POET'S LAIR

Careful there stud... that's like reading from the Book of the Dead. All of Mao's poems have a political sub-text... but since we are talking poetry and China here is one about modern day China.

The Taxi Driver

Day light carves
Through hessian blinds,
Crisp in evolution.
The baying of horns,
The telling of tales
- drivers of rusted cattle.
Grills of dented iron teeth
- eyes caged in glass.
Wheels in constant revolution,
bear down on blackened grass.
Gaping mouths,
Open wounds,
His mission - seek abundance,
Yet turning
Spits displeasure out,
Through dust,
And sweat,
And gout.

Paul William Tait
http://www.poetry.com/Publications/display.asp?ID=P4724523&BN=999&PN=1
 
Yes, I know. But at the literal level, it's a pretty cool short poem.



Time and Again


TIme and again, however well we know the landscape of love,
and the little church-yard with lamenting names,
and the frightfully silent ravine wherein all the others
end: time and again we go out two together,
under the old trees, lie down again and again
between the flowers, face to face with the sky.
Rainer Maria Rilke
1875-1926
 
Young Bojangles.


Susannah never cried for me
I ‘m not from Alabama
With a banjo, famously.
In fact I came from Liverpool
With a banjo on my knee.

All around the world I went
To Georgia and LA
Sang and danced
To heart’s content
And got drunk on the way.
I sang Hank Williams records
Bob Dylan records too
And I danced with
As many girls as I could
That’s what I did;
Wouldn’t you?

What a shame
I never learned
To play that banjo.

Not a note.
 
Great verses above from everyone - I havn't read a bad one yet - although I am a bit of a Guy Fawkes sympathizer, but not of Mao.

I see there's a spiritual thread running in some places so here's an addition from a Church of England Minister, R. S. Thomas:

The Country Clergy

I see them working in old rectories
By the sun's light, by candlelight,
Venerable men, their black cloth
A little dusty, a little green
With holy mildew. And yet their skulls,
Ripening over so many prayers,
Toppled into the same grave
With oafs and yokels. They left no books,
Memorial to their lonely thought
In grey parishes; rather they wrote
On men's hearts and in the minds
Of young children sublime words
Too soon forgotten. God in his time
Or out of time will correct this.

and one of his more brooding samples....

The Dark Well

They see you as they see you,
A poor farmer with no name,
Ploughing cloudward, sowing the wind
With squalls of gulls at the day's end.
To me you are Prytherch, the man
Who more than all directed my slow
Charity where there was need.
There are two hungers, hunger for bread
And hunger of the uncouth soul
For the light's grace. I have seen both,
And chosen for an indulgent world's
Ear the story of one whose hands
Have bruised themselves on the locked doors
Of life; whose heart, fuller than mine
Of gulped tears, is the dark well
From which to draw, drop after drop,
The terrible poetry of his kind.
 
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-- Robert Frost

Keeping with the spiritual theme Padre.
;)
 
Great stuff. I,m into contemporary poetry, here's one for Padre and his team:-


IS THERE ANYBODY HERE ?



is there anybody here


asked the stranger


knocking on heaven’s door


silence was the stern reply


until


his mobile phone


collected a text message



no room 4 h8 here


go 2


www.thebeatitudes.com.





 
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Bulldogg - Re Robert Frost -


Dymock poets

The Dymock poets were a literary group of the early 20th century, who made their home near the Gloucestershire village of Dymock in England. They were Robert Frost, Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, Edward Thomas, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, and John Drinkwater, some of whom lived near the village in the period between 1911 and 1914. They published their own quarterly, entitled 'New Numbers', containing poems such as Brooke's masterpiece, The Soldier. The First World War resulted in the break-up of the community.

Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, John Drinkwater and Wilfrid Wilson Gibson were contributors to Georgian Poetry. The poetry has fallen out of favour, but at the time was revolutionary, a rebellion against current poetic conventions. It used simple language, and took as its subjects ordinary events and people. Eddie Marsh, the artistic and literary patron, edited the five volumes of Georgian Poetry, and Harold Monro was their publisher.
John Drinkwater had close connections with the Birmingham Repertory Theatre in Station Street, which opened in 1913. He was its first manager, and wrote several plays for the company, mainly historical pieces and light comedies. The Old Rep. is now the home of the British Stage Company.
This poetry-related article is a stub. You can help Wikipedia by expanding it.





Are you familiar with this poetry circle pre WW1 in gloucestershire, my area really. Important group incl Brooke and Frost.
Wilfred Gibson was unpublished then, and late wrote in 'The Golden Room' - ...... in the lamplight
We talked and laughed, but for the most part listened,
While Robert frost kept on and on and on,
in his slow New England fashion, for our delight'....
 
Bulldogg - Re Robert Frost -


Dymock poets

The Dymock poets were a literary group of the early 20th century, who made their home near the Gloucestershire village of Dymock in England. They were Robert Frost, Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, Edward Thomas, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, and John Drinkwater, some of whom lived near the village in the period between 1911 and 1914. They published their own quarterly, entitled 'New Numbers', containing poems such as Brooke's masterpiece, The Soldier. The First World War resulted in the break-up of the community.

Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, John Drinkwater and Wilfrid Wilson Gibson were contributors to Georgian Poetry. The poetry has fallen out of favour, but at the time was revolutionary, a rebellion against current poetic conventions. It used simple language, and took as its subjects ordinary events and people. Eddie Marsh, the artistic and literary patron, edited the five volumes of Georgian Poetry, and Harold Monro was their publisher.
John Drinkwater had close connections with the Birmingham Repertory Theatre in Station Street, which opened in 1913. He was its first manager, and wrote several plays for the company, mainly historical pieces and light comedies. The Old Rep. is now the home of the British Stage Company.






Are you familiar with this poetry circle pre WW1 in gloucestershire, my area really? Important group incl Brooke and Frost.
Wilfred Gibson was unpublished then, and later wrote in

'The Golden Room' -

...... in the lamplight
We talked and laughed, but for the most part listened,
While Robert frost kept on and on and on,
in his slow New England fashion, for our delight'....
 
I don't know if God lives in a temple or church
in a synagogue, cathedral or mosque.
In my heart I feel - God's existence is real
by His love for the child that is lost

Mortars rain down on village and town;
assault troops then even the score.
Not many survive - one or two are alive
those wee orphans - the children of war

Again and again brave men
gather up those who remain;
taking them to the rear away from the fear
from the death, the suffering, the pain

From a bombed out shack, it's door burned black,
came a wailing, a loud crying sound
by a wall made of sod was a wee child of God
a miracle baby was found.

In the midst of the smoke, tough peacekeepers joke
whilst holding back tears, rage and fear.
And in the canteen, those things they have seen
are flashed back o'er pitchers of beer.

I can't say if God lives in a temple or church
in a synagogue, cathedral or mosque, but
He lives in the foxhole, the bunker, the trench
Good Shepherd to the child that is lost.

©Copyright 2002 by Billy Willbond
 
One of my favorites by E. A. Poe.

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


TAKE this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
 
I wrote this last year for Eng. 3, probably one of the last serious works I wrote for the teacher, who was sadly one of my favorites.

Inconsistency- The Pianist’s Eye

“I always play what I feel. I’m always me, but I’m a different me every day. A big color, the sound of water and wind, or a flash of something cool. Playing is like life. Either you feel it or you don’t.” Errol Garner

Hark! The old audience greets me.
Helo to my aged companions;
a lamp, sofa, that old rocker
with a snapped arm.

I take my seat- my hands forget
their broken blisters
as upon the ivories they lay.
The fingertips register
the first kisses of the keys.
The hands are the unloved offspring of
leather reins, machetes, and good old work.
In this small living room
Two temporary beings united for a period
only to be split again by unloved reality.

Garner’s advice rings clear with me;
I shall play what I am.
Ragtime, blues, Beethoven
Williams, Tucker, Jones.
What I am seems inconsistent.

From fingertip to hammer
cord to chord
melody and harmony are created
or maybe destroyed.
Metronomes find no stall here
The rhythms are flexible- they are apt to change
For beauty and its arguments are inconsistent.

The Wurlitzer is one voice, accompanied by another.
Its notes vary- it stutters, flows legato, and gains
a certain volume. The lows and highs
may be extreme in pitch and volume
or more often just a shy, muffled gasp of the wires.
Hark, beauty is inconsistent.

Pena moans, Nelson drawls
Van Zant growls and Gershwin rings
some strange noises accompanied by
the oft-agonized rants of the pianist.
Where musicians’ tools are not always welcome
The musicians are accepted with arms spread wide.
‘Tis not hypocrisy, simply inconsistency.
Expression sometimes abandons the norm,
hence inconsistency.
 
I was never very fond of metronomes, ever. They have always been, helpful though they may be, the bane of my existence. Right up there with raccoons and people who talk in movie theaters on my top list of hated things.
 
I don't know if God lives in a temple or church
in a synagogue, cathedral or mosque.
In my heart I feel - God's existence is real
by His love for the child that is lost

Mortars rain down on village and town;
assault troops then even the score.
Not many survive - one or two are alive
those wee orphans - the children of war

Again and again brave men
gather up those who remain;
taking them to the rear away from the fear
from the death, the suffering, the pain

From a bombed out shack, it's door burned black,
came a wailing, a loud crying sound
by a wall made of sod was a wee child of God
a miracle baby was found.

In the midst of the smoke, tough peacekeepers joke
whilst holding back tears, rage and fear.
And in the canteen, those things they have seen
are flashed back o'er pitchers of beer.

I can't say if God lives in a temple or church
in a synagogue, cathedral or mosque, but
He lives in the foxhole, the bunker, the trench
Good Shepherd to the child that is lost.

©Copyright 2002 by Billy Willbond

I really like that one ^^^

God, give us men!

[SIZE=+1]G[/SIZE]OD, give us men! A time like this demands
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands; Men whom the lust of office does not kill;
Men whom the spoils of office can not buy;
Men who possess opinions and a will;
Men who have honor; men who will not lie;
Men who can stand before a demagogue
And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking!
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog In public duty, and in private thinking;
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds,
Their large professions and their little deeds,
Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedom weeps,
Wrong rules the land and waiting Justice sleeps.
Josiah Gilbert Holland
 
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Posts 25 to 37 - all very good.

And I see we have some.... "o r i g i n a l t a l e n t" *said in Homer Simpson tone*

Keep em coming.....Am I the only one who eats pop-corn when reading other's poetry.












DISCLAIMER: Yes I have a life.
 
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I always got a kick out of Robert Frost's Starsplitter. He's always been my favorite modern poet.

You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?"
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a life-long curiosity
About our place among the infinities.
"What do you want with one of those blame things?"
I asked him well beforehand. "Don't you get one!"
"Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight," he said.
"I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it."
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
"The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it may as well be me."
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.
Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait--we'd see to him to-morrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one's gift for Christmas,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?
Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.
He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for star-gazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as it spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.
We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night to-night
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?
 
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