in a good direction.
Fire away chaps/esses
Vogon?
Oh freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.
Groop I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes.
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
see if I don't!
- Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz
>> Edited by Balmoral Green on Sunday 15th May 22:09
Oh freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.
Groop I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes.
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
see if I don't!
- Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz
>> Edited by Balmoral Green on Sunday 15th May 22:09
SOME WEBSITE said:
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941
Might not be a great poem, dunno, but i quite like it
I like this one, about Abraham Lincoln:
O Captain! My Captain! (Walt Whitman)
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! My Captain! (Walt Whitman)
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Here's one by a British author:
William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903
7. Invictus
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.
William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903
7. Invictus
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.
Just before going to bed, a small selection: "The good morrow" by John Donne, "Digging" by Seamus Heaney, "The ballad of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" and "The Road not Taken" by Robert Frost... among many others. Of course if you feel like a good trip, you can always go for T.S. Elliot´s "The Wasteland", but that is only recommended for those who abuse drugs. My contribution for the poem of the day, softie as I am:
"Scaffolding" by Seamus Heaney
Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.
And yet all this comes down when the job's done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.
So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.
"Scaffolding" by Seamus Heaney
Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.
And yet all this comes down when the job's done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.
So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.
My Dad is Mr English Lit, sadly he is far too esoteric for a pleb like me.
I was watching the Steven Hawking life story thing earlier and one set of words struck me as being exceptionally communicative. That's the nature of the beast and I assume that poets should have it off to a fine art. It's like plumbing, there are people who rig up pipes and people who rig up pipes properly, no amount of bullshit excuses bad pipe rigging, give them their topic and they should demonstrate the demonstratable by language.
As a pianist, I'm into some pretty noisy shit but if I was asked to give some "Here's how it should be done" recommendations, I would be ready to recommend.
I'll go to the library tomorrow and have a look.
Surely poetry has its stars? It just strikes me as being a weeny bit elusive/exclusive a la degree level maths.
I figure that it shouldn't be exclusive, it should be done well by some blatant talents and their work should be available.
[/pissed mode]
I was watching the Steven Hawking life story thing earlier and one set of words struck me as being exceptionally communicative. That's the nature of the beast and I assume that poets should have it off to a fine art. It's like plumbing, there are people who rig up pipes and people who rig up pipes properly, no amount of bullshit excuses bad pipe rigging, give them their topic and they should demonstrate the demonstratable by language.
As a pianist, I'm into some pretty noisy shit but if I was asked to give some "Here's how it should be done" recommendations, I would be ready to recommend.
I'll go to the library tomorrow and have a look.
Surely poetry has its stars? It just strikes me as being a weeny bit elusive/exclusive a la degree level maths.
maths bloke said:
Well this is pure Maths you know? How could a hopeless imbecile like you begin to even contemplate the symbols, let alone the matter of what they are trying to communicate
I figure that it shouldn't be exclusive, it should be done well by some blatant talents and their work should be available.
[/pissed mode]
Well, wordsworth is considered a star by some, but doggerel by others...
The thing with maths is that it uses lots of weird symbols and it takes a lot of study to not just know, but understand what they all mean; with poetry the symbols are the words you use every day, and you already understand what they mean.
The thing with maths is that it uses lots of weird symbols and it takes a lot of study to not just know, but understand what they all mean; with poetry the symbols are the words you use every day, and you already understand what they mean.
Uriel said:
To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell is one of my faves. I'd paste it in, but it's a bit long.
"Worms will try that long preserv'd virginity" is the line that always sticks in my mind with that one. As a love poem, it's not actually that nice, which makes it all the more interesting.
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