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Thread: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

  1. #31
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TDagZAarkro"]"Ireland Is..." - Words: Colm Keegan/Music: Simon Quigley[/ame]

  2. #32
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others



    Interesting...

  3. #33
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    My favourite poem, by my favourite poet:


    Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

    Nobody heard him, the dead man,
    But still he lay moaning:
    I was much further out than you thought
    And not waving but drowning.

    Poor chap, he always loved larking
    And now he's dead
    It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
    They said.

    Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
    (Still the dead one lay moaning)
    I was much too far out all my life
    And not waving but drowning.

  4. #34
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Mrs Darwin
    by Carol Ann Duffy


    7 April 1852.


    Went to the Zoo.
    I said to Him –
    Something about that Chimpanzee over there reminds me of
    you.


    Mrs Icarus
    by Carol Ann Duffy

    I’m not the first or the last
    to stand on a hillock,
    watching the man she married
    prove to the world
    he’s a total, utter, absolute, Grade A pillock.


    Salome
    by Carol Ann Duffy

    I'd done it before
    (and doubtless I'll do it again,
    sooner or later)
    woke up with a head on the pillow beside me - whose? -
    what did it matter?
    Good-looking of course, dark hair, rather matted;
    the reddish beard several shades lighter;
    with very deep lines around the eyes,
    from pain, I'd guess, maybe laughter;
    and a beautiful crimson mouth that obviously knew
    how to flatter...
    which I kissed...
    Colder than pewter.
    Strange. What was his name? Peter?

    Simon? Andrew? John? I knew I'd feel better
    for tea, dry toast, no butter,
    so rang for the maid.
    And, indeed, her innocent clatter
    of cups and plates,
    her clearing of clutter,
    her regional patter,
    were just what I needed -
    hungover and wrecked as I was from a night on the batter.
    Never again! I needed to clean up my act,
    get fitter,
    cut out the booze and the fags and the sex.
    Yes. And as for the latter,
    it was time to turf out the blighter,
    the beater or biter,
    who'd come like a lamb to the slaughter
    to Salome's bed.
    In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
    I flung back the sticky red sheets,
    and there, like I said - and ain't life a ***** -
    was his head on a platter.

  5. #35
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    Ballade of the Poverties
    Adrienne Rich

    There's the poverty of the cockroach kingdom and the rusted toilet bowl
    The poverty of to steal food for the first time
    The poverty of to mouth a penis for a paycheck
    The poverty of sweet charity ladling
    Soup for the poor who must always be there for that
    There’s the poverty of theory poverty of the swollen belly shamed
    Poverty of the diploma mill the ballot that goes nowhere
    Princes of predation let me tell you
    There are poverties and there are poverties

    There’s the poverty of cheap luggage bursted open at immigration
    The poverty of the turned head, the averted eyes
    The poverty of bored sex of tormented sex
    The poverty of the bounced check the poverty of the dumpster dive
    The poverty of the pawned horn the poverty of the smashed reading glasses
    The poverty pushing the sheeted gurney the poverty cleaning up the puke
    The poverty of the pavement artist the poverty passed-out on pavement
    Princes of finance you who have not lain there
    There are poverties and there are poverties

    There is the poverty of hand-to-mouth and door-to-door
    And the poverty of stories patched-up to sell there
    There’s the poverty of the child thumbing the Interstate
    And the poverty of the bride enlisting for war
    There’s the poverty of prescriptions who can afford
    And the poverty of how would you ever end it
    There is the poverty of stones fisted in pocket
    And the poverty of the village bulldozed to rubble
    Princes of weaponry who have not ever tasted war
    There are poverties and there are poverties

    There’s the poverty of wages wired for the funeral you
    Can’t get to the poverty of the salary cut
    There’s the poverty of human labor offered silently on the curb
    The poverty of the no-contact prison visit
    There’s the poverty of yard sale scrapings spread
    And rejected the poverty of eviction, wedding bed out on street
    Prince let me tell you who will never learn through words
    There are poverties and there are poverties

    You who travel by private jet like a housefly
    Buzzing with the other flies of plundered poverties
    Princes and courtiers who will never learn through words
    Here’s a mirror you can look into: take it: it’s yours.
    Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

  6. #36
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    "We may feel bitterly how little our poems can do in the face of seemingly out-of-control technological power and seemingly limitless corporate greed, yet it has always been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of kinship where all is represented as separation."

    Adrienne Rich
    Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

  7. #37
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    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQmWlzYq1y0&feature=related"]YouTube - "The Hunchback in the Park" by Dylan Thomas[/ame]

  8. #38
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Came into my head often, during the bombing of Gaza -


    A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London

    Never until the mankind making
    Bird beast and flower
    Fathering and all humbling darkness
    Tells with silence the last light breaking
    And the still hour
    Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

    And I must enter again the round Zion of the water bead
    And the synagogue of the ear of corn
    Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
    Or sow my salt seed
    In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn
    The majesty and burning of the child's death.

    I shall not murder
    The mankind of her going with a grave truth
    Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
    With any further
    Elegy of innocence and youth.

    Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
    Robed in the long friends,
    The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
    Secret by the unmourning water
    Of the riding Thames.
    After the first death, there is no other.

    dylan thomas
    Last edited by C. Flower; 10-01-2011 at 01:43 AM.

  9. #39
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0gNhfbv9Zs&feature=related"]YouTube - Dylan Thomas - In My Craft Or Sullen Art[/ame]

  10. #40
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Dylan Thomas rocks. I have always loved Fern Hill for some reason even though I am a total urbanite. The voice surprised me ... I can dimly recall a reading of A Child's Christmas and have a recollection of it being much more Welsh.
    Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

  11. #41
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Quote Originally Posted by Sam Lord View Post
    Dylan Thomas rocks. I have always loved Fern Hill for some reason even though I am a total urbanite. The voice surprised me ... I can dimly recall a reading of A Child's Christmas and have a recollection of it being much more Welsh.
    His posh English voice, for the readings. I wonder if he'd listened to those strange recordings of Yeats ? Although he was a better reader than Yeats.

  12. #42
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    Quote Originally Posted by C. Flower View Post
    His posh English voice, for the readings. I wonder if he'd listened to those strange recordings of Yeats ? Although he was a better reader than Yeats.
    I came across a rocking reading of Easter 1916 recently on youtube. I must look for it again.

    Never heard Yeats voice .... I'm thinking pinched, highpitched ...
    Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

  13. #43
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    This is it:

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

    That's not Yeat's reading is it?
    Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the (female dog) that bore him is in heat again. Bertolt Brecht

  14. #44
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    This is

    [ame="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2FT4_UUa4I"]YouTube - W.B.Yeats Reading His Own Verse[/ame]

  15. #45
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    Default Re: Poetry:- 'The Invitation' and others

    Brise Marine

    La chair est triste, hélas! et j'ai lu tous les livres.
    Fuir! là-bas fuir! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres
    D'être parmi l'écume inconnue et les cieux!
    Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux
    Ne retiendra ce coeur qui dans la mer se trempe

    O nuits! ni la clarté déserte de ma lampe
    Sur le vide papier que la blancheur défend
    Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son enfant.
    Je partirai! Steamer balançant ta mâture,
    Lève l'ancre pour une exotique nature!

    Un Ennui, désolé par les cruels espoirs,
    Croit encore à l'adieu suprême des mouchoirs!
    Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages
    Sont-ils de ceux qu'un vent penche sur les naufrages
    Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles îlots...
    Mais, ô mon coeur, entends le chant des matelots!


    Stéphane Mallarmé


    Bad translation:


    Sea Breeze

    My flesh feels weary and I've read every book.
    Escape! Fly away! The gulls seem drunk between distant sea spray and sky.
    Nothing: not those ancient gardens mirrored in eyes,
    Can hold back my heart, immersed in the sea.

    Not these nights: nor the lonely glow of the lamp,
    On my untouched paper, defended by whiteness
    Nor the young woman, her child at her breast.
    I'm off! The steamer, masts swaying, lifts anchor for wild, exotic lands.

    Bored and jaded, deserted by cruel hope,
    I believe still in the final farewell of the handkerchief
    Maybe the ship's masts will summon up storms...
    Tossed onto lost wrecks, without masts, without masts or fertile islands...
    But, oh! my heart! hear the sound of the sailors' songs..!

    ..........................
    SM/trans. CF
    Last edited by C. Flower; 04-11-2012 at 11:10 PM.

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