Author Topic: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread  (Read 3384 times)

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Offline ChiComCat

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #25 on: August 25, 2014, 01:15:53 PM »

Quote from: Silverstein 1974

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too
Went for a ride in a flying shoe.
"Hooray!"
"What fun!"
"It's time we flew!"
Said Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

Ickle was captain, and Pickle was crew
And Tickle served coffee and mulligan stew
As higher
And higher
And higher they flew,
Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too,
Over the sun and beyond the blue.
"Hold on!"
"Stay in!"
"I hope we do!"
Cried Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle too
Never returned to the world they knew,
And nobody
Knows what's
Happened to
Dear Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me too.

Offline porky morgan

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #26 on: August 25, 2014, 02:16:56 PM »
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? —
Then you've a haunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love —
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true —
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that's known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through —
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away ... then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill ... then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two —
The woman that kissed him and — pinched his poke — was the lady that's known as Lou.

Offline signature move

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #27 on: August 25, 2014, 02:31:30 PM »
(I'm excluding Eliot, since although he was born in America, he expatriated).

by his buddy/rival, and fellow expatriate, ezra pound:

the apparition of these faces in the crowd;
petals on a wet, black bough.

As I'm sure you know, Eliot asked Ezra to review his then-draft of The Waste Land, and Ezra pretty much went scorched earth on it.  Eliot owes a great deal of his success to him. Great addition to the thread.  Pound it, bro  :cheers:

 :cheers:

i knew dropping out of illinois' engineering program would serve me well.

another shorty and goody from alexander pope, who gave us the phrase 'hope springs eternal'. (i had another of his poems memorized, but forgot most of it.) some choice 18th century snark:

i am his highness' dog at kew;
pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?


Offline Sandstone Outcropping

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #28 on: October 28, 2021, 08:15:00 AM »
One of my kids is memorizing "The Road not Taken" for school. Made me think back to when I memorized "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" in HS. Found this clip of Frost reciting his poem. Like lightning captured in a bottle:

https://youtu.be/rebVUgCgSAU?t=28

Offline Kat Kid

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #29 on: October 29, 2021, 02:13:32 PM »
The to-do crowd praises Frost's writing for capturing the sounds and cadences of colloquial speech.  I think that is merely a residue of a larger theme for Frost.  If you really contemplate his poetry (and I think you should; it's relaxing and more interesting than meditation), he uses ordinary and every day objects, people and situations as a way of approaching extraordinary and profound ideas.  This one is a bit long, but worth a careful read:

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

This was a beautiful poem and I really appreciated it yesterday.

Offline Spracne

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #30 on: October 29, 2021, 02:25:35 PM »
The to-do crowd praises Frost's writing for capturing the sounds and cadences of colloquial speech.  I think that is merely a residue of a larger theme for Frost.  If you really contemplate his poetry (and I think you should; it's relaxing and more interesting than meditation), he uses ordinary and every day objects, people and situations as a way of approaching extraordinary and profound ideas.  This one is a bit long, but worth a careful read:

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

This was a beautiful poem and I really appreciated it yesterday.

Thank you. It really is a beautiful poem.

Offline Kat Kid

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #31 on: October 29, 2021, 02:29:12 PM »
http://knarf.english.upenn.edu/PShelley/anarchy.html

The entire poem is too long to quote and I only really like about stanza 38 on but the famous stanza that Shelley uses twice never fails to give me chills:

`Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number--
Shake your chains to earth like dew      
Which in sleep had fallen on you--
Ye are many -- they are few.'

Offline Spracne

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #32 on: October 29, 2021, 02:32:28 PM »
T.S. Eliot always delivers the spooky vibe, for me. Stanza 3 from The Hollow Men:

III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

Offline Sandstone Outcropping

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #33 on: June 29, 2022, 08:10:29 AM »

Offline Sandstone Outcropping

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #36 on: January 10, 2023, 05:23:29 PM »
Damn. That is a tremendous poem.

Offline Spracne

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #37 on: May 27, 2023, 12:13:09 AM »
They eff you up, your mum and dad.   
    They may not mean to, but they do.   
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were mumped up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   
Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.

Offline porky morgan

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #38 on: May 27, 2023, 01:40:03 PM »
Glad to see this thread again. This one tears me up a little because it could be about my rescue pup.

"Benjamin, Who Came From ?Who Knows Where"
By Mary Oliver

What shall I do?

When I pick up the broom

     he leaves the room.

When I fuss with kindling he

     runs for the yard.

Then he’s back, and we

     hug for a long time.

In his low-to-the-ground chest

     I can hear his heart slowing down.

Then I rub his shoulders and

     kiss his feet

and fondle his long hound ears.

     Benny, I say,

don’t worry. I also know the way

     the old life haunts the new.

Offline Spracne

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #39 on: June 11, 2023, 11:29:27 PM »
They eff you up, your mum and dad.   
    They may not mean to, but they do.   
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were mumped up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   
Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.

https://youtu.be/ysUW0MwFj_0

Offline Sandstone Outcropping

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #40 on: February 15, 2024, 09:05:21 AM »
witness by Christian Wiman

Typically cryptic, God said three weasels
slipping electric over the rocks
one current conducting them up the tree
by the river in the woods in the country
into which I walked
away and away and away;
and a moon-blued, cloud-strewn night sky
like an x-ray
with here a mass and there a mass
and everywhere a mass;
and to the tune of a two-year-old
storm of atoms
elliptically, electrically alive—
I will love you in the summertime, Daddy.
I will love you...in the summertime.


Once in the west I lay down dying
to see something other than the dying stars
so singularly clear, so unassailably there,
they made me reach for something other.
I said I will not bow down again
to the numinous ruins.
I said I will not violate my silence with prayer.
I said Lord, Lord
in the speechless way of things
that bear years, and hard weather, and witness.

Offline Spracne

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Re: goEMAW.com's Poetry Thread
« Reply #41 on: February 15, 2024, 01:24:27 PM »
Sometimes,
You can't turn a
Good thought
Into good poetry
Just by using
Line breaks.

-me