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Found 13 results

  1. Rescued thread Adrian 15th December 2005 09:28 AM Haiku I just don't get haiku. I can read some and appreciate the fact that the writer has followed the lines / syllables rules and thus has written a haiku on "Global Warming" or "My Settee" and I am always left cold. I flicked through a book at lunch-time today, and not one of them was memorable. As an intellectual exercise I suppose it does no harm, but I have not yet learnt their appeal. All replies to this thread must contain a haiku. And bonus points if your response is just a haiku. The BGO crowd Are very wise and knowing Post a reply now Hilary 15th December 2005 09:34 AM I did them at school I did not get the point then I do not now still Adrian 15th December 2005 09:45 AM I tried this one in my spit-and-sawdust local one time: A Hi-Q haiku And there is the place That we now must visit Those stingers do work Might as well have spoke Martian Ade 17th December 2005 10:28 AM OK, I'm going to have a go at defending the form. The feeling of the haiku, for me, links back to a kind of Zen moment of simplicity and meditation. The attempt to capture a moment, atmosphere or feeling in as few words as possible is admirable and often very impressive. It makes a change from many long-winded and verbose poems and really is about capturing something almost intangible. The poet Ezra Pound was very interested in the form and he was involved in a poetic movement that attempted to cut down all unnecessary detail and focus on a key image - he was fascinated by Japanese poetry. My favourite poem by Pound in this form is: IN A STATION OF THE METRO The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet black bough. How beautiful is that? Sorry if this sounds pretentious. Perhaps the haiku has been damaged by the fact that it has become the standard introduction to poetry for children. I don't think that does justice to the utter power of its simplicity. I think it should be the other way round - only absolutely accomplished poets like Pound can ever hope to use the form with skill.
  2. Just seen this press release: T S Eliot Prize Shortlist Announcement The Shortlist for the T S Eliot Prize 2005 has been announced and can be found on the Poetry Book Society website at http://www.poetrybooks.co.uk. Don't know if it is of interest, but thought I'd tell you anyways!
  3. I read this somewhere in the past: <BLOCKQUOTE>May you have food and raiment, A soft pillow for your head, May you be forty years in heaven Before the devil knows you're dead.</BLOCKQUOTE> and this one: <BLOCKQUOTE>You came into the world naked and bare Went through the world with trouble and care You'll exit the world for who knows where But if you're a thoroughbred here, you're a thoroughbred there.</BLOCKQUOTE> And I'm guessing this one originated in Ireland: <BLOCKQUOTE>Go neirigh an bothar leat, go mbeidh an gaoth choiche sa droim agat, is go mbeidh tu thuas ar neamh leath-uair roimh is eol don diabhal go bhuil tu marbh</BLOCKQUOTE> It had this translation: <BLOCKQUOTE>May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be at your back and may you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.</BLOCKQUOTE> I like all of these are they all poetic and, especially, short. Anybody else have any favourites? [Edited to indent the quotes] [This seemed to be the best forum for this topic, feel free to move it if there's somewhere better]
  4. Hi I haven't read much poetry since school but ws thinking of getting a compilation type book to dip into occasionally when the urge came along. can anyone recommend anything reasonable and not too complex ??? Thanks Shazzer
  5. Many moons ago (in June, I think) we started discussing two poems selected by Claire and had, in my humble opinion, some good exchanges of views. Since then, we've tried to keep it going and had some discussion, but it seems to have petered out. Part of the problem, perhaps, is not having an obvious leader?? And the summer didn't help. I'd love for someone to start this again and perhaps coordinate our discussions - what about meg or elfstar who seem to be regulars on this section? Or could Claire be tempted back? Perhaps we could get more people involved in the discussions? Should we give longer for discussions? Or should it only be one poem? I'm pretty desperate for some good discussions and love the way that we disagree, challenge, question etc. Poetry matters and I think we should be doing more with it. What do others think?
  6. If you enjoy poetry and needlework, you might be interested in this project by the charity 'Poems in the Waiting Room', and The National Needlework Archive.
  7. Two poems on the theme of love moving on. Brooke's concentrating on the Jealousy he feels and the Wyatt being rather more bewildered. I hope these interest you all, the Wyatt is a particular favourite of mine,especially interesting regarding the background and I think the Brooke is a fascinating contrast to his better known war poetry. Jealousy Rupert Brooke WHEN I see you, who were so wise and cool, Gazing with silly sickness on that fool You’ve given your love to, your adoring hands Touch his so intimately that each understands, I know, most hidden things; and when I know Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow Of his red lips, and that the empty grace Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face, Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love, That you have given him every touch and move, Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life, —Oh! then I know I’m waiting, lover-wife, For the great time when love is at a close, And all its fruit’s to watch the thickening nose And sweaty neck and dulling face and eye, That are yours, and you, most surely, till you die! Day after day you’ll sit with him and note The greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat; As prettiness turns to pomp, and strength to fat, And love, love, love to habit! And after that, When all that’s fine in man is at an end, And you, that loved young life and clean, must tend A foul sick fumbling dribbling body and old, When his rare lips hang flabby and can’t hold Slobber, and you’re enduring that worst thing, Senility’s queasy furtive love-making, And searching those dear eyes for human meaning, Propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning A scrap that life’s flung by, and love’s forgotten,— Then you’ll be tired; and passion dead and rotten; And he’ll be dirty, dirty! O little and free And lightfoot, that the poor heart cries to see, That’s how I’ll see your man and you!— But you —Oh, when that time comes, you’ll be dirty too! They Flee From Me Thomas Wyatt They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; And therewithal sweetly did me kiss And softly said, "dear heart, how like you this?" It was no dream: I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved.
  8. Here's the next poetry comparison. Sorry these are both a bit grim (I thought of the Hardy after Seraphina's poems and the Larkin naturally followed), but I thought they made an interesting pair and hope you do too. The Convergence of the Twain by Thomas Hardy (lines on the loss of the Titanic) I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls - grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. IV Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind. V Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: 'What does this vaingloriousness down here?' VI Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything VII Prepared a sinister mate For her - so gaily great - A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate. VIII And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. IX Alien they seemed to be No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history, X Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event. XI Till the Spinner of the Years Said 'Now!' And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres. The Explosion by Philip Larkin On the day of the explosion Shadows pointed towards the pithead: In the sun the slagheap slept. Down the lane came men in pitboots Coughing oath-edged talk and pipe-smoke Shouldering off the freshened silence. One chased after rabbits: lost them; Came back with a nest of lark's eggs; Showed them; lodged them in the grasses. So they passed in beards and moleskins, Fathers, brothers, nicknames, laughter, Through the tall gates standing open. At noon, there came a tremor; cows Stopped chewing for a second; sun, Scarfed as in a heat-haze, dimmed. The dead go on before us, they Are sitting in God's house in comfort, We shall see them face to face - Plain as lettering in the chapels It was said, and for a second Wives saw men of the explosion Larger than in life they managed - Gold as on a coin, or walking Somehow from the sun towards them, One showing the eggs unbroken.
  9. Ok here are my choices (it's unexpectedly nervewracking choosing poems for other people to read!!): Not Waving but Drowning Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning. Stevie Smith Musee des Beaux Arts About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters; how well, they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on. Auden These are both modern poems, I know we had been taking one old one and one new one and looking at them, but I just had to choose these. I was reading my poetry anthology and these poems are only a few pages apart. I read the Stevie Smith one first, and it raised a lot of questions in my mind about human suffering, about loneliness and about why in the modern world we find it so hard to reach out and make connections with other people. I was still thinking about this when I read the Auden and it seemed to almost answer a lot of the questions I had. Everyone's got their own problems, their own life and that's ultimately more important to them than anything else. Some of the questions I had were: Is this a modern affliction? Do we find it harder in the modern world to make true friends and have people who truly know us and would notice if something went wrong? Is this because families are scattered around, people move about a lot more than they used to and it's hard to make true friendships? Are people less trusting with their emotions than they used to be? I also liked the drowning link between the speaker in Smith's poem and the Icarus in Auden's, although in Smith's poem the drowning takes on a different meaning. You don't have to be in water to feel as if you're drowning. What do you think is happening in the Smith poem? What is the tone of each poem? Is it accepting or condemning of the way humans are in relation to each other? Or neither perhaps, is it something else? I don't mean you have to answer these questions particularly but hopefully they should give you some insight into the way I'm interpreting them and why I've chosen them to go together. Anyway, I'll leave it here for now as I don't want to lead the discussion too much straight away, I'd like to hear what other people think first without having my views foisted on you! (PS - choosing these poems is not a cry for help! I showed them to my friend and she looked at me strangely and asked 'is everything ok?'!! )
  10. I apologise because I have not had as much time as I thought to find these poems. However here they are separated by some 300 years one by Shakespeare and one by Elaine Feinstein who was born in 1930. I hope you enjoy them. Sonnet LXXIII. “That time of year thou mayst in me behold” THAT time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day 5 As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 10 As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Getting older The first surprise: I like it. Whatever happens now, some things that used to terrify have not. I didn’t die young, for instance. Or lose my only love. My three children never had to run away from anyone. Don’t tell me this gratitude is complacent. We all approach the edge of the same darkness which for me is silence. Knowing as much sharpens my delight in January freesia, hot coffee, winter sunlight. So we say as we lie close on some gentle occasion: every day won from such darkness is a celebration.
  11. I only dabble a bit in reading poetry. I don't think I'm quite up to a detailed discussion of a specific book - but I'd love to know what other people's favourite poems and poets are, and a bit about why you like them. Who knows, you might get me started on something I wouldn't otherwise have tried - that would be cool!
  12. Listening to the radio with half an ear this morning I heard part of an interview with a senior member of the nursing profession (Mavis something?) who has recently received an MBE. It seems that she was moved to come to the UK from the West Indies by a desire to see the churchyard of Gray's 'Elegy", and to see daffodils 'Tossing their heads in sprightly dance'. It caused me to wonder what influence a particular poem might have exerted on any of us in our choices, big or small. (e.g. Anyone out there wearing purple yet?)
  13. I'm looking forward to ensuing discussions, disections and diversions! A question for my fellow poeteers: who's the poet you've most enjoyed discovering this year? My answer would be Gerard Manley Hopkins, far and away. I love his spirituality and his use of words. (Coffee)Bron
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