Benny Bunter
Well-known member
Let's have a look at some your mates prizewinning material then
Poetry
- Thread starter jenks
- Start date
luka
Well-known member
Benny Bunter
Well-known member
Funny to imagine you living in NZ and australia where time has stood still - Jimi Hendrix, the doors grunge. A bit that corny that first poem in the article but I really like this bit
They come back
from illegal drag wrecks on the back roads of Papakura,
from nooses in wardrobes in flats on Symonds St,
from overdoses in dingy Kings Cross basements ⎯
ambling down wind-scoured avenues with school bags
and six packs and flagons of rough red wine [viii]
Have to go to bed now but I'll read the rest tomorrow.
They come back
from illegal drag wrecks on the back roads of Papakura,
from nooses in wardrobes in flats on Symonds St,
from overdoses in dingy Kings Cross basements ⎯
ambling down wind-scoured avenues with school bags
and six packs and flagons of rough red wine [viii]
Have to go to bed now but I'll read the rest tomorrow.
Corpsey
bandz ahoy
One morning in Devon
I found a dead mole
with the dew still beading it.
I had thought the mole
a big-boned coulter
but there it was
small and cold
as the thick of a chisel.
I was told ‘Blow,
blow back the fur on his head.
Those little points
were the eyes.
And feel the shoulders.’
I touched small distant Pennines,
a pelt of grass and grain
running south.
I found a dead mole
with the dew still beading it.
I had thought the mole
a big-boned coulter
but there it was
small and cold
as the thick of a chisel.
I was told ‘Blow,
blow back the fur on his head.
Those little points
were the eyes.
And feel the shoulders.’
I touched small distant Pennines,
a pelt of grass and grain
running south.
luka
Well-known member
Concepts and Conception in Poetry small
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woops
is not like other people
yyaldrin
in je ogen waait de wind
BOUTADE
P.A. De Génestet
Oh land of filth and fog, of vile rain chill and stinging,
A sodden fetid plot of vapours dank and damp,
A vast expanse of mire and blocked roads clogged and clinging,
Brimful of gamps and gout, of toothache and of cramp!
Oh dreary mushy swamp, oh farmyard of galoshes,
With marsh frogs, dredgers, cobblers, mud gods overrun,
With every shape and size of duck that therein sploshes,
Receive this autumn dirge from your besnotted son!
To mud your claggy climate makes my blood set slowly;
Song, hunger, joy and peace are all withheld from me.
Pull your galoshes on, ancestral ground most holy,
You – not at my request – once wrested from the sea.
P.A. De Génestet
Oh land of filth and fog, of vile rain chill and stinging,
A sodden fetid plot of vapours dank and damp,
A vast expanse of mire and blocked roads clogged and clinging,
Brimful of gamps and gout, of toothache and of cramp!
Oh dreary mushy swamp, oh farmyard of galoshes,
With marsh frogs, dredgers, cobblers, mud gods overrun,
With every shape and size of duck that therein sploshes,
Receive this autumn dirge from your besnotted son!
To mud your claggy climate makes my blood set slowly;
Song, hunger, joy and peace are all withheld from me.
Pull your galoshes on, ancestral ground most holy,
You – not at my request – once wrested from the sea.
version
Well-known member
Report From The Besieged City
by Zbigniew HerbertToo old to carry arms and fight like the others -
they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege
I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time
all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left
I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks
monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency
tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants
wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers
we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture
thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected
the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender
friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender
N.N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back
an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance
all of this is monotonous I know it can't move anyone
I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts
only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets
yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world
that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children
our children don’t like fairy tales they play at killing
awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones
just like dogs and cats
in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the city
along the frontier of our uncertain freedom.
I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights
I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks
truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself
the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns
nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination
Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the Transfiguration
who can count them
the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon
from delicate bird's yellow in spring through green through red to winter's black
and so in the evening released from facts I can think
about distant ancient matters for example our
friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize
they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice
they don’t even know their fathers betrayed us
our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse
their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful
they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity
those struck by misfortune are always alone
the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers
now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation
have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles
a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance
cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller
yet the defence continues it will continue to the end
and if the City falls but a single man escapes
he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile
he will be the City
we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death
worst of all - the face of betrayal
and only our dreams have not been humiliated
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woops
is not like other people
That's very long and also obviously a translation so I'm not going to bother reading it
Benny Bunter
Well-known member
I don't believe that anyone has ever properly read a poem of more than maybe 10 lines off a screen (maybe a bit more if it's a screenshot of a scan of a real book). It's impossible, I've tried.
Benny Bunter
Well-known member
Good idea for a thread that, it's a thorny issue for sure, not just for poetry either.
Corpsey
bandz ahoy
I have this book in my toilet atm so every time I go for a long sit down I delve into it. It's a treasure chest, esp. since I had a realisation (again) re: poetry being read aloud like music.
The Definition of Love by Andrew Marvell (with particularly good bits bolded)
My love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing
Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,
But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic pow’r depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have plac’d,
(Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac’d;
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp’d into a planisphere.
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
The Definition of Love by Andrew Marvell (with particularly good bits bolded)
My love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing
Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown,
But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic pow’r depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have plac’d,
(Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac’d;
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp’d into a planisphere.
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
woops
is not like other people
Isn't this the title of a John Ashbery book
Corpsey
bandz ahoy
mixed_biscuits
_________________________
They get that idea from school