Zhivago
Full Member
relax, dont do it ect ect........
Posts: 202
|
Poetry
Jan 6, 2006 20:11:19 GMT
Post by Zhivago on Jan 6, 2006 20:11:19 GMT
N e one else interested in poetry, or am i the only one? I just got blinking with fists by Billy Corgan, deadly so it is! Check it out!
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 6, 2006 20:16:19 GMT
Post by kevinkav on Jan 6, 2006 20:16:19 GMT
I'd say just about everybody has a poem they enjoy. It can appeal to so many different ppl in different ways... I writs some poetry,and I read alot,too.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 6, 2006 20:17:12 GMT
Post by Cian on Jan 6, 2006 20:17:12 GMT
best poem ever "The Raven"
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 6, 2006 20:17:42 GMT
Post by deadbeatz on Jan 6, 2006 20:17:42 GMT
i think the big question is who DOESN'T read poetry
|
|
Zhivago
Full Member
relax, dont do it ect ect........
Posts: 202
|
Poetry
Jan 6, 2006 20:34:31 GMT
Post by Zhivago on Jan 6, 2006 20:34:31 GMT
I'm A Lovely Couple A very long vacation has been taken by my shrink. My file is in his briefcase, so I don't know what to think. But if I'm schizophrenic, it's a trial I can weather. I'm in the best of company when I'm alone together.
Oh, I admit that sometimes I find myself a bore. Especially when I tell me jokes that I have heard before. But ordinarily I find that I am quite a guy. I really like to be with me, and what's more, so do
This is a funny one which i like.
'The poetry of my heart" Revealing now the poetry of my heart Think birds in flight and you will start to come close As faces come from the darkness familiar To greet you hello again They pluck those strings and sing those refrains I know so well, and hold so close Now follow these birds faithfully, keeping those faces in mind Over rivers and dales and soft greens until we come to the edge of the vast ocean The biggest sea you may imagine and more Lift your hand and let those birds soar with this sweet music
This is the first stanza of a billy corgans poems.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 7, 2006 2:06:04 GMT
Post by dimebag on Jan 7, 2006 2:06:04 GMT
I like Patrick Kavanaghs poetry.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 7, 2006 10:45:44 GMT
Post by jimmy on Jan 7, 2006 10:45:44 GMT
i hates poetry....
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 9, 2006 20:37:10 GMT
Post by donie on Jan 9, 2006 20:37:10 GMT
I like Patrick Kavanaghs poetry. haha good aul Mr Quirk batin the poetry into ye with comedy!! some good teacher! oh and... yeah i hates poetry too... well i havent came across poetry that i like (sorry for the negative responses en all but sher an opinion is an opinion!)
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 9, 2006 20:50:09 GMT
Post by jimmy on Jan 9, 2006 20:50:09 GMT
sure fergal doesnt have quirke....
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 9, 2006 20:51:44 GMT
Post by kevinkav on Jan 9, 2006 20:51:44 GMT
I do,and I keep him awake at night with stories of the antics in his classroom.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 10, 2006 0:43:52 GMT
Post by Sarcophagi on Jan 10, 2006 0:43:52 GMT
Hey if you guys are into poetry you should check out my friend Kevin's website triptychhaiku.blogspot.comIts a bit arty and technical but cool.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 11, 2006 19:53:01 GMT
Post by deadbeatz on Jan 11, 2006 19:53:01 GMT
this is one of my favourite poems by roger mcgough
its called the lesson
The Lesson Chaos ruled OK in the classroom as bravely the teacher walked in the nooligans ignored him hid voice was lost in the din
"The theme for today is violence and homework will be set I'm going to teach you a lesson one that you'll never forget"
He picked on a boy who was shouting and throttled him then and there then garrotted the girl behind him (the one with grotty hair)
Then sword in hand he hacked his way between the chattering rows "First come, first severed" he declared "fingers, feet or toes"
He threw the sword at a latecomer it struck with deadly aim then pulling out a shotgun he continued with his game
The first blast cleared the backrow (where those who skive hang out) they collapsed like rubber dinghies when the plug's pulled out
"Please may I leave the room sir?" a trembling vandal enquired "Of course you may" said teacher put the gun to his temple and fired
The Head popped a head round the doorway to see why a din was being made nodded understandingly then tossed in a grenade
And when the ammo was well spent with blood on every chair Silence shuffled forward with its hands up in the air
The teacher surveyed the carnage the dying and the dead He waggled a finger severely "Now let that be a lesson" he said the poem is about how teachers take so much shit that one just snaped
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 11, 2006 20:28:05 GMT
Post by alan on Jan 11, 2006 20:28:05 GMT
i thought this was a really good poem that i did for my junior cert, its shows an actual inside into war instead of the shit in films
Dulce Et Decorum Est- Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori...
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 11, 2006 20:33:15 GMT
Post by dimebag on Jan 11, 2006 20:33:15 GMT
I did it for the junior Cert aswell and I was reading it last night.
Its a great poem in my opinion and it comes straight fromm experience as wilfred Owen and a friend of his(who was also a poet)went straight to the front lines in the great war and suffered through a horrific gas attack.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 11, 2006 20:35:34 GMT
Post by deadbeatz on Jan 11, 2006 20:35:34 GMT
hahaha rage
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 11, 2006 22:42:43 GMT
Post by kevinkav on Jan 11, 2006 22:42:43 GMT
whats more ironic,is that he died in the last month of the war....I think,I may be wrong,but it rings a bell.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 12, 2006 20:59:08 GMT
Post by deadbeatz on Jan 12, 2006 20:59:08 GMT
are you sure it was him i think your on about seigfried sasoon
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 12, 2006 21:08:02 GMT
Post by kevinkav on Jan 12, 2006 21:08:02 GMT
no,I think it was him.
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 12, 2006 21:09:35 GMT
Post by deadbeatz on Jan 12, 2006 21:09:35 GMT
oh ya think
tut augh its not the same as knowing
|
|
|
Poetry
Jan 12, 2006 21:10:19 GMT
Post by kevinkav on Jan 12, 2006 21:10:19 GMT
In July of 1918, Owen returned to active service in France, though he might have stayed on home-duty indefinitely. His decision was almost wholly the result of Sassoon's being sent back to England. Sassoon, who had been shot in the head, was put on sick-leave for the remaining duration of the war. Owen saw it as his poetic duty to take Sassoon's place at the front, that the horrific realities of the war might continue to be told. Sassoon was violently opposed to the idea of Owen returning to the trenches, threatening to "stab [him] in the leg" if he tried it. Aware of his attitude, Owen did not inform him of his action until he was once again in France.
Owen was killed in action on the 4th November 1918 during the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal, only a week before the end of the war. His mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice Day.
and it seems sasoon didnt die in action.... whos wrong now?BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!
|
|