Why Not Poetry?

[Gaius Octavius]

Spittle, I am glad to hear that I am not the only ex-con on the Forum. But, come on, you didn't like 'Ellen Mc Jones Aberdeen' or 'Lochinvar'?

 

[spittle]

Out of all the poems that have been posted the only one I care for is the Robert Frost 'Miles to go before I sleep'.

 

...but I cannot explain why that one manages to penetrate where the others fail to reach me.

[Gladius Hispaniensis]

Ave

Liking or disliking poetry has nothing to do with manliness and masculinity. That is one of the silly images the popular media has been trying to convey recently. The ancient Samurai warriors were renowned for their haiku (I hope I'm spelling it right) and the ancient Arab warriors always recited qasidas (poems) before engaging in single combat. I'm sure you'll agree that the Samurai and the Arab warriors were far braver and more masculine than any of these fellows with their low slung baggies and Tupac Shakur t-shirts hanging around street corners scaring old ladies.

[spittle]

Romantic poetry was also as much a part of chivalry as jousting (and the such) by knights at tournamants during the extremely violent medievel period.

 

My question 'Do any straight men enjoy poetry?' was just banter. I don't subscribe to stereotypes of sexuality.

Gay men eat Keash etc

[Nephele]

Out of all the poems that have been posted the only one I care for is the Robert Frost 'Miles to go before I sleep'.

 

...but I cannot explain why that one manages to penetrate where the others fail to reach me.

 

 

Spittle, perhaps you might also feel an empathy with Robert Frost's "Fire and Ice." It's actually my favorite Frost poem, as it has a twist of irony in it.

 

It was written long before the term "global warming" became a buzzword for mankind's doom, and yet here the words "fire" and "ice" suggest that perhaps our greatest concern regarding the safety of the planet should be with each other, and not the environment.

FIRE AND ICE

by Robert Frost

 

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

[Faustus]

Spittle: Out of all the poems that have been posted the only one I care for is the Robert Frost 'Miles to go before I sleep'.

...but I cannot explain why that one manages to penetrate where the others fail to reach me.

I connect with that one too. Perhaps it comes from that feeling of, or desire to be alone with oneself; A wintry scene, more than any other gives that lonely feeling, and of surviving in the face of danger.

 

Spittle: My question 'Do any straight men enjoy poetry?' was just banter. I don't subscribe to stereotypes of sexuality.

Gay men eat Keash etc

Understood, It was a rhetorical question. The title of the topic was too: Why not poetry?

Your comments are well taken Spittle, and make the topic more fun.

 

Romantic poetry was also as much a part of chivalry as jousting (and the such) by knights at tournamants during the extremely violent medievel period.

 

See what you think of this one written by EA POE:

 

ELDORADO

 

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

 

But he grew old-

This knight so bold-

And o'er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

 

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow-

"Shadow," said he,

"Where can it be-

This land of Eldorado?"

 

"Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,"

The shade replied-

"If you seek for Eldorado!"

 

THE END

Edited January 28, 2008 by Faustus

[Gaius Octavius]

Nephele beat me to it! I am sure some did think that you were speaking with tongue in cheek, but you wound up doing the Forum a service. T.S. Elliot's 'The Wasteland' drove me up a tree in school. I think that I get a little of it now. I think that poetry aids one in thinking and in the use of language.

 

Just as in every other discipline and in life, there are things that we like and those we don't like.

 

http://www.bartleby.com/201/1.html

Edited January 28, 2008 by Gaius Octavius

[Gaius Octavius]

Spittle, try this one out for size:

 

 

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe

[First published in 1845]

 

 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -

Only this, and nothing more.'

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Nameless here for evermore.

 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -

This it is, and nothing more,'

 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more.

 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'

Merely this and nothing more.

 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as `Nevermore.'

 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never-nevermore."'

 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted - nevermore!

 

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http://www.unrv.com/forum/index.php?automo...p;showentry=689

Edited January 28, 2008 by Gaius Octavius

[Gaius Paulinus Maximus]

How about this one by Roald Dahl, it's not deep and thoughtful but quite witty and amusing and it's obviously about a subject that he's quite passionate about.

 

 

 

Television

 

 

The most important thing we've learned,

So far as children are concerned,

Is never, NEVER, NEVER let

Them near your television set --

Or better still, just don't install

The idiotic thing at all.

In almost every house we've been,

We've watched them gaping at the screen.

They loll and slop and lounge about,

And stare until their eyes pop out.

(Last week in someone's place we saw

A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)

They sit and stare and stare and sit

Until they're hypnotised by it,

Until they're absolutely drunk

With all that shocking ghastly junk.

Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,

They don't climb out the window sill,

They never fight or kick or punch,

They leave you free to cook the lunch

And wash the dishes in the sink --

But did you ever stop to think,

To wonder just exactly what

This does to your beloved tot?

IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!

IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!

IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!

IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND

HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND

A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!

HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!

HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!

HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!

'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,

'But if we take the set away,

What shall we do to entertain

Our darling children? Please explain!'

We'll answer this by asking you,

'What used the darling ones to do?

'How used they keep themselves contented

Before this monster was invented?'

Have you forgotten? Don't you know?

We'll say it very loud and slow:

THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,

AND READ and READ, and then proceed

To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!

One half their lives was reading books!

The nursery shelves held books galore!

Books cluttered up the nursery floor!

And in the bedroom, by the bed,

More books were waiting to be read!

Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales

Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales

And treasure isles, and distant shores

Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,

And pirates wearing purple pants,

And sailing ships and elephants,

And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,

Stirring away at something hot.

(It smells so good, what can it be?

Good gracious, it's Penelope.)

The younger ones had Beatrix Potter

With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,

And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,

And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-

Just How The Camel Got His Hump,

And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,

And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,

There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-

Oh, books, what books they used to know,

Those children living long ago!

So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,

Go throw your TV set away,

And in its place you can install

A lovely bookshelf on the wall.

Then fill the shelves with lots of books,

Ignoring all the dirty looks,

The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,

And children hitting you with sticks-

Fear not, because we promise you

That, in about a week or two

Of having nothing else to do,

They'll now begin to feel the need

Of having something to read.

And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!

You watch the slowly growing joy

That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen

They'll wonder what they'd ever seen

In that ridiculous machine,

That nauseating, foul, unclean,

Repulsive television screen!

And later, each and every kid

Will love you more for what you did.

 

Roald Dahl

Edited January 28, 2008 by Gaius Paulinus Maximus

[The Augusta]

GPM - if I could afford a gravestone large enough, I'd have that Roald Dahl poem engraved on it! It says it all, really. Fortunately, I was one of those lucky kids who was never bored on a rainy day, because I had my books. I may have played with Sindy for an hour, but I would put her away without a pang to sink into hours upon hours of reading. I actually used to enjoy having those kid's illnesses where the doctor sent you to bed - it meant I could spend all day reading! The worlds created by the author and the reader's imagination are always richer - IMHO - than anything the TV can offer.

[Gaius Octavius]

Someone once called the tube 'a vast wasteland'.

[Gladius Hispaniensis]

Salve

I think Dahl's poem should be taught to every kid that attends every school in every corner of the world and should be read out at every single PTA meeting anywhere in the globe. Brilliant. Thanks for the tidbit GPM.

[Kosmo]

Rar

 

Singur, singur, singur,

 

[spittle]

My favourite poem;

 

'BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.'

 

Private Baldrick,

(cpt E. Blackadder c.o.)

The Somme,

WW1.

[Faustus]

My favourite poem;

 

'BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.'

 

Private Baldrick,

(cpt E. Blackadder c.o.)

The Somme,

WW1.

You're finally getting into it. I like it! It does something for me. . . (namely, makes me laugh!) I see you're in the company of the Rogue Captain

But let's be careful, or we'll be taking a trip to Tartarus

 

Faustus

---------------

Edited January 30, 2008 by Faustus