The poetry thread

Catseye3

'When You Are Old' (1892) by W.B.Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Aqua Letifer

It's World Poetry Day, so here you go.

I wrote this about 11 years ago, give or take.

(For those interested, instead of iambic pentameter or some other form we borrowed from the Greeks, this was written in fornyrðislag, a pretty common alliterative verse form in medieval Iceland and Anglo-Saxon areas. It's good for long narratives.)

Contemplate carefully your curious eyes:
Your world-windows and wondrous informers
For our forebears, foregone by eras,
Scores of secrets their sight could tell:
Where to find water, when the stars
Brought beasts beyond the plains,
The time of tides.

This talent evolved
As with our ancestors, answering questions
Broader, more bold; we're able by sight
To compare, discover, equate and to judge.
We discern by sight—we see and believe.

Are we bounded by the blessings of broader sight?
We've clever inventions, devices to cast
Ourselves into stars, inside each atom;
We've mapped the material, mastered its puzzles.
But still we sit through each second's passing:
Powerless against perpetual Present, we remain
Interned by time.

We've turned in the past
To soothsayers and sages to scry our fortunes,
With vague visions and evasive hereafters
Granting but glimpses of the games Fates played,
Their schemes still concealed.

Now consider our Future:
Devoid of diviners, prevailing by reason,
We swap sages for science, trade
Mysticism for method. Must our vision
Still be restricted, stuck in the Now?
Can our complex, accomplished technology
Award us the wisdom once reserved
For Fates and far-seers? What fears await us
When science assumes Second Sight?

Jolly

An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

In an obscure corner of the net
Resided the battling bastards
Screeching, arguing, but yet
Sometimes they quit flinging words

Strangely, they really did care
What happened to one and all
Trampling the growing tares,
To lay down their mace and ball

Fare thee well, my electronic friend
I wish you no lasting sorrow
And that you be made whole again
That I may kick your ass on the morrow

Horace

@Jolly said in The poetry thread:

An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

In an obscure corner of the net
Resided the battling bastards
Screeching, arguing, but yet
Sometimes they quit flinging words

Strangely, they really did care
What happened to one and all
Trampling the growing tares,
To lay down their mace and ball

Fare thee well, my electronic friend
I wish you no lasting sorrow
And that you be made whole again
That I may kick your ass on the morrow

An ode to pwning libtards.

Aqua Letifer

@Jolly said in The poetry thread:

An original 5-minute doggerel knock together...

In an obscure corner of the net
Resided the battling bastards
Screeching, arguing, but yet
Sometimes they quit flinging words

Strangely, they really did care
What happened to one and all
Trampling the growing tares,
To lay down their mace and ball

Fare thee well, my electronic friend
I wish you no lasting sorrow
And that you be made whole again
That I may kick your ass on the morrow

Nice one! Fun turn at the end there.

Mik

Aqua Letifer

Traveling for the Easter holiday and for some weird and crazy reason, this poem got in my head instead of thoughts of spring flowers.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starv’d ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

—Robert Browning, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came

Catseye3

@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

I'm like, "Okay, that's pretty good; maybe a little labored . . .

Oh wait, Browning??? I take it back, it's way good. Perfect.

Aqua Letifer

@Catseye3 said in The poetry thread:

@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

I'm like, "Good one; maybe a little labored . . .

Oh wait, Browning??? I take it back, it's way good. Perfect.

I'd say this is probably his densest poem. So it's challenging, even for Browning.

Rainman

@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

Traveling for the Easter holiday and for some weird and crazy reason, this poem got in my head instead of thoughts of spring flowers.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starv’d ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

—Robert Browning, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came

So Aqua, what's wrong with me?
I read the same poem.
I read it again. And again.
And I think I kind of get a sense of what it's about.
But I'm probably wrong.
So, that's frustrating.
How is it that you love it, and I find it completely frustrating.
Not enjoyable.

Doctor Phibes

Here I sit
Broken hearted
Spent a penny
And only farted

Mik

Aqua Letifer

@Rainman said in The poetry thread:

@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

Traveling for the Easter holiday and for some weird and crazy reason, this poem got in my head instead of thoughts of spring flowers.

So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starv’d ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You ’d think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

—Robert Browning, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came

So Aqua, what's wrong with me?
I read the same poem.
I read it again. And again.
And I think I kind of get a sense of what it's about.
But I'm probably wrong.
So, that's frustrating.
How is it that you love it, and I find it completely frustrating.
Not enjoyable.

There's nothing wrong with you.

Most people consume art for a distraction or entertainment. When those people come across work that isn't that, they don't like it. Could be that.
Poetry might not be your thing. Not everyone's into beekeeping, either. Totally fine.

Mik

Algebra. My mind refuses to entertain the notion.

Aqua Letifer

@Mik said in The poetry thread:

Algebra. My mind refuses to entertain the notion.

Musicals.

Just. Not. My. Thing.

Mik

@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:

@Mik said in The poetry thread:

Algebra. My mind refuses to entertain the notion.

Musicals.

Just. Not. My. Thing.

Silence! I keel you!

Mik

Aqua Letifer

Excellent.

Doctor Phibes

That reminds me vaguely of one of Spike Milligan's creations:

Granny

Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up her nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie Fanny-
But most of all, it blew on Granny!

The New Coffee Room

The poetry thread