Thank you for exposing me to him. I am an illiterate fool beyond Robert Burns or "Rose are Red" when it comes to poetry.
Poetry thread
- Thread starter oc_in_fw
- Start date
You're welcome! If you've never seen Denzel Washington's film adaptation of Wilson's play Fences you should definitely check that out. Absolutely brilliant.
I not only have not seen it, I have not even heard of it, sadly. I will attempt to rectify the matter.
Fuzzy-Wuzzy
We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.
We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.
'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!
'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air —
You big black boundin' beggar — for you broke a British square!
--Rudyard Kipling
We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.
We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.
'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!
'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air —
You big black boundin' beggar — for you broke a British square!
--Rudyard Kipling
Well B&B Poetry lovers, today May 7th is the birthday of Robert Browning. If your not familiar with the story of his courtship of Elizabeth Barrett you should learn about it, quite the romance. Of course if your like me there's a good chance you first learned about this Victorian poet thanks to Stephen King's Dark Tower series.
Here's one of his I like....
Among the Rocks
BY ROBERT BROWNING
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
Here's one of his I like....
Among the Rocks
BY ROBERT BROWNING
Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!
Good morning B&B Poetry aficionados. I lifted this straight from Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac entry for today May 20th.
It was on May 20, 1609, that the publisher Thomas Thorpe made an entry in the Stationer's Register that said: Entred for his copie under the handes of master Wilson and master Lownes Wardenes a booke called Shakespeares sonnettes (books by this author), and soon after (we don't know the exact date) Shakespeare's sonnets were published. Many people think that Thorpe published them without Shakespeare's consent.
The 1609 collection contained 154 sonnets, only two of which had been published before. Shakespeare addresses some to a beautiful young man whom he calls "fair youth," and others to "a dark lady."
Shakespeare's sonnets are considered some of the greatest love poems ever written, with such lines as, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?/ Thou art more lovely and more temperate," and "Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments; love is not love/Which alters when it alteration finds,/Or bends with the remover to remove," and "For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings/That then I scorn to change my state with kings."
Sonnet 91
by William Shakespeare
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force;
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.
It was on May 20, 1609, that the publisher Thomas Thorpe made an entry in the Stationer's Register that said: Entred for his copie under the handes of master Wilson and master Lownes Wardenes a booke called Shakespeares sonnettes (books by this author), and soon after (we don't know the exact date) Shakespeare's sonnets were published. Many people think that Thorpe published them without Shakespeare's consent.
The 1609 collection contained 154 sonnets, only two of which had been published before. Shakespeare addresses some to a beautiful young man whom he calls "fair youth," and others to "a dark lady."
Shakespeare's sonnets are considered some of the greatest love poems ever written, with such lines as, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?/ Thou art more lovely and more temperate," and "Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments; love is not love/Which alters when it alteration finds,/Or bends with the remover to remove," and "For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings/That then I scorn to change my state with kings."
Sonnet 91
by William Shakespeare
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force;
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.
- Thread starter
- #167
Seemed like the right time for this:
In Waters Deep by Eileen Mahoney
In ocean wastes no poppies blow,
No crosses stand in ordered row,
There young hearts sleep… beneath the wave…
The spirited, the good, the brave,
But stars a constant vigil keep,
For them who lie beneath the deep.
‘Tis true you cannot kneel in prayer
On certain spot and think. “He’s there.”
But you can to the ocean go…
See whitecaps marching row on row;
Know one for him will always ride…
In and out… with every tide.
And when your span of life is passed,
He’ll meet you at the “Captain’s Mast.”
And they who mourn on distant shore
For sailors who’ll come home no more,
Can dry their tears and pray for these
Who rest beneath the heaving seas…
For stars that shine and winds that blow
And whitecaps marching row on row.
And they can never lonely be
For when they lived… they chose the sea.
In Waters Deep by Eileen Mahoney
In ocean wastes no poppies blow,
No crosses stand in ordered row,
There young hearts sleep… beneath the wave…
The spirited, the good, the brave,
But stars a constant vigil keep,
For them who lie beneath the deep.
‘Tis true you cannot kneel in prayer
On certain spot and think. “He’s there.”
But you can to the ocean go…
See whitecaps marching row on row;
Know one for him will always ride…
In and out… with every tide.
And when your span of life is passed,
He’ll meet you at the “Captain’s Mast.”
And they who mourn on distant shore
For sailors who’ll come home no more,
Can dry their tears and pray for these
Who rest beneath the heaving seas…
For stars that shine and winds that blow
And whitecaps marching row on row.
And they can never lonely be
For when they lived… they chose the sea.
- Thread starter
- #168
That was a good movie.
It's funny you should bring up Robert Browning. I've loved his monologues, but I have always put off tackling The Ring and the Book. Until this week. It's huge: my edition is 707 pp. It is an epic retelling of a Roman murder story of 1698. I've gotten through about half of the first of 12 books in a few days, and I am loving it. Complicated and with somewhat twisted usage, some notes are necessary, but I am delighted to be reading it at last.
Owen Bawn
Garden party cupcake scented
On this date in 1798 the British army and their local yeoman troops attacked and slaughtered the Irish rebels ('Croppies') who had established themselves atop Vinegar Hill in the town of Enniscorthy, County Wexford. Seamus Heaney's poem, 'Requiem for the Croppies.'
I Wish by Briege Duffaud
I wish I’d gone to Iceland
with Auden and MacNeice
to feed my brain on silence
or talk of war and peace.
I wish I’d seen Craiglockhart
under a Scottish Moon
and talked about the slaughter
with Owen and Sassoon.
But I was a Belfast student
with Heaney and his clan
I never got to talk at all -
one had to be a man.
I wish I’d gone to Iceland
with Auden and MacNeice
to feed my brain on silence
or talk of war and peace.
I wish I’d seen Craiglockhart
under a Scottish Moon
and talked about the slaughter
with Owen and Sassoon.
But I was a Belfast student
with Heaney and his clan
I never got to talk at all -
one had to be a man.
With the great Irish poets represented, I thought I'd post something by the great Scotsman, Ewan McTeagle:
Can I have 50 pounds to mend the shed?
I'm right on my uppers.
I can pay you back when this postal order comes
From Australia.
Honestly.
Hope the bladder trouble's getting better.
Love, Ewan."
Can I have 50 pounds to mend the shed?
I'm right on my uppers.
I can pay you back when this postal order comes
From Australia.
Honestly.
Hope the bladder trouble's getting better.
Love, Ewan."
Came across a really good one today.
Who doesn't miss winter's best constellation, Orion? I always do.
But for early risers ... he's already back.
Ghost of the shimmering summer dawn
A poem by Sophia C. Prentice
Across the winter sky by night
Orion proudly strides;
The rising moon in silver state
His splendor scarcely hides;
His jeweled belt, his glittering sword,
In brilliancy combine,
Great Sirius and Procyon,
His loyal followers shine,
The Book of books records his name,
Of him the poets write;
From nursery windows, children’s eyes
Greet him with gay delight.
The soft breeze stirs to greet the dawn,
The summer stars grow dim,
When lo, a mystic shape appears
Above the Ocean’s rim.
The form so faintly shining there
No royalty can boast,
Yet with a thrill my heart proclaims,
‘It is Orion’s ghost!”
Alone and pale he trembles there
A moment and is gone,
While radiant couriers of the sun
Announce the coming morn.
Orion, greatest of the tribe
That pace the starry heights.
Ghost of the shimmering summer dawn,
King of the winter nights!
AA
Who doesn't miss winter's best constellation, Orion? I always do.
But for early risers ... he's already back.
Ghost of the shimmering summer dawn
A poem by Sophia C. Prentice
Across the winter sky by night
Orion proudly strides;
The rising moon in silver state
His splendor scarcely hides;
His jeweled belt, his glittering sword,
In brilliancy combine,
Great Sirius and Procyon,
His loyal followers shine,
The Book of books records his name,
Of him the poets write;
From nursery windows, children’s eyes
Greet him with gay delight.
The soft breeze stirs to greet the dawn,
The summer stars grow dim,
When lo, a mystic shape appears
Above the Ocean’s rim.
The form so faintly shining there
No royalty can boast,
Yet with a thrill my heart proclaims,
‘It is Orion’s ghost!”
Alone and pale he trembles there
A moment and is gone,
While radiant couriers of the sun
Announce the coming morn.
Orion, greatest of the tribe
That pace the starry heights.
Ghost of the shimmering summer dawn,
King of the winter nights!
AA
I like the old poetry, when skills existed. Rhythm, Metre, Rhyme.
Reminiscence Anne Brontë
Yes, thou art gone! and never more,
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;
But I may pass the old church door,
And pace the floor that covers thee.
May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that, frozen, lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more,
’Tis still a comfort to have seen;
And though thy transient life is o’er,
’Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;
To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form so angel fair,
United to a heart like thine,
Has gladdened once our humble sphere
Reminiscence Anne Brontë
Yes, thou art gone! and never more,
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;
But I may pass the old church door,
And pace the floor that covers thee.
May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that, frozen, lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more,
’Tis still a comfort to have seen;
And though thy transient life is o’er,
’Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;
To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form so angel fair,
United to a heart like thine,
Has gladdened once our humble sphere
And here is one of my own, written as a classical sonnet.
I spend a lot of time writing songs and poetry.
Impending Doom
I still remember, many years ago
The fear of all mankind was acid rain
It had us going for a while or so
But then we never heard of it again
Before that there was fear of nuclear war
And saying ban the bomb seemed oh so cool
These doom threats fade to be replaced by more
But constant worry plays us for a fool
And Global Warming seems so yesterday
Because we see an ice age on the way
It really is amazing we're still here
In spite of all the never-ending fear
The longer that you live the more you'll see
There'll always be a new catastrophe
I spend a lot of time writing songs and poetry.
Impending Doom
I still remember, many years ago
The fear of all mankind was acid rain
It had us going for a while or so
But then we never heard of it again
Before that there was fear of nuclear war
And saying ban the bomb seemed oh so cool
These doom threats fade to be replaced by more
But constant worry plays us for a fool
And Global Warming seems so yesterday
Because we see an ice age on the way
It really is amazing we're still here
In spite of all the never-ending fear
The longer that you live the more you'll see
There'll always be a new catastrophe
I suppose it depends on timelines, things new or old, and whether a rhyme is straight or slant
I know this poem will not suffice, nor I
the skill to make it show how blank a poem
can be without a rhyme to let the meter flow.
There is a kind of poetry,
That rhymes and rhythms for all to see,
With skills as evident as my ear
And lovely to recite and hear.
Any poetic form takes skill
with personal preference for the taking
shaking each to their core
and fill a heart that's aching
The force of words that free our souls
Without a rhyme in sight
or
Drawing a blank, a skill so old
The Psalms did sing, you know
Without a meter or rhyme
The Bible told me so.
------
All mistakes mine, I barely edited because it is doggrel anyway.
Any type of poetry, from metered rhyme to free verse and blank verse and whatever else is out there,
Has skill involved... and it is not so much 'new' and 'old'
There are modern poets that write in metered verse
And blank verse can be found in the Psalms, as the poem says.
There are very poor examples and unskilled works, in any of the mediums
(that by the way, would include mine)
Love it. I'll have to check out more of him. Thanks.
If you go to Amazon and search "Poetry" then you'll find drivel. Prose with carriage returns anywhere. Use the Look Inside feature.
Most of it is not even good prose.
Go to Allpoetry site and find stuff which is put forward as poetry, but is not. Go to Lineofpoetry and find the same thing.
Art has been debased.
I had no idea there was a poetry thread. Just when I thought I was getting away from the forums, they pull me back in.
