Poetry

Everything but the "fish" part was excellent.

[Moshe..]

The mirror says 'like a fish' because it wants to think of itself as being a lake (in which a young girl drowned).

[SilverSpoon]

Originally Posted by Moshe..

This is a very simple & easy music poem written by an american guy. It's all about snow! But it's so musical.



Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

Silent, and soft, and slow

Descends the snow.



Even as our cloudy fancies take

Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

In the white countenance confession,

The troubled sky reveals

The grief it feels.



This is the poem of the air,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

Now whispered and revealed

To wood and field.


http://www.christmas-time.com/ct-sno...longfellow.htm

I don't hear any music, you liar. And I don't understand why anyone would write a poem about Snow, but hey, I'm cool with reggae, so whatever.

[Moshe..]

It's a lullaby. I did it in my english accent and it was just silly. And then tried doing an old-fashioned american drawl and it sounds so nice! The best thing about americans is the way they speak sostenuto, they run all the words together .

I always liked this poem about days by larkin.

Days

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

[Cat]

Sonnet 130
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

One of my favorites by Shakespeare.

[Plastic Flute]

the black wire part is odd to me.

[Cat]

The women described in sonnets are usually perfect, but the lady Shakespeare talks about isn't. She is a woman of flesh and blood. Her hair is like black wires (i.e. not pretty), her breath stinks and the sound of her voice isn't like music, but he still loves her

[Moshe..]

And he’s saying that her magic can’t be expressed by boring old similes. She “treads on the ground” and smells (they didn’t have showers in those days!). But moreover the language can’t capture her; words are simply inadequate & “false compare”. Anyway everyone knows that black is the best hair colour!

I want to read pinter tomorrow.


This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin

They fu ck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fu cked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

[Jocasta]

This is so weird, I was just going to post This Be the Verse.
It has to have one of the greatest first lines in modern poetry.
Moshe, I heart you.

[Val]

Poems have magic, especially when they come from the heart. They can touch us, move us, delight us, enlighten us, make us laugh, make us cry, and both soften and enrich our deepest memories. Poetry is the tie that bind one stranger to another, often in friendship, sometimes in love, always in better understanding.

This is my contribution:

I've lived for long, so long a time
I've seen it all, there was to see
This world has lost all charm of it
There's no new thing in it for me

I'll leave this world, and find a new
Travel in realm of death, is what I shall do

These seven old lands, I've traveled them all
These rivers and lakes, and valleys and hills
And building big tall, I've lived them all
All skylines and shacks, all barns and mills

They've lost their beauty, gone dull in my view
Travel in realm of death, is what I shall do

These oceans are shallow, they're no more deep
Each fish I've seen, every drop I know
Same is every shore, there is no more
These waters don't have, any secret to show

I'll set new sails, in waters deep blue
Travel in realm of death, is what I shall do

All people I've seen, all places I've been
All bonds I've made, all feelings I've had
After being in all relations, after seeing all creations
I'm hollow I'm undone, I'm lonely I'm sad

I've been all places, you left no traces
This world's all fake, want something true
Travel in realm of death, is what I shall do
Perhaps I'll find you, perhaps I'll find you


This is from a friend:

No thoughts no talk
I’m still holding your hand close to my heart

This vacuum of love
Will make us strong

I will keep holding you
Even if this silence lasts for too long

Your hand is warm
My memory is filled with our song
telling me
Somewhere sometime on Earth
In life or death
Together we belong

Enjoy!

[Cat]

Originally Posted by Moshe..

I want to read pinter tomorrow.

I know. I haven't had time to read any Pinter in forever. I have to do it soon, we need to continue our discussions.

Jonathan Swift's "A Description of the Morning" (I've posted it before in another thread...I think. It's lovely):

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing, showed the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own;
And slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirled her mop with dext'rous airs,
Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drowned in shriller notes of chimney-sweep.
Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet,
And brickdust Moll had screamed through half a street.
The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And schoolboys lag with satchels in their hands.

[Moshe..]

I want to do pinter too, but just take it slowly. I'm obsessed with the play now, but I only want to write all my ideas down in the summer holidays maybe. I'd like put my thoughts together into an essay, and I could enter it into an english litt essay competition, we have hundreds of them at my uni, and they give you lots of money and academic prestige.