The poetry thread
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Not sure this is poetry, they just made it look like it. Still worth the read.
“Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.”
The extraordinary will take care of itself.
~William Martin@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Not sure this is poetry, they just made it look like it. Still worth the read.
“Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is the way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.”
The extraordinary will take care of itself.
~William MartinYeah, I like that. Part of what people don't understand about Blue Zones is that they all pretty much think in this way.
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Let the lyrical flow of style lead you to victory! Your assignment has
been completed expertly, and all necessary documents have been
skillfully knitted together. Store them close to hand for later
review We're here to highlight your intelligence!- Maxima Culpepper
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One from Rabbie:
My Heart's In The Highlands
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. -
Old, but one of my favorites...
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary’s Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.They say to mountains, ” Be ye removèd” They say to the lesser floods ” Be dry.”
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd – they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit – then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.They finger death at their gloves’ end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden – under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city’s drouth.They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren’s days may be long in the land.Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that !
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd – they know the angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet – they hear the Word – they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and – the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons ! -
Kipling. Of course.
But yes it is excellent.
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Watching a Nat Geo show Vikings The Rise And Fall. This particular episode focuses on settling Iceland, and the poetry that came from there.
@Mik said in The poetry thread:
Watching a Nat Geo show Vikings The Rise And Fall. This particular episode focuses on settling Iceland, and the poetry that came from there.
Hell yeah, that's awesome.
Those alliterative forms are what Anglo-Saxons used, too. It's the truest form of English poetry.
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@Mik said in The poetry thread:
They were also the propagandists of their time.
Yeah. They were their period's propagandists, news anchors, historians, musicians, actors and priests, all in one.
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Another by Malcolm Guite. Very much enjoying his writing.
He's completed an Arthurian cycle he's hoping to publish in a year or so, and it's fantastic. This one is from his second book of poetry.
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Another by Malcolm Guite. Very much enjoying his writing.
He's completed an Arthurian cycle he's hoping to publish in a year or so, and it's fantastic. This one is from his second book of poetry.
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False promises
Though clowns and blasphemers alike proclaim
Machines can hide the weakness of their words,
No heretic has ever cured the lame
And software can’t make diamonds out of turds.—written by me, just now, because I felt like it.
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