the poetry thread

[peterms]

would people define song writing as poetry ?

What, like Queen, you mean? :winkold:

Depends on the song. Lots of songs out there might rhyme in places, manage to make a few lines scan, but adopting the form of a poem doesn't make them poems. Doggerel, maybe. Surely the definition of poetry would include something about the use of imagery or metaphor, and often condensed use of language, to evoke thoughts and emotions?

[mjmooney]

FWIW, Wikipedia defines poetry thus:

...a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning. Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in poetic drama, hymns, lyrics, or prose poetry.

That'll do for me.

[theunderstudy]

If it's contentious, allow it anyway, on grounds of poetic license.

[snowychap]

...a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning.

I would hope that a well written piece of prose would often use language for those reasons, too.

[iancharlie]

Wise men must be listened to

That tap on the shoulder

Flutters through my thoughts

Clapping eyes on me

In my distant sleeps

In the dreams where I become caught.

That tap on the shoulder

Seeps through my soul

Engendering images of what men should be

In moments when needs

Must.

That tap on the shoulder

Beckons my feet to walk on through

Past the cellar door

In to the mud, the glory

Of what I can do.

That tap on the shoulder

Broadens my senses

Awaking meaning in a little boy

Who, was once lost

But, is now, well and truly found.

That tap on the shoulder

Forever lingers

In my thoughts

[dAVe80]

would people define song writing as poetry ?

I think the song writing can be poetry. Patti Smith springs to mind, as does Gil Scott-Heron. I'd say the words and delivery of 'The Revolution Will Not Be Televised' are most definitely poetry:

You will not be able to stay home, brother.

You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.

You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,

Skip out for beer during commercials,

Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox

In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.

The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon

blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John

Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat

hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the

Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie

Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.

The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.

The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.

The revolution will not make you look five pounds

thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May

pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,

or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.

NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32

or report from 29 districts.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

brothers in the instant replay.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down

brothers in the instant replay.

There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being

run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.

There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy

Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and

Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving

For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville

Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and

women will not care if Dick finally gets down with

Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people

will be in the street looking for a brighter day.

The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock

news and no pictures of hairy armed women

liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.

The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,

Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom

Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.

The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message

bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.

You will not have to worry about a dove in your

bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.

The revolution will not go better with Coke.

The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.

The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,

will not be televised, will not be televised.

The revolution will be no re-run brothers;

The revolution will be live.

[CarewsEyebrowDesigner]

ah, the murky realms of 'what is poetry'. next it will be 'what is art' and a riot will ensue.

moving on, heres another good 'un. although, it is a well trodden one.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun,

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of out-door game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it

Where there are cows?

But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,

But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

He said it for himself. I see him there

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me~

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father's saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors.

[mjmooney]

A hard, howling, tossing water scene.

Strong tide was washing hero clean.

“How cold!” Weather stings as in anger.

O Silent night shows war ace danger!

The cold waters swashing on in rage.

Redcoats warn slow his hint engage.

When star general’s action wish’d “Go!”

He saw his ragged continentals row.

Ah, he stands – sailor crew went going.

And so this general watches rowing.

He hastens – winter again grows cold.

A wet crew gain Hessian stronghold.

George can’t lose war with’s hand in;

He’s astern – so go alight, crew, and win!

----

What’s odd about this sonnet?

[GarethRDR]

ANTARCTICA

‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’

The others nod, pretending not to know.

At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He leaves them reading and begins to climb,

Goading his ghost into the howling snow;

He is just going outside and may be some time.

The tent recedes beneath its crust of rime

And frostbite is replaced by vertigo:

At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Need we consider it some sort of crime,

This numb self-sacrifice of the weakest? No,

He is just going outside and may be some time

In fact, for ever. Solitary enzyme,

Though the night yield no glimmer there will glow,

At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Painting - "A Very Gallant Gentlman" by John Charles Dollman.

[mjmooney]

Or to put it another way: "**** off, Oates, we never liked you anyway".

[GarethRDR]

Which segues nicely into...

Yes, but the thing is, about Captain Oates; the thing you have to remember about Captain Oates; Captain Oates... Captain Oates was a prat. If that'd been me, I'd've stayed in the tent, whacked Scott over the head with a frozen husky, and then eaten him.

...How do we know that Oates went out for this legendary walk? From the only surviving document: Scott's diary. And he's hardly likely to have written down, "February the First, bludgeoned Oates to death while he slept, then scoffed him along with the last packet of instant mash." How's that going to look when he gets rescued, eh? No, much better to say, "Oates made the supreme sacrifice," while you're dabbing up his gravy with the last piece of crusty bread.

[chrisp65]

Mr mooney, it's all anagrams! (I didn't just google up the answer)

ok, I did.

[CrackpotForeigner]

I wont post it as im sure youve all heard it a thousand times

Post it up man, that's the beauty of poetry, it doesn't matter how many times you hear it it's still capable of moving. Like music.

Here it is then. My favourite poem of all time

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Written about Leander Starr Jameson, who was Prime Minister of the Cape Colony from 1904 to 1908 (incidentally 8 years after spending 6 months in Holloway prison!). here's his Wikipedia entry.

[bickster]

clearing in the woods - By John Cooper Clarke

Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end.

Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend.

You give me the horrors

too bad to be true

All of my tomorrow’s

are lousy coz of you.

You put the Shat in Shatter

Put the Pain in Spain

Your germs are splattered about

Your face is just a stain

You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag.

Do us all a favour, here... wear this polythene bag.

You’re like a dose of scabies,

I’ve got you under my skin.

You make life a fairy tale... Grimm!

People mention murder, the moment you arrive.

I’d consider killing you if I thought you were alive.

You’ve got this slippery quality,

it makes me think of phlegm,

and a dual personality

I hate both of them.

Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay.

Please, please, please, please, take yourself away.

Like a death a birthday party,

you ruin all the fun.

Like a sucked and spat out smartie,

you’re no use to anyone.

Like the shadow of the guillotine

on a dead consumptive’s face.

Speaking as an outsider,

what do you think of the human race

You went to a progressive psychiatrist.

He recommended suicide...

before scratching your bad name off his list,

and pointing the way outside.

You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart.

You’re heading for a breakdown,

better pull yourself apart.

Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss.

Your attitudes are platitudes,

just make me wanna piss.

What kind of creature bore you

Was is some kind of bat

They can’t find a good word for you,

but I can...

clearing in the woods.

[bickster]

'A Bang and a Wimpy'

by Attila the Stockbroker

Swing door swings open in the fast food fun palace

Two pairs of eyes meet mine

I steel myself and grimace

Elbows against the counter they slump

Mean eyed

Po faced

No nonsense

Pre-pubescent pugilists

Terror tots

South London's finest

Knee-high nihilists planning nursery crimes

The Wimpy bar mafia

Nine years old

Macho

Murderers

Primary school but primed to kill

Or maim

Or terrorise

Size you up and slice you through with Peter Sutcliff eyes

They're into older women

Eleven or twelve's their favourite age

They chat them up as they come in

Invade their space like Space Invaders

"Oy Love"

"Want some chips?"

Then invite them home for glue and a private rendition of the new Exploited single

Or some other manic mayhem to make their extremities tingle

Soon they'll be old enough to bunk into a disco

But 'till then they'll stick to the hamburger hustle

A bang and a Wimpy

A Wimpy and a bang

The grim and grimy gangsters from the mustard and cress gang

Video vandals

Violent virgin vigilantes verging on the vindictive

I've been searching for the young soul rebels

Been searching everywhere

Couldn't find them anywhere

But here they are in the Wimpy bar

Right by Victoria station

I stand and watch them operate in muted fascination

'Till...

" 'ere, got 10p mate? "

Snaps me back to hard reality

And the half concealed glinting switchblade smiles with awful clarity

I give them 21 pence and they give me a hard smile

Now they've the price of another tube they're happy for a while

And in the Wimpy wonderland, the crisis kids run free

A bang, a Wimpy and a sniff and home in time for tea

[bickster]

'The Pest'

by John Cooper Clarke

the pest pulled up propped his pushbike on a pillar box paused at a post and pissed 'piss in the proper place' pronounced a perturbed pedestrian petulantly and presently this particular part of the planet was plunged into a panorama of public pressure and pleasure through pain the pandemonium prompted the police who patrolled the precinct in pandacars to pull up and peruse the problem while pickpockets picked pockets in pairs 'arrest the pest who so pointedly pissed in that public place' pleaded the peeved populace practically palpitating the powerful police picked up the pest pronounced him a pinko a pansy a punk rocker and a poof they punched him poked him pummeled his pelvis punctured his pipes played ping-pong with his pubic parts and packed him in a place of penal putrification he pondered upon progressive politics put pen to paper and provocatively and persuasively propagated his personal political premise - pity: a police provocateur put poison pellets in the pest's porridge the police provocateur was promoted and the pest was presented with the pulitzer prize... posthumously.

[CarewsEyebrowDesigner]

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;

Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see

A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings

And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song

Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong

To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside

And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour

With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour

Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast

Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

[mjmooney]

Mr mooney, it's all anagrams! (I didn't just google up the answer)

ok, I did.

Correct. More specifically, every line is an anagram of "Washington Crossing the Delaware ".

In other news, I have just completed my annual reading of Louis MacNeice's Autumn Journal.

[lapal_fan]

Writing poetry clears the mind

It can feel good refreshing and sad

you only think of bad

[Jon]

"Cliff" (DEMOLITION)

Oh, Cliff

Sometimes it must be difficult not to feel as if

You really are a Cliff

When fascists keep trying to push you over it

Are they the lemmings?

Or are you Cliff?

Or are you, Cliff?