Its National Poetry Month... - Xtratime Community
 
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post #1 of 5 (permalink) Old April 4th, 2005, 20:17 Thread Starter
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Its National Poetry Month...

...in the USA, maybe all over the world (I know not how these things work).

Poetry is the most difficult of all literary pursuits and the one with the least possible payoffs. Nobody's getting a three book deal for 1 million dollars and options for more for writing poetry these days, but let's face it, when you are trying to get somewhere, poetry always works. In that spirit, post your favorite poem(s) here, all month long. RIP Robert Creeley.

Laws Of Planetary Motion

This orb of stars
Fixed infinitely up,
Extendeth itself in altitude spherically
And therefore immovable.
The palace of felicity,
Garnished with
Perpetual, shining, glorious
Lights innumerable.
Far excelling our sun
Both in quantity and in quality,
The very court of celestial angels.
Devoid of grief and replenished with
Pefect endless joy,
The habitat for the elect.
--Thomas Digges

Batter My Heart Three-Personed God

Batter my heart three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine and seek to mend.
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, and burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh! to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love You, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto Your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to You, imprison me, for I,
Except You enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except You ravish me.
--John Donne

Contemplation

"I'm Mark's alone!" you swore. Given cause to doubt you,
I think less of you, dear. But more about you.
--John Frederick Nims

Readers and listeners praise my books;
You swear they are worse than a beginner's.
Who cares? I always plan my dinners
To please the diners, not the cooks!
--Martial

Uncle Bungle, now deceased,
Ate a cake of bakers' yeast.
Then, with an odd gleam in his eye,
Devoured a shoe-polish pie.
Uncle Bungle, now deceased,
Still rises and shines in the East.
--Unknown

The World Is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late ans soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste to 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 glimses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteua rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
--William Wordsworth

You know the scene it's very hum-drum
And my favorite song's entitled "Boredom"...
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post #2 of 5 (permalink) Old April 4th, 2005, 22:39
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Yes. One of the last Beats. RIP, Robert Creeley.

I've posted this before but it is so dear to me I will post it again.

Art thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth, --

And ever changing, like a joyless eye

That finds no object worth its constancy?



- Shelley / To the Moon

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post #3 of 5 (permalink) Old April 5th, 2005, 04:18
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My favorite; Keats:

La Belle Dame Sans Merci


O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

random, Poe:

The Divine right of Kings

The only king by right divine
Is Ellen King, and were she mine
I'd strive for liberty no more,
But hug the glorious chains I wore.

Her bosom is an ivory throne,
Where tyrant virtue reigns alone ;
No subject vice dare interfere,
To check the power that governs here.

O! would she deign to rule my fate,
I'd worship Kings and kingly state,
And hold this maxim all life long,
The King — my King — can do no wrong.

Emily Bronte

To Imagination

When weary with the long day's care,
And earthly change from pain to pain,
And lost, and ready to despair,
Thy kind voice calls me back again:
Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,
While then canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without;
The world within I doubly prize;
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,
And cold suspicion never rise;
Where thou, and I, and Liberty,
Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that all around
Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,
If but within our bosom's bound
We hold a bright, untroubled sky,
Warm with ten thousand mingled rays
Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason, indeed, may oft complain
For Nature's sad reality,
And tell the suffering heart how vain
Its cherished dreams must always be;
And Truth may rudely trample down
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:

But thou art ever there, to bring
The hovering vision back, and breathe
New glories o'er the blighted spring,
And call a lovelier Life from Death.
And whisper, with a voice divine,
Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss,
Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,
With never-failing thankfulness,
I welcome thee, Benignant Power;
Sure solacer of human cares,
And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!

Kat: "JCam, you may quote me now, but you are quite wise".

Kat: "JCam knows, we do not doubt in him".
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post #4 of 5 (permalink) Old April 5th, 2005, 20:32
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Totally personal of course, but Keats in my view is the best of the Romantic poets. Followed by Shelley, Coleridge, Byron, Wordsworth, Blake ...


Now, out of nowhere and everywhere [preferrably at the Algonquin Hotel in midtown Manhattan], an American writer in the 1920's ...


Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.

There are things waxen neat
And set in decorus lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.


- Dorothy Parker

/ Interior (from Sunset Gun, 1928)

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post #5 of 5 (permalink) Old April 5th, 2005, 20:46
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Our views are not very Different. I would post the first part of Lamia here, but it is a bit long, so I just suggest it...

but to keep the place and the century:

Charles Bukowiski:

Poetry Readings

poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.

I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.

if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:

a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke

anything
anything
but
these.

aand to make him not feel sad for us and give something else:

Lewis Carroll:

Jabberwocky
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Kat: "JCam, you may quote me now, but you are quite wise".

Kat: "JCam knows, we do not doubt in him".
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