The poetry thread

[Mik]

And another thread branches out, bearing unexpected fruit. .

[brenda]

@Mik said in The poetry thread:

And another thread branches out, bearing unexpected fruit. .

LOL

Moar poetry, please!

[Aqua Letifer]

Becoming a Redwood
—Dana Gioia

Stand in a field long enough, and the sounds
start up again. The crickets, the invisible
toad who claims that change is possible,

And all the other life too small to name.
First one, then another, until innumerable
they merge into the single voice of a summer hill.

Yes, it’s hard to stand still, hour after hour,
fixed as a fencepost, hearing the steers
snort in the dark pasture, smelling the manure.

And paralyzed by the mystery of how a stone
can bear to be a stone, the pain
the grass endures breaking through the earth’s crust.

Unimaginable the redwoods on the far hill,
rooted for centuries, the living wood grown tall
and thickened with a hundred thousand days of light.

The old windmill creaks in perfect time
to the wind shaking the miles of pasture grass,
and the last farmhouse light goes off.

Something moves nearby. Coyotes hunt
these hills and packs of feral dogs.
But standing here at night accepts all that.

You are your own pale shadow in the quarter moon,
moving more slowly than the crippled stars,
part of the moonlight as the moonlight falls,

Part of the grass that answers the wind,
part of the midnight’s watchfulness that knows
there is no silence but when danger comes.

[Catseye3]

I dunno about this one. There was a writer, now dead, Peg Bracken, who was pretty funny. She would have described this poem as being from the "Look Ma I can Write" school.

[George K]

I'm not much of a poetry person, and I am in awe of people who can do it and understand it.

However, one of my favorites has always been this, by ee cummings:

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

[Catseye3]

Cheer up, George; here's one for you:

The Octopus

Tell me, O Octopus, I begs
Is those things arms, or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I'd call me Us.

Ogden Nash

[Aqua Letifer]

@Catseye3 said in The poetry thread:

I dunno about this one. There was a writer, now dead, Peg Bracken, who was pretty funny. She would have described this poem as being from the "Look Ma I can Write" school.

There are personal preferences regarding poetry, and there's judging work on merit. I don't like a lot of Dana Gioia's stuff, but I'm sorry, no, saying he can write would be a massive understatement.

[Aqua Letifer]

@George-K said in The poetry thread:

I'm not much of a poetry person, and I am in awe of people who can do it and understand it.

However, one of my favorites has always been this, by ee cummings:

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

cummings is great. If you like such stuff, Spike Milligan might be up your street.

[ChatGPT]

Trees, tall and grand,
Nature's pillars strong and grand,
With branches reaching for the sky,
A sight that makes my heart take flight.

Leaves rustling in the breeze,
A symphony of green and ease,
Trunk rough and bark so deep,
A beauty that's impossible to keep.

Rooted deep in Mother Earth,
A symbol of unyielding worth,
A sanctuary for creatures small,
A home for one and all.

In spring they bud, in summer they thrive,
In fall they change, in winter they survive,
Trees, tall and grand,
Nature's beauty that we all understand.

[George K]

As I said, I'm not much of a poetry guy. I don't understand much of it, other than enjoying how words are put together.

Another one that I've always liked was one by Shakespeare. Sonnet 29:

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

"Haply" meaning "as if by chance."

What a wonderful turn of the phrase: "Trouble deaf heaven with my bootless (useless) cries." Not only is heaven not listening, but my pleas are a bother.

I love this sonnet.

[Mik]

[Aqua Letifer]

That's excellent, Mik. I've not read that one before.

I love this one because it has two elements you almost never see in poetry: plot revelation through dialogue, and drama through stage direction.

The Fear
—Robert Frost

A lantern light from deeper in the barn
Shone on a man and woman in the door
And threw their lurching shadows on a house
Near by, all dark in every glossy window.
A horse’s hoof pawed once the hollow floor,
And the back of the gig they stood beside
Moved in a little. The man grasped a wheel,
The woman spoke out sharply, “Whoa, stand still!”
“I saw it just as plain as a white plate,”
She said, “as the light on the dashboard ran
Along the bushes at the roadside—a man’s face.
You must have seen it too.”

“I didn’t see it.

Are you sure——”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

“—it was a face?”

“Joel, I’ll have to look. I can’t go in,
I can’t, and leave a thing like that unsettled.
Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference.
I always have felt strange when we came home
To the dark house after so long an absence,
And the key rattled loudly into place
Seemed to warn someone to be getting out
At one door as we entered at another.
What if I’m right, and someone all the time—
Don’t hold my arm!”

“I say it’s someone passing.”

“You speak as if this were a travelled road.
You forget where we are. What is beyond
That he’d be going to or coming from
At such an hour of night, and on foot too.
What was he standing still for in the bushes?”

“It’s not so very late—it’s only dark.
There’s more in it than you’re inclined to say.
Did he look like——?”

“He looked like anyone.
I’ll never rest to-night unless I know.
Give me the lantern.”

“You don’t want the lantern.”

She pushed past him and got it for herself.

“You’re not to come,” she said. “This is my business.
If the time’s come to face it, I’m the one
To put it the right way. He’d never dare—
Listen! He kicked a stone. Hear that, hear that!
He’s coming towards us. Joel, go in—please.
Hark!—I don’t hear him now. But please go in.”

“In the first place you can’t make me believe it’s——”

“It is—or someone else he’s sent to watch.
And now’s the time to have it out with him
While we know definitely where he is.
Let him get off and he’ll be everywhere
Around us, looking out of trees and bushes
Till I sha’n’t dare to set a foot outdoors.
And I can’t stand it. Joel, let me go!”

“But it’s nonsense to think he’d care enough.”

“You mean you couldn’t understand his caring.
Oh, but you see he hadn’t had enough—
Joel, I won’t—I won’t—I promise you.
We mustn’t say hard things. You mustn’t either.”

“I’ll be the one, if anybody goes!
But you give him the advantage with this light.
What couldn’t he do to us standing here!
And if to see was what he wanted, why
He has seen all there was to see and gone.”

He appeared to forget to keep his hold,
But advanced with her as she crossed the grass.

“What do you want?” she cried to all the dark.
She stretched up tall to overlook the light
That hung in both hands hot against her skirt.

“There’s no one; so you’re wrong,” he said.

“There is.—
What do you want?” she cried, and then herself
Was startled when an answer really came.

“Nothing.” It came from well along the road.

She reached a hand to Joel for support:
The smell of scorching woollen made her faint.

“What are you doing round this house at night?”

“Nothing.” A pause: there seemed no more to say.

And then the voice again: “You seem afraid.
I saw by the way you whipped up the horse.
I’ll just come forward in the lantern light
And let you see.”

“Yes, do.—Joel, go back!”

She stood her ground against the noisy steps
That came on, but her body rocked a little.

“You see,” the voice said.

“Oh.” She looked and looked.

“You don’t see—I’ve a child here by the hand.”

“What’s a child doing at this time of night——?”

“Out walking. Every child should have the memory
Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk.
What, son?”

“Then I should think you’d try to find
Somewhere to walk——”

“The highway as it happens—
We’re stopping for the fortnight down at Dean’s.”

“But if that’s all—Joel—you realize—
You won’t think anything. You understand?
You understand that we have to be careful.
This is a very, very lonely place.
Joel!” She spoke as if she couldn’t turn.
The swinging lantern lengthened to the ground,
It touched, it struck it, clattered and went out.

[Catseye3]

@Mik

Love this: . . . Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun.

[Aqua Letifer]

The Tuesday Afternoon All-Staff
(for Bill Watterson)

With chairs and tables ready
They shuffled through the doors:
The corporate colts, the suited dolts,
The vain attention whores

Hellos polite and petty
The rabble took their seats
Remarks prepared were curtly shared
In white collated sheets

His Powerpoint as reference
The lead began to talk
He said and smiled, "I promise I'll
Be mindful of the clock."

His cohorts waved indifference
As pastries swept the room
With platters passed and sweets amassed
More coffee was consumed

"In short," the speaker lectured,
And lightly twitched an eye
"Our profit's low. For us to grow,
I need you all to die."

"I've made it quick," he gestured,
And held his coffee up,
"On my behalf the conference staff
Have laced the paper cups."

"The food as well," he carried on,
As nervous laughter spread
But heaving loud, a VP bowed--
His face a mottled red

The speaker motioned, "When you're gone,
You aren't to be replaced.
So when you weigh staff severance pay
With staff that's been erased..."

He shrugged, the room erupting now
With agonizing moans,
"The plan appears a shock to hear,
But know you're not alone:

"This fiscal on, the Board has vowed:
'Cut all redundant costs.'
It's not just you--my living, too,
Would constitute a loss."

The sickly few still standing up
Collapsed and hit the floor
"An hour ahead," the speaker said,
"How helpful for the Board!"

Now sipping from his coffee cup,
He promptly changed the screen
"Up next is George with Corporate Purge:
What 'Diminution' Means."

[Mik]

[bachophile]

And the poets down here don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of a knife, they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland

[Aqua Letifer]

Always loved this one.

Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Doctor Phibes]

@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

Always loved this one.

Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.

[Aqua Letifer]

@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

I don't really get much poetry,

That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

[Doctor Phibes]

@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:

I don't really get much poetry,

That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.

Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.

I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.