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Thread: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

  1. #1
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    Default Poetry

    Leave a link to your favourite poems.
    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nie5dGD6OQA"]YouTube- Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening[/ame]
    http://www.ketzle.com/frost/snowyeve.htm

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TpqIf4vwGhM"]YouTube- "In Paris With You" by James Fenton (poetry reading)[/ame]
    http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-paris-with-you/

  2. #2
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Good poetry, like a good post on P.org should be short, unpretentious, and succint.
    I really liked that first poem.

  3. #3
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Quote Originally Posted by Summerday Sands View Post
    Leave a link to your favourite poems.
    YouTube- Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Took this apart on my o level English lit exam 25 years ago, I smiled when I saw it come up.

    Not much of a one for this God bloke but Hopkins can poem the ***** out of the best of them.

    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 fáwn-fróth
    Turns and twindles over the broth
    Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
    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 of wildness? Let them be left,
    O let them be left, wildness and wet;
    Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

    -- Gerard Manley Hopkins

    What about that second stanza?
    http://ancruiskeenlawnmower.wordpress.com/

    If dreams were lightning, thunder was desire, this whole place would have burned down, a long time ago.

  4. #4
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    Default Re: Poetry

    I hate poetry. I never grasp it's meaning.
    This is the only poem I've ever enjoyed reading.

    Robert Frost 1919

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
    and sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveller, 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 feet 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 travelled by,
    and that has made all the difference

  5. #5
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Battlefield

    Yielding clod lulls iron off to sleep
    bloods clot the patches where they oozed
    rusts crumble
    fleshes slime
    sucking lusts around decay.
    Murder on murder blinks
    in childish eyes.

    August Stramm

  6. #6
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Evening

    Tiredness stitches.
    Dullness dims.
    Prayers press down.
    The wounding sun
    caresses you.

    August Stramm.

  7. #7
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    Default Re: Poetry

    The storm.

    The world's ablaze in wind, the cities blister.
    Hello, the storm, the great storm is at the hilt.
    A little girl is ripped away from her sister.
    Escaping to Ithaca is a car just built.

    A path has lost its way entirely.
    The stars in the sky have been eroded.
    A future madhouse inmate's born prematurely.
    In San Francisco the moon has exploded.

    Alfred Lichtenstein (1889-1914)

  8. #8
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    Default Re: Poetry

    I never grasp it's meaning.

  9. #9
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    Default Re: Poetry

    The sorrows

    And the way you were, rigid, your hands hot!
    we saw them come: a hungry, threatening bunch of deformed sorrows
    that, bleeding tears, did not want to go on.
    As if such sadness were already hope, you sang almost inaudibly:
    Never again shall I freeze at day in blazing heat and see
    morning melt on flower beds like big kisses.

    René Schickele (1883-1940)

  10. #10
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    Default Re: Poetry

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7n8dRr90Bcg"]YouTube- Por qué cantamos[/ame]

    If each hour comes with its own death
    if time is a cave of thieves
    and the airs are no longer such good airs,
    life is nothing but a mobile target
    and you will ask why do we sing...

    If those who are ours are left without an embrace
    our motherland is almost dead of sadness
    and the heart of man is blown to pieces
    before shame exploded.
    You will ask why do we sing...

    We sing because the river sounds
    and when the river sounds, sounds the river.
    We sing because the cruel has no name
    but his name has one.
    We sing because of the child and because of everything
    and because of some future and because of the people.
    We sing because the survivors
    and our dead want us to sing.
    If we were far as a horizon,
    if trees and sky were left here,
    if every night was an absence
    and every waking up a missed encounter
    You will ask why do we sing...

    We sing because it rains on the furrow
    and we are militants of Life
    and because we cannot and do not want to
    let songs become ashes.
    We sing because a cry is not enough
    and neither are tears or anger.
    We sing because we believe in people
    and because we will overcome defeat.
    We sing because the Sun recognizes us
    and because the fields smell like spring
    and because in this stem, in that fruit
    every question has its answer...


    http://www.voxpublica.org/2009/05/wh...benedetti.html
    Last edited by moss; 20-03-2010 at 02:36 AM.

  11. #11
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Quote Originally Posted by moss View Post
    I never grasp it's meaning.
    Your supposed to grasp as a feeling and not necessarily a meaning.

  12. #12
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Quote Originally Posted by RosaLuxembourg View Post
    Your supposed to grasp as a feeling and not necessarily a meaning.
    Yes Miss, sorry Miss

  13. #13
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    Default Re: Poetry

    At The Window by D. H. Lawrence

    The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters
    Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter;
    While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.

    Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede,
    Winding about their dimness the mist’s grey cerements, after
    The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed.

    The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass
    To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes
    That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.

  14. #14
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Great reading of Easter 1916 by Yeats

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7RODe9l9SM0"]YouTube- "Easter 1916" by W.B. Yeats (poetry)[/ame]

  15. #15
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    Default Re: Poetry

    Slough

    Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
    It isn't fit for humans now,
    There isn't grass to graze a cow.
    Swarm over, Death!
    Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
    Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
    Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
    Tinned minds, tinned breath.

    Mess up the mess they call a town-
    A house for ninety-seven down
    And once a week a half a crown
    For twenty years.

    And get that man with double chin
    Who'll always cheat and always win,
    Who washes his repulsive skin
    In women's tears:

    And smash his desk of polished oak
    And smash his hands so used to stroke
    And stop his boring dirty joke
    And make him yell.

    But spare the bald young clerks who add
    The profits of the stinking cad;
    It's not their fault that they are mad,
    They've tasted Hell.

    It's not their fault they do not know
    The birdsong from the radio,
    It's not their fault they often go
    To Maidenhead

    And talk of sport and makes of cars
    In various bogus-Tudor bars
    And daren't look up and see the stars
    But belch instead.

    In labour-saving homes, with care
    Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
    And dry it in synthetic air
    And paint their nails.

    Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
    To get it ready for the plough.
    The cabbages are coming now;
    The earth exhales.

    John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)

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