Poetry

Thank you.

raw material for a poem:

I rode past an abandoned factory today, near the northeast corner of Ossington and Dupont. It is a beautiful building underneath all the grime and neglect, brick frame, but large-paned windows making up most of the facade.

The windows are very dirty. Through them, I could see shelves on which files and binders were stacked up just as someone must have left them on his last day of work some years ago. There are things inside that building that someone just walked away from, or that many people were told just to walk away from.

It is a beautiful building.

For skdadl:

Silent, it stands.
Bricks and mortar, erected with sweat;
Now dusty; abandoned; stark.

It stands,
Waiting for the next shift to begin;
Machines at the ready.

But the workers who once gave it life
Will not be back. (they're now working at Wal-Mart and Farmer Jack)

Still, it stands,

A hollow monument to Progress.

[i]When Dreams Had Wings[/i]

In misty tendrils at highest peaks,
have you found all that you seek?
Has soaring breathless through the sky
Taught to you the meaning why?
With laboured breath and body sore,
what makes you love the challenge more?
What ancient bond is there that ties
you to this lonely place so high?

Or was your heart to battle born,
the roiling madness of the storm?
A coiled spring within your frame,
what makes you play this deadly game?
With charge and circle, cut and thrust,
What makes you know your cause is just?
And if your struggles bring you fame,
what gilded laurels crown your mane?

But as you fly through craggy breaches,
what darkling cloud is it that reaches
out to smash your wings and bind
you to the earth for all of time?
What stabbing pangs within your breast
Have clawed you from the highest crest?
Whose arrow, spear or poisoned dart
has flown so true and pierced your heart?

With fearsome cries the air is rent
as shudders wrack your slow descent,
but don’t you know, within your soul
the earth is not your destined goal?
The higher sphere where you have flown
will now become your final home,
and you, whom Muses have so blessed
will ride the heavens, now at rest.

~ for jonnie ~

Heph: Beautiful; evocative; heart-rending. Did you write it?

Heph, it remindes me at once of Earle Birney's "David", although I cannot for the life of me find my copy of that poem.

Names of the Dead

Who says the Great Chain is an anachronism?
Granted, Darwin left it somewhere down
Among the mussels and jellyfish of human thought,
Here is an unexpected comeback for hierarchy of life.

First come the American soldiers. They have names;
Ranks, unit designations, even sometimes,
That crimson throat-sack of memory, the Feature.

Trailing far behind we have the allied dead,
Proud Estonia, scourge of tyrants
They have their proper number, and a nation.

Beneath the list itself, invisible but present, like bacteria
The niggers in their several kinds: those that died for us,
Died fighting us, died unheeded in the skirts of our coming.

They have no number; can they be human, to die so easy?
Americans cling stubbornly to life, but they
Pass away in bargain lots, and no one says boo,
Or if they do, can’t join them soon.

Godd going guys!

That is a good one farrel.

For the sake of a poetical challenge, a while ago, I decided to attempt a translation of the Old English poem [url=http://www.georgetown.edu/labyrinth/library/oe/texts/a3.6.html]The Wanderer[/url] into [url=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spenserian_sonnet]Spenserian Sonnet[/url]. The text's content needed to be abridged, as the entire content of The Wanderer will not fit into a Spenserian Sonnet (or any sonnet), but I hit upon and translated the crucial points, and stuck what I consider the key gnomic verses of the poem in the volta where they seemed to rightfully belong. I decided not to close with an Alexandrine, as I think its substantial virtue depends upon its predictability by the reader, based on sequential repetition in successive stanzas and there is of course no such repetition here, as there is the Faerie Queen and subsequently in for example Shelley's delightful [url=http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/display/poem1879.html]Adonais[/url]. I retained much alliteration in recognition of that of the original Old English. There is never satisfaction in translating a poem, as it never feels quite right, no matter what, and choosing a difficult and claustrophobic format like the sonnet (especially with the abrupt English two-line volta - my formal arch nemesis) makes the problem worse, but there's gratification in those parts that do turn out right.

[b]The Wanderer (Se Anhaga)[/b]

[i]Though sorrowful, traversing icy sea
The Wanderer oft seeks the Maker's grace.
And knowing well that what Fate wills will be
With war-like thoughts, he grieves his fallen race.
In twilight there arising from his place
He tells his sorrows to the rising sun
Remembering man's life is but a space
Of friends he thinks: of them there live now none.
A lord's heart, fast-bound lest he be undone
He knows must hold, that he survive The Fate(1).
And he must too with joy his sorrows shun
Though skies above grow dark and night grow late.
For if defeating courage he be meek,
He'll find the grace of God where that he seek[/i]

[i](1) i.e., Old English 'Seo Wyrd'[/i]

Hola, everyone. I ain't much of a poet, but I love poetry. So I add this poem by Bob Dylan to your poetry collection. I think "Our World" has gone greedy-mad and Bob Dylan's Tombstone Blues makes me feel alright in it.

Cheers to the rabble-rousers here,
Argento Shiraz.

Tombstone Blues.
By Bob Dylan.

The sweet pretty things are in bed now of course
The city fathers they're trying to endorse
The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse
But the town has no need to be nervous

The ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits
To Jezebel the nun she violently knits
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits
At the head of the chamber of commerce

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The hysterical bride in the penny arcade
Screaming she moans, "I've just been made"
Then sends out for the doctor who pulls down the
shade
Says, "My advice is to not let the boys in"

Now the medicine man comes and he shuffles inside
He walks with a swagger and he says to the bride
"Stop all this weeping, swallow your pride
You will not die, it's not poison"

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

Well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, "Tell me great hero, but please make it
brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?"

The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a
fly
Saying, "Death to all those who would whimper and
cry"
And dropping a bar bell he points to the sky
Saving, "The sun's not yellow it's chicken"

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The king of the Philistines his soldiers to save
Puts jawbones on their tombstones and flatters their graves
Puts the pied pipers in prison and fattens the
slaves
Then sends them out to the jungle

Gypsy Davey with a blowtorch he burns out their
camps
With his faithful slave Pedro behind him he tramps
With a fantastic collection of stamps
To win friends and influence his uncle

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

The geometry of innocent flesh on the bone
Causes Galileo's math book to get thrown
At Delilah who sits worthlessly alone
But the tears on her cheeks are from laughter

Now I wish I could give Brother Bill his great
thrill
I would set him in chains at the top of the hill
Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille
He could die happily ever after

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

Where Ma Raney and Beethoven once unwrapped their
bed roll
Tuba players now rehearse around the flagpole
And the National Bank at a profit sells road maps
for the soul
To the old folks home and the college

Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge

Mama's in the fact'ry
She ain't got no shoes
Daddy's in the alley
He's lookin' for the fuse
I'm in the streets
With the tombstone blues

A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

Ogden Nash

(Sorry, is this the Poetry thread? I thought I was in doggerel) [img]smile.gif" border="0[/img]

Why give the children guns?
Why teach them how to hate?
Their lives have just begun ...
Stop before it's too late.

They should be laughing
They should be playing
They should be having fun ....

On the dawn of another day
another young man is dead
His family wonders why
But all they can do is pray

Webgear I didn't mean to stop your contributions of lovely poems. This one is for you at Thanksgiving.

AUTUMN MAPLES
Lampman, Archibald (1861-1899)

The thoughts of all the maples who shall name,
When the sad landscape turns to cold and gray?
Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay,
Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name,
Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame;
And some with softer woe that day by day,
So sweet and brief, should go the westward way,
Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame
That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous
rose;
Others for wrath have turned to rusty red,
And some that knew not either grief or dread,
Ere the old year should find its iron close,
Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold,
Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold.

Thanks for posting that.

Id post here but mine too long yall want poety Ill put up a link to all the shit I ever wrote Ill read thru this later it late now but dotn give that link out the lyrics one that for yall u know not ppl to steal lines from

http://www.zshare.net/download/610114154792f384/

Bits of string

I knew it was strong enough

for Toby

unless he should cut
up a little,

and that's just what he did.

and broke some of the straps
and strings.

Is Toby the name of your pony? asked Sue.

Yes, little girl,

Toby is his name.

And he is a nice little Shetland pony,

and he stroked the fluffy mane and rubbed the velvety nose

of the little animal

It may be conceaued thus, at noone day, when it is just twelue a clocke, turne your face towards the South, and then imagine with your selfe two circles drawen, one in the Heavens, passing from the North iust over your head through the body of the Sunne downe to the South, and so round vnder the earth vp againe to the North Pole. Another vpon the surface of the earth

and he stroked the fluffy mane and rubbed the velvety nose

Thy light doth ever guide me, O beauteous Morning Star. Lo, I'll be ever ready Thy goodly help to claim, When wicked men blaspheme thee I'll love and bless thy name.

Daily, Daily Sing to Mary 1.

Daily, daily sing
to Mary

Sing, my soul, her praises due;

All her feasts, her actions
worship,

With the heart's devotion true.

Lost in wond'ring contemplation, Be her majesty confess'd; Call her Mother, call her
Virgin, Happy Mother, Virgin blest.

and he stroked the fluffy mane and rubbed the velvety nose

© 01/15/2010 Jaswinder Singh Dev (aka 'Ayn Thatcher')

Very moving, Webgear, and good to see you around!