American Artlessness
- Thread starter sus
- Start date
mixed_biscuits
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Have you seen the size of the OED? It's the slag of dictionaries.
mixed_biscuits
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He sought to legitimise his yokel persona by owning a farm, just like Jeremy Clarkson 2,000 years later.
mixed_biscuits
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He's not artless by y'all's spurious definition but he is in that he was unaffected, which you agree with when you say he doesn't have a persona.
mixed_biscuits
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Plot twist: Shakespeare was working class, and because of him even royalty speaks common.
mixed_biscuits
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They fake it because they sincerely believe it should be faked if it can't be done sincerely. The meta-sincerity of duty.
The Lobster and the Quiet Fire
—In the style of Robert Frost
I met a lobster down a tide-worn shore,
Where kelp swung low and brine did not ignore
The whisper of the sea’s repeated hymn,
Or how the day would end in shadows dim.
He scuttled slow, in armor rough and red,
With ancient thoughts inside his claw-tipped head.
He knew the weight of depth, the pull of tide—
And something in him flickered, still, with pride.
“No monarch am I,” he seemed to confess,
“But still I feel the press of worthiness.
Some current in me, chemical and pure,
That grants me will, and makes my stance endure.”
I paused and watched him, half in jest, half truth—
As if he bore the philosophic ruth
Of creatures small, yet dignified and wise,
Who never look away with downcast eyes.
“Serotonin,” I said, “they say it dwells
In even you, down in your tidal cells.
That in your fights, your place is writ and earned—
A fire of mood that can't be unconcerned.”
He raised one claw, as if to point or warn,
Or simply to salute a mind reborn.
Then turned, and vanished in the sea’s slow moan,
Each bubble like a thought he left alone.
And I, who’d wandered there for salt and air,
Felt some small shift within me, faint and rare—
That even in the dark, with claws and shell,
Some unseen flame declares: “All shall be well.”
—In the style of Robert Frost
I met a lobster down a tide-worn shore,
Where kelp swung low and brine did not ignore
The whisper of the sea’s repeated hymn,
Or how the day would end in shadows dim.
He scuttled slow, in armor rough and red,
With ancient thoughts inside his claw-tipped head.
He knew the weight of depth, the pull of tide—
And something in him flickered, still, with pride.
“No monarch am I,” he seemed to confess,
“But still I feel the press of worthiness.
Some current in me, chemical and pure,
That grants me will, and makes my stance endure.”
I paused and watched him, half in jest, half truth—
As if he bore the philosophic ruth
Of creatures small, yet dignified and wise,
Who never look away with downcast eyes.
“Serotonin,” I said, “they say it dwells
In even you, down in your tidal cells.
That in your fights, your place is writ and earned—
A fire of mood that can't be unconcerned.”
He raised one claw, as if to point or warn,
Or simply to salute a mind reborn.
Then turned, and vanished in the sea’s slow moan,
Each bubble like a thought he left alone.
And I, who’d wandered there for salt and air,
Felt some small shift within me, faint and rare—
That even in the dark, with claws and shell,
Some unseen flame declares: “All shall be well.”
Benny Bunter
Well-known member
Not an exact analogy, but you might say Frost was more like Wordsworth than John Clare.
mixed_biscuits
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Frost, had he earned a college degree
Benny Bunter
Well-known member
You're kneeling at that well-curb in the wrong way again, you fucking dickhead.
mixed_biscuits
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Dang that varmint's raucous bark
As brown and scratchy as that tree
Which itself possesses too a bark
But which itself sits silently
And does no thing to bother me
Not a persona?
As brown and scratchy as that tree
Which itself possesses too a bark
But which itself sits silently
And does no thing to bother me
Not a persona?
Corpsey
bandz ahoy
RE: Frosty the poesyman
I don't know how to pirate books but if you do then Randall Jarrell wrote some good essays in praise of him
I don't know how to pirate books but if you do then Randall Jarrell wrote some good essays in praise of him
No other book : selected essays : Jarrell, Randall, 1914-1965 : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive
xx, 376 pages ; 25 cm
archive.org
mixed_biscuits
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Frost left uni before it ruined him and his poetry with mumbo jumbo.
entertainment
Well-known member
Benny Bunter
Well-known member
DESIGN
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.