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Thread: Poetry

  1. #466
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    the more poems you post, the more certain i am of that knobbly knees trees one being absolutely irredeemably shite.

    "ash on an old man's sleeve". fucking great that is. nothing like that in the other one.
    not what i was hoping for if i'm honest

  2. #467
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    Yeats and Skeets: The Life & Times of Jack Law
    not what i was hoping for if i'm honest

  3. #468
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    Quote Originally Posted by sadmanbarty View Post
    the more poems you post, the more certain i am of that knobbly knees trees one being absolutely irredeemably shite.

    "ash on an old man's sleeve". fucking great that is. nothing like that in the other one.
    FYI that's Eliot 'Four Quartets'

  4. #469
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    Can't believe I almost put Barty off poetry for life

    Could mortal lip divine
    The undeveloped Freight
    Of a delivered syllable
    'Twould crumble with the weight.

  5. #470
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    I love the middle stanza of that mother of god poem because it so economically sketches out a life of routine, earthly, material pleasures. Also "gathered in the laughter" is elegant.

  6. #471
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    Quote Originally Posted by sadmanbarty View Post
    for all luke's "it's not about conveying information" his poetry and the poetry he likes is very much doing so.

    Yeah it does lol

  7. #472
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    Information is only part of the puzzle innit

    A good way of recognising this is reading some shakespeare next to a paraphrase of it.

    Fairly random selection:

    CAPTAIN

    For brave Macbeth—well he deserves that name—
    Disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel,
    Which smoked with bloody execution,
    Like valor’s minion carved out his passage
    20Till he faced the slave;
    Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,
    Till he unseamed him from the nave to th' chops,
    And fixed his head upon our battlements.

    CAPTAIN

    Brave Macbeth, laughing at Luck, chopped his way through to Macdonwald, who didn’t even have time to say good-bye or shake hands before Macbeth split him open from his navel to his jawbone and stuck his head on our castle walls.

    https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/sh...acbeth/page_4/
    Last edited by Corpsey; 18-04-2019 at 10:49 AM.

  8. #473
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  9. #474
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    I've never thought of this ever, reading it. Perhaps the key is (as Luka said) "admiring themselves".

  10. #475
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    Interesting to learn Yeat used that phrase 'broken images' in 1902, twenty year before The Waste Land:

    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
    Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
    You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
    A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
    And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
    And the dry stone no sound of water.

  11. #476
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    Luka, have you read Thom Gunn and if so what do you think of him?

    I came across this poem in an anthology last night:

    Considering the Snail
    BY THOM GUNN
    The snail pushes through a green
    night, for the grass is heavy
    with water and meets over
    the bright path he makes, where rain
    has darkened the earth’s dark. He
    moves in a wood of desire,

    pale antlers barely stirring
    as he hunts. I cannot tell
    what power is at work, drenched there
    with purpose, knowing nothing.
    What is a snail’s fury? All
    I think is that if later

    I parted the blades above
    the tunnel and saw the thin
    trail of broken white across
    litter, I would never have
    imagined the slow passion
    to that deliberate progress.
    And reading about him today it turns out he moved to California and wrote poems about/under the influence of LSD:

    What is this steady pouring that
    Oh, wonder.
    The blue line bleeds and on the gold one draws.
    Currents of image widen, braid, and blend
    –Pouring in cascade over me and under—
    To one all-river. Fleet it does not pause,
    The sinewy flux pours without start or end.

  12. #477
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    Ee used to have a gas poker - probably why this poem has always stuck in my head. It's from The Man With The Night Sweats by Gunn which deals with the early days of AIDS and some of Gunn's lovers who dies at teh time.
    this poem is about his Mum's suicide...

    The Gas Poker by Thom Gunn (An account of his mother’s suicide when he was in his teens, written in the third person.) Forty-eight years ago—
    Can it be forty-eight
    Since then?—they forced the door
    Which she had barricaded
    With a full bureau’s weight
    Lest anyone find, as they did,
    What she had blocked it for. She had blocked the doorway so,
    To keep the children out.
    In her red dressing-gown
    She wrote notes, all night busy
    Pushing the things about,
    Thinking till she was dizzy,
    Before she had lain down. The children went to and fro
    On the harsh winter lawn
    Repeating their lament,
    A burden, to each other
    In the December dawn,
    Elder and younger brother,
    Till they knew what it meant. Knew all there was to know.
    Coming back off the grass
    To the room of her release,
    They who had been her treasures
    Knew to turn off the gas,
    Take the appropriate measures,
    Telephone the police. One image from the flow
    Sticks in the stubborn mind:
    A sort of backwards flute.
    The poker that she held up
    Breathed from the holes aligned
    Into her mouth till, filled up
    By its music, she was mute.

  13. #478
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    I don't think it's poetry. I think it's prose. I read a bit as he's in an anthology called the new poetry I had as a teenager. I could tell it was fake straight away.

  14. #479
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    I wanted to copy this cut and paste this poem but I couldn’t make it work. The link’s here
    https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D5Kru-hW...png&name=small

  15. #480
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    This ain't prose M8, it rhymes and everything

    'To keep the children out.
    In her red dressing-gown
    She wrote notes, all night busy
    Pushing the things about,
    Thinking till she was dizzy,'

    In other news...

    I bought 'Look, Stranger!' by Auden recently and couldn't make head/tail of it, so I exchanged it for a later collection of Auden, which I can understand enough of to intrigue me, so I'm glad I did that, cos there's a lot of good shit in there.

    The Composer

    All the others translate: the painter sketches
    A visible world to love or reject;
    Rummaging into his living, the poet fetches
    The images out that hurt and connect.
    From Life to Art by painstaking adaption
    Relying on us to cover the rift;
    Only your notes are pure contraption,
    Only your song is an absolute gift.
    Pour out your presence, O delight, cascading
    The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine,
    Our climate of silence and doubt invading;
    You, alone, alone, O imaginary song,
    Are unable to say an existence is wrong,
    And pour out your forgiveness like a wine.'

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