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Posted: 10/23/2010 5:05:51 PM EST
I dunno... I just thought this might make a good thread.
For me, my favorite poet was, is and always will be William Butler Yeats. My favorite poem is Yeats' "The Second Coming": Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? |
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Here's my favorite poem, but not my favorite poet. Housman is funny, though.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow. A. E. Housman |
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Holy shit... another Housman fan.
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Quoted:
Holy shit... another Housman fan.
Ah, WWI poetry. "Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead, And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack. Siegfried Sassoon |
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An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan's poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. W.B. Yeats |
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Beans, beans. The musical fruit. The more you eat 'em The more you toot The more you toot The better you feel Let have beans For every meal |
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Quoted: <SNIP> Ah, WWI poetry. "Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead, And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack. Siegfried Sassoon Sassoon is incredible. |
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An angel, robed in spotless white,
Bent down and kissed the sleeping Night. Night woke to blush; the sprite was gone. Men saw the blush and called it Dawn. Paul Laurence Dunbar. 1896 |
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In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. |
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Tennyson - Ulysses
It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honoured of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers; Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this grey spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and through soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. |
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FOR THE LAST WOLVERINE by James Dickey
They will soon be down To one, but he still will be For a little while still will be stopping The flakes in the air with a look, Surrounding himself with the silence Of whitening snarls. Let him eat The last red meal of the condemned To extinction, tearing the guts From an elk. Yet that is not enough For me. I would have him eat The heart, and, from it, have an idea Stream into his gnawing head That he no longer has a thing To lose, and so can walk Out into the open, in the full Pale of the sub-Arctic sun Where a single spruce tree is dying Higher and higher. Let him climb it With all his meanness and strength. Lord, we have come to the end Of this kind of vision of heaven, As the sky breaks open Its fans around him and shimmers And into its northern gates he rises Snarling complete in the joy of a weasel With an elk's horned heart in his stomach Looking straight into the eternal Blue, where he hauls his kind. I would have it all My way: at the top of that tree I place The New World's last eagle Hunched in mangy feathers giving Up on the theory of flight. Dear God of the wildness of poetry, let them mate To the death in the rotten branches, Let the tree sway and burst into flame And mingle them, crackling with feathers, In crownfire. Let something come Of it something gigantic legendary Rise beyond reason over hills Of ice SCREAMING that it cannot die, That it has come back, this time On wings, and will spare no earthly thing: That it will hover, made purely of northern Lights, at dusk and fall On men building roads: will perch On the moose's horn like a falcon Riding into battle into holy war against Screaming railroad crews: will pull Whole traplines like fibers from the snow In the long-jawed night of fur trappers. But, small, filthy, unwinged, You will soon be crouching Alone, with maybe some dim racial notion Of being the last, but none of how much Your unnoticed going will mean: How much the timid poem needs The mindless explosion of your rage, The glutton's internal fire the elk's Heart in the belly, sprouting wings, The pact of the "blind swallowing Thing," with himself, to eat The world, and not to be driven off it Until it is gone, even if it takes Forever. I take you as you are And make of you what I will, Skunk-bear, carcajou, bloodthirsty Non-survivor. Lord, let me die but not die Out. |
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Quoted:
Holy shit... another Housman fan.
Sig line for some time now... |
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High Flight
by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air.... Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace Where never lark nor even eagle flew— And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. |
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I knew you guys would not disappoint...
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Til human voices wake us and we drown T.S. Eliot |
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Half a league,
Half a league, Half a league onward, Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred |
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Charles Bukowski and Edgar Allen Poe.
The Conqueror Worm Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly- Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe! That motley drama- oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. |
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Quoted:
I knew you guys would not disappoint... We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Til human voices wake us and we drown T.S. Eliot For I have known them all already, known them all:–– Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? |
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Quoted:
Half a league, Half a league, Half a league onward, Into the Valley of Death rode the Six Hundred I just finished a good book about the Crimean War... |
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There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it. And he said with a grin As he wiped off his chin, "If my ear were a cunt, I would fuck it." |
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OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. ––-Invictus, William Earnest Henley (1875) |
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The Gods of the Copybook Headings
by Rudyard Kipling –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place. Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all. We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn: But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind, So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind. We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace, Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place, But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome. With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch, They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch; They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings; So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things. When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace. They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease. But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know." On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life (Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife) Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death." In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all, By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul; But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die." Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man There are only four things certain since Social Progress began. That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire; And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins, As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return! |
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The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
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 name 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 mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast upon 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 he will 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 fancy 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, ghastly, 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 lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath 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 name Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign in 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 lamplight 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! |
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Quoted: Quoted: I knew you guys would not disappoint... We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Til human voices wake us and we drown T.S. Eliot For I have known them all already, known them all:–– Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? I once had a thing for a girl... and the very thing that made her the apple of my eye was that she could recite "Prufrock" in it's entirety, from memory. What a turn-on. But... I got shot down...
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When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen! The Young British Soldier By Rudyard Kipling forever timely |
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Kipling - Tommy
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, |
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If you can keep your head, while those about you are losing theirs,
Perhaps you've misjudged the situation. Kidding. |
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I'm predicting it will be some sonnet by Bruce Dickinson . . .
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This is on the wall of both of my offices:
If By Rudyard Kipling 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 impostors 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 worn-out 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 breathe 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! |
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I Have a Rendezvous with Death
Alan Seeger (1917) I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air — I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath — It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows ’twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . But I’ve a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. |
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There are some qualities–some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence–sea and shore- Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his name's "No More." He is the corporate Silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!-EA Poe |
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Sonnet 94
They that have pow'r to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who moving others are themselves as stone, Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow, They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces, And husband nature’s riches from expense. They are the lords and owners of their faces; Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer’s flow'r is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die. But if that flow'r with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity. For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. Shakespeare |
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Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfrid Owen (1917) Bent double, like of 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 sonic 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 talk with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. |
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I'm not sure it's my fave, but the whole thing needs to be posted Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! "Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 2. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 3. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. 4. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. 5. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. 6. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred.
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FREEDOM FLIES IN YOUR HEART LIKE AN EAGLE Dusty old helmet, rusty old gun, They sit in the corner and wait - Two souvenirs of the Second World War That have withstood the time, and the hate. Mute witness to a time of much trouble. Where kill or be killed was the law - Were these implements used with high honor? What was the glory they saw? Many times I've wanted to ask them - And now that we're here all alone, Relics all three of a long ago war - Where has freedom gone? Freedom flies in your heart like an eagle. Let it soar with the winds high above Among the spirits of soldiers now sleeping, Guard it with care and with love. I salute my old friends in the corner, I agree with all they have said - And if the moment of truth comes tomorrow, I'll be free, or By God, I'll be dead! –– Audie Murphy |
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Every Man Should Have A Rifle
So I sit and write and ponder, while the house is deaf and dumb, Seeing visions "over yonder" of the war I know must come. In the corner - not a vision - but a sign for coming days Stand a box of ammunition and a rifle in green baize. And in this, the living present, let the word go through the land, Every tradesman, clerk and peasant should have these two things at hand. No - no ranting song is needed, and no meeting, flag or fuss - In the future, still unheeded, shall the spirit come to us! Without feathers, drum or riot on the day that is to be, We shall march down, very quiet, to our stations by the sea. While the bitter parties stifle every voice that warns of war, Every man should own a rifle and have cartridges in store! ~ by Henry Lawson, 1907 |
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Dane-GeldRudyard Kipling. It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation |
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The Raven by Poe.
If you notice, Foxyhuntress has a signature line which is adapted from this. I am the one who wrote it, and posted it in a thread of her's a few years ago. She might not remember this though. She does not credit me in the sig line. (Just kidding about the angry face ). |
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The Spell of the Yukon
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– I wanted the gold, and I sought it, I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy — I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it — Came out with a fortune last fall, — Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it, And somehow the gold isn't all. No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?) It’s the cussedest land that I know, From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it To the deep, deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when He made it; Some say it’s a fine land to shun; Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it For no land on earth — and I'm one. You come to get rich (damned good reason); You feel like an exile at first; You hate it like hell for a season, And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning; It twists you from foe to a friend; It seems it’s been since the beginning; It seems it will be to the end. I've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim; I've watched the big, husky sun wallow In crimson and gold, and grow dim, Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop; And I've thought that I surely was dreaming, With the peace o' the world piled on top. The summer — no sweeter was ever; The sunshiny woods all athrill; The grayling aleap in the river, The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness; The wilds where the caribou call; The freshness, the freedom, the farness — O God! how I'm stuck on it all. The winter! the brightness that blinds you, The white land locked tight as a drum, The cold fear that follows and finds you, The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, The woods where the weird shadows slant; The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, I've bade 'em good-by — but I can't. There’s a land where the mountains are nameless, And the rivers all run God knows where; There are lives that are erring and aimless, And deaths that just hang by a hair; There are hardships that nobody reckons; There are valleys unpeopled and still; There’s a land — oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want to go back — and I will. They're making my money diminish; I'm sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God! when I'm skinned to a finish I'll pike to the Yukon again. I'll fight — and you bet it’s no sham-fight; It’s hell! — but I've been there before; And it’s better than this by a damsite — So me for the Yukon once more. There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn't the gold that I'm wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace. Robert W. Service |
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And Death Shall Have No Dominion by: Dylan Thomas
And death shall have no dominion. Dead mean naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan't crack; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion. |
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Quoted:
Dulce et Decorum Est Wilfrid Owen (1917) One of my favorites. A great poet. |
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Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. |
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Quoted:
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe <snip> The Raven has been one of my favorites since I first read it. ON THE EIGHTEENTH DAY OF NOVEMBER... Just outside the town of Macroom. The tans in their big Crossley tenders, Came roaring along to their doom. But the boys of the column were waiting With hand grenades primed on the spot, And the Irish Republican Army Made shit of the whole mucking lot. -Brendan Behan |
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Seeing the Robert Serice poetry reminded me of this; even though it is a song, still it is good:
Saginaw Michigan, by Lefty Frizzell I was born in Saginaw, Michigan. I grew up in a house on Saginaw Bay. My dad was a poor hard working Saginaw fisherman: Too many times he came home with too little pay. I loved a girl in Saginaw, Michigan. The daughter of a wealthy, wealthy man. But he called me: "That son of a Saginaw fisherman." And not good enough to claim his daughter's hand. Now I'm up here in Alaska looking around for gold. Like a crazy fool I'm a digging in this frozen ground, so cold. But with each new day I pray I'll strike it rich and then, I'll go back home and claim my love in Saginaw, Michigan. I wrote my love in Saginaw, Michigan. I said: "Honey, I'm a coming home, please wait for me. "And you can tell your dad, I'm coming back a richer man "I've hit the biggest strike in Klondyke history." Her dad met me in Saginaw, Michigan. He gave me a great big party with champagne. Then he said: "Son, you're wise, young ambitious man. "Will you sell your father-in-law your Klondyke claim?" Now he's up there in Alaska digging in the cold, cold ground. The greedy fool is a looking for the gold I never found. It serves him right and no-one here is missing him. Least of all the newly-weds of Saginaw, Michigan. We're the happiest man and wife in Saginaw, Michigan. He's ashamed to show his face in Saginaw, Michigan. |
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SUICIDE IN THE TRENCHES
By Siegfried Sassoon I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go. And on a lighter note: Fags by Corporal Jack Turner When the cold is making ice cream of the marrow of your bones, When you're shaking like a jelly and your feet are dead as stones, When your clothes and boots and blankets, and your rifle and your kit, Are soaked from Hell to Breakfast, and the dugout where you sit Is leaking like a basket, and upon the muddy floor The water lies in filthy pools, six inches deep or more; Tho life seems cold and mis'rable and all the world is wet, You'll always get thro' somehow if you've got a cigarette. When you're lying in a listening post ‘way out beyond the wire, While a blasted Hun, behind a gun, is doing rapid fire; When the bullets whine above your head, and sputter on the ground, When your eyes are strained for every move, your ears for every sound— You'd bet your life a Hun patrol is prowling somewhere near; A shiver runs along your spine that's very much like fear; You'll stick it to the finish—but, I'll make a little bet, You'd feel a whole lot better if you had a cigarette. When Fritz is starting something and his guns are on the bust When the parapet goes up in chunks, and settles down in dust, When the roly-poly "rum-jar" comes a-wobbling thro' the air, 'Til it lands upon a dugout—and the dugout isn't there; When the air is full of dust, and smoke, and scraps of steel, and noise And you think you're booked for golden crowns and other Heavenly joys, When your nerves are all a-tremble, and your brain is all a fret— It isn't half so hopeless if you've-got a cigarette. When you're waiting for the whistle and your foot is on the step, You bluff yourself, it's lots of fun, and all the time you're hep To the fact that you may stop one 'fore you've gone a dozen feet, And you wonder what it feels like, and your thoughts are far from sweet; Then you think about a little grave, with R. I. P. on top. And you know you've got to go across—altho' you'd like to stop; When your backbone's limp as water, and you're bathed in icy sweat, Why, you'll feel a lot more cheerful if you puff your cigarette. Then, when you stop a good one, and the stretcher bearers come And patch you up with strings, and splints, and bandages, and gum; When you think you've got a million wounds and fifty thousand breaks. And your body's just a blasted sack packed full of pains and aches; Then you feel you've reached the finish, and you're sure your number's up, And you feel as weak as Belgian beer, and helpless as a pup — But you know that you're not down and out, that life's worth living yet, When some old war-wise Red Cross guy slips you a cigarette. We can do without MacConachies, and Bully, and hard tack, When Fritz's curtain fire keeps the ration parties back; We can do without our greatcoats, and our socks, and shirts, and shoes, We might almost—tho' I doubt it—get along without our booze; We can do without "K. R. & 0.." and "Military Law," We can beat the ancient Israelites at making bricks, sans straw; We can do without a lot of things and still win out, you bet, But I’d hate to think of soldiering without a cigarette. |
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This isn't necessarily my favorite, but I do like it, and I wrote a paper on it in college for ENG112 about eight years ago..
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow And soonest our best men with thee do go Rest of their bones and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppies or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swellst thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die! -John Donne Here's my paper: To Die. . .To Sleep Is death something to fear? In Death, Be Not Proud, John Donne says that it is not, because it cannot truly kill us. He says that death is merely an eternal rest from the hardships of life – that when we die, we will live eternally and can never be touched by death again. Throughout the poem, Donne makes subtle use of sound, form and wording to reinforce the message of the poem. Donne decides to personify Death, and this helps to give the poem more depth and meaning. The poem would not have nearly the impact on the reader that it does if the speaker spoke of death as just a phenomenon. Also, instead of passively talking about death, the speaker speaks to Death in the second person. This helps to show that the speaker is truly not afraid of it. If he were merely to speak about death, it would seem as if he merely wanted to impress the reader that he was courageous while in truth actually being afraid of it. Donne also demonstrates that he is not afraid of death by using the word “sleep” instead. For example, Donne says, “Poppy or charms can make us sleep as well” (1032, 11), and “And soonest our best men with thee do go / Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery” (1032, 7-8). Donne probably uses this word rather than “death” to illustrate that death should not be feared any more than sleep is, and also perhaps to thumb his nose at the personified Death and make light of what makes Death swell with pride. In addition to personification and apostrophe, Donne also makes a lot of use of sound to support his statements. A good example of the use of sound is when the speaker tells Death that “Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men” (1032, 9). That line does not flow off the tongue comfortably, and sounds plodding and arrhythmic . The line takes longer to read than the others, there are many pauses, and many stressed syllables. This seems to be an example of imagery and sound - the line says that death is a slave, and the flow of the sentence actually does seem to sound like a slave being forced to work. Yet another example is when the speaker says, “then from thee much more must flow” (1032, 6). The speaker is speaking of flowing, and the line indeed sounds a bit like a stream. There are no pauses, each word is a single syllable, all of the words are four letters long, and it is in spondaic form, like the peaks and troughs of a gently rippling stream. In line three, “For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow” (1032, 3), the letter O is used a lot, perhaps again to image Death, as that sound can bring to the reader’s mind the thought of ghosts. Probably the most interesting examples of imagery are the last two lines. The literal meaning of them, of course, is that Death will die, but the way in which the lines are written seem to say it also. The speaker says, “One short sleep past, we wake eternally / And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die” (1032, 13-14). Most of the poem follows with the usual form of an Italian sonnet. It is rhymed ABBA ABBA CDDC. But the last word of line 13, “eternally”, rhymes with A, while the last word of line 14, “die”, does not rhyme with any part of the poem. The entire poem is rhymed ABBA ABBA CDDC AF. The reader naturally expects the last line to rhyme with something, but it does not. First of all, this helps to make this line stand out, as it sums up the point of the entire poem. But more than that, it makes it seem as if the poem was cut off suddenly, which is what death does – it cuts off life. Because the last four words are “Death, thou shalt die” and the word “die” is where the poem seems to be cut off at, this seems to be imaging the point that Death will die. John Donne not only tells the reader his message in words, he also tells his the reader his message through the use of sound and structure. The use of sound and structure to enhance and support the meaning of a poem is one of the markings of a great poet. |
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Some barbarian is waving my shield,
since I was obliged to leave that perfectly good piece of equipment behind under a bush. But I got away, so what does it matter? Life seemed somehow more precious. Let the shield go; I can buy another one equally good. by Archilochus |
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