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15-01-2010, 10:42   #16
Notorious
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I've always liked this poem since I did it for my Leaving Cert back in the day, especially the last two stanzas. Supposedly Dickinson has never gotten drunk.

Emily Dickinson

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!
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15-01-2010, 17:41   #17
 
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The back story to Antarctica is interesting. By the time of the scene the poem describes 4 of the 5 British men who had reached the South Pole were left. Oates had gotten a serious injury to one of his legs and had to be carried on sleigh by the others. They wouldn't leave him behind even though he was slowing them up. So in the middle of the night he got up and left the tent. He probably died within an hour.

The other 3 continued their trek towards the camp where the rest of the crew were based. The camp and the South Pole were something like 900 miles apart. They got within a paltry 11 miles of the camp before getting stuck in a blizzard and freezing to death. Their bodies were only found a few months later after the winter had ended.

The whole Tom Crean story is worth consideration! The book comes recommended, as does the one man monologue stage show which is playing at the Everyman Theatre Cork at the moment.
Afaik, new evidence has questioned whether there was a blizzard or not. Apparently Scott was too weak to continue and the two remaining men refused to leave him, and lied to Scott about the weather so he wouldn't order them to leave. Brave guys, whatever the truth.
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15-01-2010, 20:17   #18
 
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Predictable, but what the hell.

WHERE dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water rats; There we've hid our faery vats, Full of berrys And of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand. For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car, In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed - He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal chest For he comes the human child To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand From a world more full of weeping than he can understand
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15-01-2010, 20:25   #19
 
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Think this is called the parable of the old man and the young by Wilfred Owen.

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold.
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
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18-01-2010, 10:30   #20
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The Planters Daughter
When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the
Sunday In every week.
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18-01-2010, 15:42   #21
 
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Quote:
Originally Posted by fontinalis View Post
Think this is called the parable of the old man and the young by Wilfred Owen.

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold.
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
I haven't ever seen that poem before. It's amazing.
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18-01-2010, 17:25   #22
Eliot Rosewater
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Nice poem Quality! I recognized it from a TV ad, either alcohol or firelighters I think. Its interesting when poetry is used as the basis for an ad. Consider the G.A.A. one earlier this year:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

The irony is that that poem If was written by Rudyard Kipling, who was a devout imperialist and certainly would have disagreed with the political aspect of the G.A.A.

If, by Rudyard Kipling
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19-01-2010, 17:47   #23
 
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Originally Posted by Lizzykins View Post
I haven't ever seen that poem before. It's amazing.
Powerful isn't it.
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20-01-2010, 18:06   #24
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21-01-2010, 10:38   #25
Denerick
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Heany comes across as elementary to me. This is not an insult. I think he see's the majestical in commonplace, domestic situations.
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22-01-2010, 20:52   #26
 
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Cause And Effect by Charles Bukowski

The best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
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25-01-2010, 13:54   #27
mackthefinger
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Have always like this one.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
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26-01-2010, 12:03   #28
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"A Poison Tree" by William Blake

Quote:
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree
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26-01-2010, 17:16   #29
 
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I am not incredibly familiar with Blake but this one is a gem. It celebrates in sheer delight, trust in oneself and in nature to overcome 'thy foe'. Thanks for posting it, gonna read more of Blake's poems..

Last edited by corriblight; 26-01-2010 at 20:08.
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27-01-2010, 15:40   #30
liogairmhordain
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A Pink Wool Knitted Dress

In your pink wool knitted dress
Before anything had smudged anything
You stood at the altar. Bloomsday.
Rain—so that a just-bought umbrella
Was the only furnishing about me
Newer than three years inured.
My tie—sole, drab, veteran RAF black—
Was the used-up symbol of a tie.
My cord jacket—thrice-dyed black, exhausted,
Just hanging onto itself.
I was a post-war, utility son-in-law!
Not quite the Frog Prince. Maybe the Swineherd
Stealing this daughter’s pedigree dreams
From under her watchtowered searchlit future.
No ceremony could conscript me
Out of my uniform. I wore my whole wardrobe—
Except for the odd, spare, identical item.
My wedding, like Nature, wanted to hide.
However—if we were going to be married
It had better be Westminster Abbey. Why not?
The Dean told us why not. That is how
I learned that I had a Parish Church.
St George of the Chimney Sweeps.
So we squeezed into marriage finally.
Your mother, brave even in this
US Foreign Affairs gamble,
Acted all bridesmaids and all guests,
Even—magnanimity—represented
My family
Who had heard nothing about it.
I had invited only their ancestors.
I had not even confided my theft of you
To a closest friend. For Best Man—my squire
To hold the meanwhile rings—
We requisitioned the sexton. Twist of the outrage:
He was packing children into a bus,
Taking them to the Zoo—in that downpour!
All the prison animals had to be patient
While we married.
You were transfigured.
So slender and new and naked,
A nodding spray of wet lilac.
You shook, you sobbed with joy, you were ocean depth
Brimming with God.
You said you saw the heavens open
And how riches, ready to drop upon us.
Levitated beside you, I stood subjected
To a strange tense: the spellbound future.
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
And in your eye-pupils—great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.

---- Ted Hughes
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