Dead Poet's Society.

[wildsweetone]

cool bananas!

well fancy that. i just commented on the other thread (the one designed specifically for the rogue BB, that i liked Collins for his simplicity of language. hell, i think i've learnt something.



*doin' a widdle jig*

 

[Lonelypoet]

Lauren's gonna smack me for posting this again, but your post made me think of it so wtf.

Introduction To Poetry


I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Billy Collins

Thank you, Angeline, for posting that Billy Collins poem. It says to the core about what I have always believed about poetry. Some people, instead of allowing poetry to sink into their hearts and affect it, they would rather, "...tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means." And I would add, they would rather piss on it for not meeting their "rhyme and meter" standard, and hide it in a corner from the world, hoping no one notices it, because it does not fit their "elitists" point of view. Oh snobbery, thou art a fool!

And, as always, WildSweetOne, thank you for your comments as well.

Lonelypoet

 

[Remec]

You say we're weird?? You're going to bed thinking about backfiring wasps and we're weird???

Oh sureeee, come out with the backfiring wasps *after* Halloween why doncha? <g> <wink>

 

[champagne1982]

that's what i figured, miss missionary.

i guess i should cherish the down time while it's here.

A jewish missionary is just about too much for me to imagine. Does the zealot go noisily about, brandishing circumcision shears and earlocks?

 

[flyguy69]

A jewish missionary is just about too much for me to imagine. Does the zealot go noisily about, brandishing circumcision shears and earlocks?

That's no zealot. That's a mohel!

 

[wildsweetone]

okay an enquiring mind wants to know what a mohel is.

please.

nevermind... google told me what dictionary.com didn't. which is really bad. i would have thought a word with this meaning would be integrated into the dictionary by now.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Did you like or hate this movie? Did it alter your thinking of poetry? (i've just got it out today and intend watching it over the weekend.)

I just happened into an antique store today and they had a used video section. I found the movie and bought it because I remembered it being talked about here. I will watch it this weekend, thanks for the finger point Wild~

 

[My Erotic Trail]

The movie was a good drama
I don't think that it changes my views of poetry?
Then again I absorbed it as a movie and not as a lesson?
Although the camaraderie of the club seem to make poetry an enjoyable and shared passion, it does bring up the question of reading poetry aloud. < which is something I rarely do.

 

[wildsweetone]

The movie was a good drama
I don't think that it changes my views of poetry?
Then again I absorbed it as a movie and not as a lesson?
Although the camaraderie of the club seem to make poetry an enjoyable and shared passion, it does bring up the question of reading poetry aloud. < which is something I rarely do.

the more i write the more i am learning about reading my own writing out loud. for me reading out loud works better if i read it after having had a break.

i too enjoyed the poetry companionship that showed in the group.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

the more i write the more i am learning about reading my own writing out loud. for me reading out loud works better if i read it after having had a break.

i too enjoyed the poetry companionship that showed in the group.

I really liked the way he (robin williams) taught them to be their own person and not worry so much about conforming. The many examples that showed how people follow people's lead rather they are aware of it or not. AND...That we each have a voice, some will like it and some will not, just as some like shakespeare and some do not.

I probably would not have purchased this movie other than I recalled your thread <grin...it was well worth the watch, rather your into poetry or not. I will watch it again and next time I will jot down the names of the great poets mentioned (I already read alot of "walts" poems but I haven't heard of several other (dead poets) <grin

thanks wild~ "seize the day!"

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Captain O my Captain, by Walt Whitman

1

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

2

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

3

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

TWELVE o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

T.S. Eliot

 

[wildsweetone]

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

TWELVE o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

T.S. Eliot

man oh man...


please post more if you know them Art.

 

[champagne1982]

man oh man...


please post more if you know them Art.

Have you seen Andrew Llyod Webber's "Cats"? Many of the songs are adapted from TS Eliot's Old possum's book of practical cats and include words from this poem and a few others as well.

 

[wildsweetone]

no i've not seen Cats. i'll add it to my must see list. i read through a couple of the poem from your link Carrie and they're hilarious! thank you for sharing it.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

man oh man...


please post more if you know them Art.

gladly, I try an read a dead poet a day <for awhile> grin (learning)

today I read several but I liked this one, as well as the poets style, after reading a few, I found this one to stick with me. Today, mostly because it rained this morning and then the sun came out before noon and the scent lingered till the sun dried the wet terrain.

Morning Rain
by Tu Fu

A slight rain comes, bathed in dawn light.
I hear it among treetop leaves before mist
Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and,
Windblown, follows clouds away. Deepened

Colors grace thatch homes for a moment.
Flocks and herds of things wild glisten
Faintly. Then the scent of musk opens across
Half a mountain -- and lingers on past noon.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

The Eagle



He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.



The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.



—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Poetry of William Blake

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW


Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear -

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O He gives to us His joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

The Winters are so short --
I'm hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away --
And moving into Pod --

Myself -- for scarcely settled --
The Phoebes have begun --
And then -- it's time to strike my Tent --
And open House -- again --

It's mostly, interruptions --
My Summer -- is despoiled --
Because there was a Winter -- once --
And al the Cattle -- starved --

And so there was a Deluge --
And swept the World away --
But Ararat's a Legend -- now --
And no one credits Noah --

Emily Dickenson

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Walk easy on the earth
Without disturbing the sand.
Let others observe your footprints,
But like the night and day leave no trace.
Let your shadow move where it will,
Its magnitude decided by the sun.
excerpt from "This Above All" by James Kavanaugh

thanks RF~

 

[wildsweetone]

Walk easy on the earth
Without disturbing the sand.
Let others observe your footprints,
But like the night and day leave no trace.
Let your shadow move where it will,
Its magnitude decided by the sun.
excerpt from "This Above All" by James Kavanaugh

thanks RF~

do you have the rest of this poem Art?

 

[My Erotic Trail]

damn I like this poem

do you have the rest of this poem Art?

This Above AllWalk easy on the earth
Without disturbing the sand.
Let others observe your footprints,
But like the night and day leave no trace.
Let your shadow move where it will,
Its magnitude decided by the sun.

Do not love easily but well,
Linked in spirit and flesh.
Let your love be warm and generous,
And like the sun do not measure your gift.
Let your friendship be enduring and loyal,
Even as the mountains are not displaced.

Let no one judge you
Beyond what you actually do.
Thus you will not be judged
By anyone harsher than yourself.
To judge another is to become blind
And delay your own passage.

Do not disturb the waters
Or race futilely against the wind.
The sun will rise every day
And the moon will follow its course.
There is a rhythm for you
As smooth and unmistaken as the tide.

Do not try relentlessly to understand.
Time itself will decide.
There will be stars enough
When clouds and neon lights do not hide them.
Do not be sad. It has been written for you:
Your joy will come when it is time.

But this above all: Walk easy on the earth!
James Kavanaugh

 

[wildsweetone]

This Above AllWalk easy on the earth
Without disturbing the sand.
Let others observe your footprints,
But like the night and day leave no trace.
Let your shadow move where it will,
Its magnitude decided by the sun.

Do not love easily but well,
Linked in spirit and flesh.
Let your love be warm and generous,
And like the sun do not measure your gift.
Let your friendship be enduring and loyal,
Even as the mountains are not displaced.

Let no one judge you
Beyond what you actually do.
Thus you will not be judged
By anyone harsher than yourself.
To judge another is to become blind
And delay your own passage.

Do not disturb the waters
Or race futilely against the wind.
The sun will rise every day
And the moon will follow its course.
There is a rhythm for you
As smooth and unmistaken as the tide.

Do not try relentlessly to understand.
Time itself will decide.
There will be stars enough
When clouds and neon lights do not hide them.
Do not be sad. It has been written for you:
Your joy will come when it is time.

But this above all: Walk easy on the earth!
James Kavanaugh

i like it too. thanks for hunting it out.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

i like it too. thanks for hunting it out.

that poem was worth the hunt
a treasure hunt <grin

I will also take your advice about reading, "How to read poetry" <grin

 

[wildsweetone]

that poem was worth the hunt
a treasure hunt <grin

I will also take your advice about reading, "How to read poetry" <grin

i have been known to give lousy advice, be careful.