Poetry here.

What is art? What is beauty?

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Agent Smith
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Joined: Fri Aug 12, 2022 12:23 pm

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Agent Smith »

It was not wide
We could not hide
Close we sat, some stood
To those who wear the hood
We're here, they're near
Mere fear, ah, all is dear
Thuds, clinks, clanks
No ranks on the banks
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Agent Smith
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Re: Poetry here.

Post by Agent Smith »

Soaring stacks
Bloody racks
Cold, cold, cold
No mold, not gold
Not green, not blue
Cows, they moo
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Agent Smith
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Re: Poetry here.

Post by Agent Smith »

The air whistled
The water sparkled
The fire crackled
The earth trembled

The earth was his seat
The fire, snowy heat
The water, his thirst meet
The air, none, death in a heartbeat
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Agent Smith
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Joined: Fri Aug 12, 2022 12:23 pm

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Agent Smith »

Nokalan was here
I sense, my dear
The lingering fear
Nokalan was here

Batalan was here
Joy and cheer
We're freer
Batalan was here

Dokatan was here
Here, there, same beer
No change, no, not a veer
Dokatan was here
Alexiev
Posts: 296
Joined: Wed Sep 13, 2023 12:32 am

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Alexiev »

Star light, star bright,
First in war, first in
Wish, may, hearts, tonight.
Dubious
Posts: 4000
Joined: Tue May 19, 2015 7:40 am

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Dubious »

Pray, where is the poetry here?
I sense it neither far or near!
To be it must have a degree of sense
Without, what remains is only nonsense.
Walker
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Joined: Thu Nov 05, 2015 12:00 am

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Walker »

Candle Hat
- Billy Collins

In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates:
Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes,
Van Gogh stares out of a halo of swirling darkness,
Rembrant looks relieved as if he were taking a breather
from painting The Blinding of Sampson.

But in this one Goya stands well back from the mirror
and is seen posed in the clutter of his studio
addressing a canvas tilted back on a tall easel.
He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.

You can only wonder what it would be like
to be wearing such a chandelier on your head
as if you were a walking dining room or concert hall.
But once you see this hat there is no need to read
any biography of Goya or to memorize his dates.

To understand Goya you only have to imagine him
lighting the candles one by one, then placing
the hat on his head, ready for a night of work.
Imagine him surprising his wife with his new invention,
the laughing like a birthday cake when she saw the glow.

Imagine him flickering through the rooms of his house
with all the shadows flying across the walls.
Imagine a lost traveler knocking on his door
one dark night in the hill country of Spain.
"Come in, " he would say, "I was just painting myself,"
as he stood in the doorway holding up the wand of a brush,
illuminated in the blaze of his famous candle hat.
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Dontaskme
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Re: Poetry here.

Post by Dontaskme »

("I lost my way, I forgot ...") from "Book of Mercy"

I lost my way, I forgot to call on your name. The raw heart beat against the world, and the tears were for my lost victory. But you are here. You have always been here. The world is all forgetting, and the heart is a rage of directions, but your name unifies the heart, and the world is lifted into its place. Blessed is the one who waits in the traveller's heart for his turning.
Alexiev
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Joined: Wed Sep 13, 2023 12:32 am

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Alexiev »

A Christmas poem by G.K Chesterton:
The House of Christmas

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay on their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost - how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wives' tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.
Merry Christmas
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Dontaskme
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Re: Poetry here.

Post by Dontaskme »

Alexiev wrote: Sat Dec 23, 2023 5:25 pm
Merry Christmas
Jesus Christ.
Is it that time of year when U get pissed on Y(our) own spirit again.
U really do adore Y(our) elves don't U
So drunk on the spirit of Love
Sorry to piss U all off at this time of year
I'm so pissed right now. That's who I am
just completely pissed and drunk on my own spirit.
Alexiev
Posts: 296
Joined: Wed Sep 13, 2023 12:32 am

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Alexiev »

Dontaskme wrote: Sun Dec 24, 2023 9:32 am
Alexiev wrote: Sat Dec 23, 2023 5:25 pm
Merry Christmas
Jesus Christ.
Is it that time of year when U get pissed on Y(our) own spirit again.
U really do adore Y(our) elves don't U
So drunk on the spirit of Love
Sorry to piss U all off at this time of year
I'm so pissed right now. That's who I am
just completely pissed and drunk on my own spirit.
I'm an agnostic (an atheist, for all practical purposes). When atheists act like bigots, it upsets me. It reflects badly on me an on my belief system. I'm sure intelligent Christians object to some of the sillier Fundamentalists, too. I feel sorry for you, Don't. You are a pathetic creature, incapable of joy or kindness. How dull your life must be. Worse, though, is that because you are so joyless, you appear driven to try (unsuccessfully) to rob others of their joy. It won't work on me. Merry Christmas.
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Dontaskme
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Location: Nowhere

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Dontaskme »

Alexiev wrote: Sun Dec 24, 2023 5:45 pm
Dontaskme wrote: Sun Dec 24, 2023 9:32 am
Alexiev wrote: Sat Dec 23, 2023 5:25 pm
Merry Christmas
Jesus Christ.
Is it that time of year when U get pissed on Y(our) own spirit again.
U really do adore Y(our) elves don't U
So drunk on the spirit of Love
Sorry to piss U all off at this time of year
I'm so pissed right now. That's who I am
just completely pissed and drunk on my own spirit.


I'm an agnostic (an atheist, for all practical purposes). When atheists act like bigots, it upsets me. It reflects badly on me an on my belief system. I'm sure intelligent Christians object to some of the sillier Fundamentalists, too. I feel sorry for you, Don't. You are a pathetic creature, incapable of joy or kindness. How dull your life must be. Worse, though, is that because you are so joyless, you appear driven to try (unsuccessfully) to rob others of their joy. It won't work on me. Merry Christmas.
ROTFLMAO

😂
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O-Lucifer
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Re: Poetry here.

Post by O-Lucifer »

Ode on a Grecian Urn (John Keats)

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
Impenitent
Posts: 4330
Joined: Wed Feb 10, 2010 2:04 pm

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Impenitent »

"By the lake of Gitcheegoomy
Shot a squirrel and ate it " Colin Mochrie

-Imp
Walker
Posts: 14280
Joined: Thu Nov 05, 2015 12:00 am

Re: Poetry here.

Post by Walker »

Speech: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
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