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the poetry thread


chrisp65

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The mighty William McGonagall. :D

Greenland's Icy Mountains

GREENLAND'S icy mountains are fascinating and grand,

And wondrously created by the Almighty's command;

And the works of the Almighty there's few can understand:

Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland?

Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass,

And for scenic grandeur there's nothing can it surpass,

Besides there's monuments and spires, also ruins,

Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins.

And there's icy crags and precipices, also beautiful waterfalls,

And as the stranger gazes thereon, his heart it appals

With a mixture of wonder, fear, and delight,

Till at last he exclaims, Oh! what a wonderful sight!

The icy mountains they're higher than a brig's topmast,

And the stranger in amazement stands aghast

As he beholds the water flowing off the melted ice

Adown the mountain sides, that he cries out, Oh! how nice!

Such sights as these are truly magnificent to be seen,

Only that the mountain tops are white instead of green,

And rents and caverns in them, the same as on a rugged mountain side,

And suitable places, in my opinion, for mermaids to reside.

Sometimes these icy mountains suddenly topple o'er

With a wild and rumbling hollow-starting roar;

And new peaks and cliffs rise up out of the sea,

While great cataracts of uplifted brine pour down furiously.

And those that can witness such an awful sight

Can only gaze thereon in solemn silence and delight,

And the most Godfearless man that hath this region trod

Would be forced to recognise the power and majesty of God.

Oh! how awful and grand it must be on a sunshiny day

To see one of these icy mountains in pieces give way!

While, crack after crack, it falls with a mighty crash

Flat upon the sea with a fearful splash.

And in the breaking up of these mountains they roar like thunder,

Which causes the stranger no doubt to wonder;

Also the Esquimaux of Greenland betimes will stand

And gaze on the wondrous work of the Almighty so grand.

When these icy mountains are falling, the report is like big guns,

And the glittering brilliancy of them causes mock-suns,

And around them there's connected a beautiful ring of light,

And as the stranger looks thereon, it fills his heart with delight.

Oh! think on the danger of seafaring men

If any of these mighty mountains where falling on them;

Alas! they would be killed ere the hand of man could them save

And, poor creatures, very likely find a watery grave!

'Tis most beautiful to see and hear the whales whistling and blowing,

And the sailors in their small boats quickly after them rowing,

While the whales keep lashing the water all their might

With their mighty tails, left and right.

In winter there's no sunlight there night or day,

Which, no doubt, will cause the time to pass tediously away,

And cause the Esquimaux to long for the light of day,

So as they will get basking themselves in the sun's bright array.

In summer there is perpetual sunlight,

Which fill the Esquimaux's hearts with delight;

And is seen every day and night in the blue sky,

Which makes the scenery appear most beautiful to the eye.

During summer and winter there the land is covered with snow,

Which sometimes must fill the Esquimaux' hearts with woe

As they traverse fields of ice, ten or fifteen feet thick,

And with cold, no doubt, their hearts will be touched to the quick.

And let those that read or hear this feel thankful to God

That the icy fields of Greenland they have never trod;

Especially while seated around the fireside on a cold winter night,

Let them think of the cold and hardships Greenland sailors have to fight.

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I think about you

in as many ways as rain comes.

(I am growing, as I get older,

to hate metaphors - their exactness

and their inadequacy.)

Sometimes these thoughts are

a moistness, hardly falling, than which

nothing is more gentle:

sometimes, a rattling shower, a

bustling Spring-cleaning of the mind:

sometimes, a drowning downpour.

I am growing, as I get older,

to hate metaphors

to love gentleness

to fear downpours.

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Oh and I'm not posting any poems of mine in here. ;)

They will stay forever locked in the suitcase in my wardrobe as they have been these last 4 years.

Writing frightening verse to a buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg?

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thought I'd give a Limerick a try whilst i'm on the phone ...

There once was a yeti named Rob

Who couldn't keep his hands off his knob

He was always in a hurry

to finish his curry

so much so it didn't half throb

Yeah ..i suck

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thought I'd give a Limerick a try whilst i'm on the phone ...

There once was a yeti named Rob

Who couldn't keep his hands off his knob

He was always in a hurry

to finish his curry

so much so it didn't half throb

Yeah ..i suck

:lol::lol::lol:

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On VT's Off Topic, where the cool kids do dwell

Chrisp started a to topic, and it went down real well

With Poems and Sonnets and writings that rhyme

The members collated the best of all time

But some didn't like it, said Poets? No way!

This flowery language, is totally gay

To them I say stay clear, cus it only just begun

You're gonna hate this, like Rob loves the wrong 'un

:clap:

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not strictly poetry, an extract of Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now.

Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the webfoot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glowworms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.

You can hear the dew falling, and the hushed town breathing. Only your eyes are unclosed to see the black and folded town fast, and slow, asleep. And you alone can hear the invisible starfall, the darkest-beforedawn minutely dewgrazed stir of the black, dab-filled sea where the Arethusa, the Curlew and the Skylark, Zanzibar, Rhiannon, the Rover, the Cormorant, and the Star of Wales tilt and ride.

Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llaregyb Hill, dewfall, starfall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.

Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's lofts like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is to-night in Donkey Street, trotting silent, With seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.

Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes.

Come closer now.

Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the coms. and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.

From where you are, you can hear their dreams.

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No, it's poetry from beginning to end.

Arguable, surely?

It is poetical, lyrical stuff but it's a play, isn't it?

Why is it a poem in your view? And if it is, should not most of Joyce, for example, be too?

Plays can be written as poetry.

Much of Shakespeare's drama is in iambic pentameter, for example.

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Plays can be written as poetry.

Anything can be written as poetry or prose. Not really sure of your point - it seems rather trite. :?

Much of Shakespeare's drama is in iambic pentameter, for example.

Does that make a play a poem - that some of it may be written in a form of verse?

As suggested above, it's about (overall) structure, isn't it? (And intent).

Still not sure why that would make Under Milk Wood 'poetry from beginning to end'?

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Plays can be written as poetry.

Anything can be written as poetry or prose. Not really sure of your point - it seems rather trite. :?

Much of Shakespeare's drama is in iambic pentameter, for example.

Does that make a play a poem - that some of it may be written in a form of verse?

As suggested above, it's about (overall) structure, isn't it? (And intent).

Still not sure why that would make Under Milk Wood 'poetry from beginning to end'?

As CED said, it's a play in structure and poetic in style. I think it's poetry, though it's less clear that it is "a poem" - though if I had to define it as either a play or a poem I would say a poem. A prose poem, perhaps. With some of the structure of a play.

There, that should cover most of the options... :winkold:

It's also a question of which elements are predominant. To me, Shakepeare's plays are predominantly plays, ie the form and structure, the unfolding story, the conventions, are all dramatic. Much of the language is highly poetic, and the plays also include some elements of accepted poetic form, but they are first and foremost plays. In Under Milk Wood, my view is the form and structure are almost incidental, and what I get from it is the evocative use of language in a dense, concentrated way.

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As CED said, it's a play in structure and poetic in style. I think it's poetry, though it's less clear that it is "a poem" - though if I had to define it as either a play or a poem I would say a poem. A prose poem, perhaps. With some of the structure of a play.

There, that should cover most of the options... :winkold:

It's also a question of which elements are predominant. To me, Shakepeare's plays are predominantly plays, ie the form and structure, the unfolding story, the conventions, are all dramatic. Much of the language is highly poetic, and the plays also include some elements of accepted poetic form, but they are first and foremost plays. In Under Milk Wood, my view is the form and structure are almost incidental, and what I get from it is the evocative use of language in a dense, concentrated way.

That's a fair enough explanation of your opinion about Under Milk Wood which was what I was after. :winkold:

I think it illustrates the difficulty of objectively putting something in the category of poetry (unless it follows a strictly defined form).

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would people define song writing as poetry ?
In the ancient classical world they would certainly have done so - there was no distinction.

Nowadays the recieved wisdom seems to be along these lines:

Dylan's Visions of Sin

by Christopher Ricks

Viking £25, pp517

Bob Dylan is fast becoming rock's equivalent of James Joyce, his singular and continuing body of work increasingly picked over by academics and biographers.

Last year, for instance, saw the publication of a collection called Do You, Mr Jones?: Bob Dylan with the Poets and Professors, in which the former, particularly Simon Armitage and Paul Muldoon, made much more sense of Dylan's work than the latter.

This may simply be artistic empathy, or it may be that poets sense what scholars seem to have trouble accepting: Dylan is a singer-songwriter first and foremost. His poetry is contained in the wholeness of his art: the convergence of melody, line, turn of phrase, nuance, drawl, and, famously, electricity. His one book of published prose, the amphetamine-fuelled fragments that make up Tarantula, makes the Beats look disciplined and restrained.

Interestingly, Christopher Ricks, formerly professor of English at Cambridge, now professor of humanities at Boston, is conspicuous by his absence from that last volume. Which is odd considering that he is, with the American, Greil Marcus, the academic most associated with Dylan. Indeed, he was the brain behind the 'Is Dylan Better Than Keats?' faux debate more than a decade ago, on Dylan's lyrics, and which splutters on from time to time, usually when Dylan finds himself the bemused recipient of yet another honorary doctorate.

The Dylan/Keats question could only have been asked by an academic, and it forms the unstated subtext of Ricks's grandly titled book, Dylan's Visions of Sin. Here, he attempts to scrutinise Dylan's lyrics in the same way that he would scrutinise Keats's poetry. For the purposes of this book, then, Dylan is first and foremost, a poet.

It begins with an epigraph, not by Rimbaud, the patron saint of rock'n'roll visionaries, but by Kingsley Amis, whose only possible connection to Dylan is that he, too, made an art of extreme contrariness in the latter stages of his career. 'Of the seven deadly sins,' Amis senior writes, 'Roger considered himself qualified in gluttony, sloth and lust but distinguished in anger.'

The quote, from One Fat Englishman, handily introduces Ricks's conceit, which is to use the model of the Seven Deadly Sins, and, indeed, the Four Cardinal Virtues, and the Three Heavenly Graces, as the guiding principle for his study of Dylan's lyrics. Already, though, we are on shaky ground. The Amis quote suggests, wrongly in my opinion, that anger is Dylan's main creative driving force, rather than, say, disgust, of which he is a master, or spite, which, as 'Positively 4th Street' illustrates, he once excelled at, or world weariness, which underpins much of his later work from, say, 1989's No Mercy album to the relentlessly downbeat, Time Out of Mind, from 1997.

Nevertheless, sin, both in the literal and metaphorical sense, is a great linch-pin for an investigation of Dylan's great songwriting adventure. His songs, even those from his protest period, are steeped in biblical allusion. In his second great creative rebirth, he emerged with 1968's austere and allegorical John Wesley Harding, written with the Bible and the Hank Williams' Song Book as its guiding principles. In the years since, he has dallied with both orthodox Judaism and, more problematically, evangelical Christianity, most dramatically on 1979's ragged and vengeful Slow Train Coming, the first of his triumvirate of 'born-again' albums.

Given the deep well he has to draw from, why is Ricks's book such a frustrating read? Why, to put it bluntly, is it such a mess? The answer, I think, is contained in the opening lines, perhaps the least inviting introduction to a book on music I have yet read: 'Any qualified critic to any distinguished artist: All I really want to do is - what exactly? Be friends with you? Assuredly. I don't want to do you in, or select you or dissect you or inspect you or reject you.'

What is wrong with that opening paragraph is what is wrong with this big, misguided book: it is too knowing, too clever, too clumsily conversational. Its tone lies somewhere between academese and what I suspect the author thinks of as casually hip. It assumes too much - about the casual or curious reader's knowledge of Dylan's lyrics - and imparts too little. Not a great start for a book of scholarship.

From the off, Ricks dives headlong into Dylan's lyrics, putting all his faith in close readings of the texts, and the texts alone. Dylan's cultural context is paid the scantiest regard, likewise his development as an artist over four decades. Instead, the songs are rounded up, and shoe-horned into fitting the schematic model of the book. Thus, both the monumental - 'Like a Rolling Stone' - and the relatively inconsequential - 'Day of the Locusts' - are grouped under 'Pride', as if that tangential similarity were enough to illuminate them anew. Or, indeed, us.

This scatter-gun approach is defeating in itself, but worse still is the style. Ricks quotes, for example, an uncharacteristically forthcoming Dylan on the writing of 'Positively 4th Street', which the singer says 'is extremely one-dimensional... I don't usually purge myself by writing anything about any type of quote, so-called, relationships'.'

From this fragment of illumination, Ricks then constructs a thicket of academic obfuscation: 'Two-dimensional, not-one dimensional, this 4th Street, and although one-sided, it is two-edged, a two-handed engine that stands ready to smite more than once and smite some more... catharsis, the ancient critical metaphor, in Dylan's phrase, "purge myself", would be one way of getting rid of the catharsole and of the waste matter that is pretence'.

That last sentence, by the way, is the subject of a page note,which reads: 'A student essay [not from the university where I teach]: "Tragedy makes you cathart".' Oh, how we chuckled. I mean, I know academics are retiring types, but does this guy ever leave the study? This kind of thing was embarrassing when Leavis ruled the roost in lit-crit studies; now, misapplied to a popular artist, it is simply risible. Indeed, Ricks is in danger throughout of making a complete catharshole of himself.

The writing of this book was, I'm told, a labour of love and, as such, I am pained to point out how defeated I was by its ungainly style. Perhaps it's an academic trait, but Ricks seems unable, or unwilling, to write clearly and concisely for the benefit of the common, or indeed, informed reader. Lord knows, Dylan deserves a big book that takes his art seriously, but this tortured, tail-chasing exercise, for all its parading of literary exegesis, is definitely not it.

Guardian

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