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Thread: Poetry

  1. #46
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    You missed a great gig last night btw, even if I say so myself.
    Doin' the Lambeth Warp New: DISSENSUS - THE NOVEL - PM me your email address and I'll add you

  2. #47
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    I had to celebrate an old friends birthday. I'm glad it went well.

  3. #48
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    Fair enough. There will further iterations, I'm sure.
    Doin' the Lambeth Warp New: DISSENSUS - THE NOVEL - PM me your email address and I'll add you

  4. #49
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    The word 'smashed' is what makes that limerick so delicious

  5. #50
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    The gleeful violence of it.

  6. #51
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    After many years of frank incomprehension, I am finally beginning to understand poetry as something rhythmic and "melodic", due to starting to read it aloud. Also understanding how poets can pack a whole load of meaning into a few dozen lines, how puzzling their poems can be, and how rewarding to grapple with. Oh, and amazingly, I'm beginning to understand the point of half-rhymes. I might even understand blank verse at this rate.

    Been reading a lot of Yeats and Hardy this week. Both brilliant.

  7. #52
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    Luka, you mentioned this guy Cavafy somewhere. He's admirably depressing:


    The City
    BY C. P. CAVAFY
    TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY

    You said: ďIíll go to another country, go to another shore,
    find another city better than this one.
    Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
    and my heart lies buried like something dead.
    How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
    Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
    I see the black ruins of my life, here,
    where Iíve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.Ē

    You wonít find a new country, wonít find another shore.
    This city will always pursue you.
    Youíll walk the same streets, grow old
    in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
    Youíll always end up in this city. Donít hope for things elsewhere:
    thereís no ship for you, thereís no road.
    Now that youíve wasted your life here, in this small corner,
    youíve destroyed it everywhere in the world.

  8. #53
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    yes. there are a lot of great greeks. read all of them. hockney illustrated cavafy. gays innit.
    http://www.christies.com/lotfinder/p...7-details.aspx
    bargain.
    Last edited by luka; 05-09-2016 at 09:05 PM.

  9. #54
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    The Ideal Star-Fighter

    I
    Now a slight meniscus floats on the moral
    pigment of these times, producing
    displacement of the body image, the politic
    albino. The faded bird droops in his
    cage called fear and yet flight into
    his pectoral shed makes for comic
    hysteria, visible hope converted to the
    switchboard of organic providence
    at the tiny rate of say 0.25 per cent
    "for the earth as a whole". And why
    go on reducing and failing like metal: the
    condition is man and the total crop yield
    of fear, from the fixation of danger; in
    how we are gripped in the dark, the
    flashes of where we are. It pays to be
    simple, for screaming out, the eye
    converts the news image to fear enzyme,
    we are immune to disbelief. "If there
    is danger there ought to be fear", trans-
    location of the self to focal alert, "but
    if fear is an evil why should there be
    danger?" The meniscus tilts the
    water table, the stable end-product is dark
    motion, glints of terror the final inert
    residue. Oriental human beings throw off
    their leafy canopies, expire; it is
    the unpastured sea hungering for calm.

    II

    And so we hear daily of the backward
    glance at the planet, the reaction of
    sentiment. Exhaust washes tidal flux
    at the crust, the fierce acceleration
    of mawkish regard. To be perceived with
    such bounty! To put the ring-main of
    fear into printed circuit, so that from the
    distant loop of the hate system the
    whole object is lovable, delicious, ingested
    by heroic absorption! We should
    shrink from that lethal cupidity; moral
    stand-by is no substitute for 24-inch
    reinforced concrete, for the blind certain
    backlash. Yet how can we dream of
    the hope to continue, how can the vectors
    of digression not swing into that curve
    bounding the translocal, and slip over, so
    that the image of suffered love is
    scaled off, shattered to a granulated pathos
    like the dotted pigments of cygnus?

    III

    What more can be done. We walk
    in beauty down the street, we tread
    the dust of our wasted fields. The
    photochemical dispatch is im
    minent, order-paper prepared. We
    cannot support that total of dis-
    placed fear, we have already induced
    moral mutation in the species. The
    permeated spectra of hatred dominate
    all the wavebands, algal to hominid.
    Do not take this as metaphor;
    thinking to
    finish off the last half-pint of milk,
    look at the plants, the entire dark dream outside.

    JH PRYNNE
    Last edited by luka; 05-09-2016 at 09:01 PM.

  10. #55
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    Totally smitten with Yeats now. Like, totally.

    Also re-read 'The Whitsun Weddings' by Larkin last night and for the first time bothered to work out the rhyming structure, which clued me in to how truly miraculous that poem is.

  11. #56
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    An unpublished poem of Larkin's that, like a lot of his poetry, feels to me like I could have written it, were I a shit-hot poet:

    Neurotics

    No one gives you a thought, as day by day
    You drag your feet, clay-thick with misery.
    None think how stalemate in you grinds away,
    Holding your spinning wheels an inch too high
    To bite on earth. The mind, it's said, is free:
    But not your minds. They, rusted stiff, admit
    Only what will accuse or horrify,
    Like slot-machines only bent pennies fit.

    So year by year your tense unfinished faces
    Sink further from the light. No one pretends
    To want to help you now. For interest passes
    Always towards the young and more insistent,
    And skirts locked rooms where a hired darkness ends
    Your long defence against the non-existent.

  12. #57
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    Paudeen

    INDIGNANT at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite
    Of our old Paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind
    Among the stones and thorn trees, under morning light;
    Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind
    A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought
    That on the lonely height where all are in God’s eye,
    There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot,
    A single soul that lacks a sweet crystaline cry.

    W.B. Yeats

  13. #58
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    Quote Originally Posted by baboon2004 View Post
    Luka, you mentioned this guy Cavafy somewhere. He's admirably depressing:


    The City
    BY C. P. CAVAFY
    TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY

    You said: ďIíll go to another country, go to another shore,
    find another city better than this one.
    Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
    and my heart lies buried like something dead.
    How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
    Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
    I see the black ruins of my life, here,
    where Iíve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.Ē

    You wonít find a new country, wonít find another shore.
    This city will always pursue you.
    Youíll walk the same streets, grow old
    in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
    Youíll always end up in this city. Donít hope for things elsewhere:
    thereís no ship for you, thereís no road.
    Now that youíve wasted your life here, in this small corner,
    youíve destroyed it everywhere in the world.
    I love this; it describes perfectly why I am hesitant to ever go 'travelling' again, though on happier days I really want to.

  14. #59
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    I tried to memorise this poem last night, and I almost have it:

    Fallen Majesty (by Yeats)

    Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
    And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone
    Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place
    Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone.

    The lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
    These, these remain, but I record what's gone. A crowd
    (THIS LINE I FORGOT) Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
    Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.

  15. #60
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    With due apologies for my rather sixth-form selections? I read this last night, stoned, and it blew me away - no pun intended.

    Ode to the West Wind
    BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

    I

    O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
    Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
    Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

    Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
    Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
    Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

    The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
    Each like a corpse within its grave, until
    Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

    Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
    (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
    With living hues and odours plain and hill:

    Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
    Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

    II

    Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
    Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
    Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

    Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
    On the blue surface of thine aŽry surge,
    Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

    Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
    Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
    The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

    Of the dying year, to which this closing night
    Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
    Vaulted with all thy congregated might

    Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
    Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!

    III

    Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
    The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
    Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

    Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
    And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
    Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

    All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
    So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
    For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

    Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
    The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
    The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

    Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
    And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!

    IV

    If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
    If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
    A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

    The impulse of thy strength, only less free
    Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
    I were as in my boyhood, and could be

    The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
    As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
    Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven

    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
    Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
    I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

    A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
    One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

    V

    Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
    What if my leaves are falling like its own!
    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

    Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
    Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
    My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

    Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
    Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
    And, by the incantation of this verse,

    Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
    Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
    Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

    The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
    If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

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