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    Poetry Corner


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    Post by Guest on Wed Dec 01, 2010 9:15 am

    I'm sure most of you guys can't be bothered or don't like poetry (or both) but, for those of you who do, show us yours and your interperetation would be nice but isn't required.

    My absolute favourite poet is Wilfred Owen, a soldier in World War One who wrote mostly about conflict and life as it was for them.

    One of my faves is:

    Asleep - Wilfred Owen

    Under his helmet, up against his pack,
    After so many days of work and waking,
    Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.

    There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
    Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking
    Of the aborted life within him leaping,
    Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.

    And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping
    From the intruding lead, like ants on track.

    Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
    Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
    High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,
    Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
    And these winds' scimitars,
    -Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
    Confuses more and more with the low mould,
    His hair being one with the grey grass
    Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
    Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
    He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
    Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!

    Pretty self-explanatory but the reason I like it so much is because of the way it provides a sound argument to such an emotional thing, essentially saying it's alright that he died because he has peace, which those soldiers still alive do not.

    Also, I love the way he writes. It's not ambiguous, his point is clear, he isn't too verbose but still expresses himself with a lot of class and flow.

    The Dagda
    The Dagda

    Posts : 602 Join date : 2010-11-26

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    Post by ephie on Wed Dec 01, 2010 12:25 pm

    That one's pretty awesome, Redline. I will have to look him up. I love all poetry pretty much, I'm not fussy at all, if it's got a flow then I'm into it. One of my favorites is Shel Silverstein, who I'm really inspired by.

    If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.
    The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.
    A crumb of cake would be a feast
    And last you seven days at least,
    A flea would be a frightening beast
    If you were one inch tall.

    If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,
    And it would take about a month to get down to the store.
    A bit of fluff would be your bed,
    You'd swing upon a spider's thread,
    And wear a thimble on your head
    If you were one inch tall.

    You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum.
    You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb.
    You'd run from people's feet in fright,
    To move a pen would take all night,
    (This poem took fourteen years to write--
    'Cause I'm just one inch tall).

    The question is not how far. The question is, do you possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far is as needed?

    Posts : 53 Join date : 2010-12-02

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    Post by ericxboba on Fri Dec 03, 2010 4:00 am

    @ Redline - Wilfred Owen was a great poet and it sad that he was killed in the trenches just a few days before WWI ended. A tragedy for such a young poet with a lot of promise. I have a favorite by him.

    Dulce et Decorum Est

    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
    Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

    Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
    And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
    Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

    If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
    To children ardent for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
    Pro patria mori.

    The last line means "It is sweet and proper to die for one's country." Beautiful, isn't it? of my favorite is by Robert Frost and it is called Acquainted with the Night.

    I have been one acquainted with the night.
    I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
    I have outwalked the furthest city light.

    I have looked down the saddest city lane.
    I have passed by the watchman on his beat
    And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

    I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
    When far away an interrupted cry
    Came over houses from another street,

    But not to call me back or say good-bye;
    And further still at an unearthly height,
    O luminary clock against the sky

    Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
    I have been one acquainted with the night.

    I love his simplicity and honesty. I have a lot of others but I might start to ramble. I LOVE poetry and it is probably my favorite part about being an English major...studying, reading, and writing poetry. I'm a bit of a romantic I guess you could say Blushing
    Can't Triforce
    Can't Triforce

    Posts : 355 Join date : 2010-11-26

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    Post by Rhosauce on Fri Dec 03, 2010 4:46 am

    Speaking of Robert Frost:

    Fire and Ice

    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.


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    Post by Guest on Fri Dec 03, 2010 7:20 am

    @ericxboba - Dulce et Decorum Est was written in response to this poem:

    The Call - Jessie Pope

    Who's for the trench—
    Are you, my laddie?
    Who'll follow French—
    Will you, my laddie?
    Who's fretting to begin,
    Who's going out to win?
    And who wants to save his skin—
    Do you, my laddie?

    Who's for the khaki suit—
    Are you, my laddie?
    Who longs to charge and shoot—
    Do you, my laddie?
    Who's keen on getting fit,
    Who means to show his grit,
    And who'd rather wait a bit—
    Would you, my laddie?

    Who'll earn the Empire's thanks—
    Will you, my laddie?
    Who'll swell the victor's ranks—
    Will you, my laddie?
    When that procession comes,
    Banners and rolling drums—
    Who'll stand and bite his thumbs—
    Will you, my laddie?

    Just so's you know Catface

    Anyway, my favourite poem by Wilfred Owen is this:

    Mental Cases - Wilfred Owen

    Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
    Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
    Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
    Baring teeth that leer like skulls' tongues wicked?
    Stroke on stroke of pain, -- but what slow panic,
    Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
    Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
    Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
    Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?

    - These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
    Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
    Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
    Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
    Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
    Always they must see these things and hear them,
    Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
    Carnage incomparable and human squander
    Rucked too thick for these men's extrication.

    Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
    Back into their brains, because on their sense
    Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
    Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
    - Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
    Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
    - Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
    Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
    Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
    Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.

    I love it so much, I know it off by heart Blushing

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