The Return of Talking Time

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  #1  
Old 08-31-2008, 11:02 PM
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Healy Healy is offline
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Default Your favorite poem?

So hey! What's your favorite poem, Talking Tyrants? It can be any poem you choose, whether it's by Shel Silverstein or John Keats or whatever.

Mine, at the moment, happens to be this little ditty:
Quote:
Originally Posted by "Ballade of a Suicide" by G. K. Chesterton
The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours--on the wall--
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay--
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall--
I see a little cloud all pink and grey--
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call--
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way--
I never read the works of Juvenal--
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational--
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small--
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

ENVOI
Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself to-day.
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  #2  
Old 08-31-2008, 11:11 PM
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My usual answer is "she being Brand" by e.e. cummings. But I've never thought about it all that hard. I just remember reading it first when I was not old enough to understand it, and then one day laughing a lot when it dawned on me.

Quote:
she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)
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  #3  
Old 08-31-2008, 11:19 PM
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Quote:
The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.




Langston Hughes.
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  #4  
Old 08-31-2008, 11:39 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Pier Paolo Pasolini
In a city, Trieste or Udine,
along the linden boulevard,
when in spring
the leaves change color,
I'll drop dead
under the ardent sun,
blond and tall,
and I'll close my eyes,
leaving the sky to its splendor.


Under a warm green linden
I'll fall into my death's darkness,
scattering linden and sun.
The beautiful boys
will run in the light
which I've just lost,
flying from school
with curls on their brows
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  #5  
Old 09-01-2008, 12:28 AM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Kishi View Post
Langston Hughes.
Yes.

Pick any of his poems and that's my choice.
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  #6  
Old 09-01-2008, 06:05 AM
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Quote:
The Sun Wields Mercy by Charles Bukowski

and the sun wields mercy
but like a jet torch carried to high,
and the jets whip across its sight
and rockets leap like toads,
and the boys get out the maps
and pin-cushion the moon,
old green cheese,
no life there but too much on earth:
our unwashed India boys
crossing their legs,playing pipes,
starving with sucked in bellies,
watching the snakes volute
like beautiful women in the hungry air;
the rockets leap,
the rockets leap like hares,
clearing clump and dog
replacing out-dated bullets;
the Chinese still carve
in jade,quietly stuffing rice
into their hunger, a hunger
a thousand years old,
their muddy rivers moving with fire
and song, barges, houseboats
pushed by drifting poles
of waiting without wanting;
in Turkey they face the East
on their carpets
praying to a purple god
who smokes and laughs
and sticks fingers in their eyes
blinding them, as gods will do;
but the rockets are ready: peace is no longer,
for some reason,precious;
madness drifts like lily pads
on a pond circling senselessly;
the painters paint dipping
their reds and greens and yellows,
poets rhyme their loneliness,
musicians starve as always
and the novelists miss the mark,
but not the pelican, the gull;
pelicans dip and dive, rise,
shaking shocked half-dead
radioactive fish from their beaks;
indeed, indeed, the waters wash
the rocks with slime; and on wall st.
the market staggers like a lost drunk
looking for his key; ah,
this will be a good one, by God:
it will take us back to the
sabre-teeth, the winged monkey
scrabbling in pits over bits
of helmet, instrument and glass;
a lightning crashes across
the window and in a million rooms
lovers lie entwined and lost
and sick as peace;
the sky still breaks red and orange for the
painters-and for the lovers,
flowers open as they always have
opened but covered with thin dust
of rocket fuel and mushrooms,
poison mushrooms; it's a bad time,
a dog-sick time-curtain
act 3, standing room only,
SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT again,
by god,by somebody and something,
by rockets and generals and
leaders, by poets , doctors, comedians,
by manufacturers of soup
and biscuits, Janus-faced hucksters
of their own indexterity;
I can now see the coal-slick
contaminated fields, a snail or 2,
bile, obsidian, a fish or 3
in the shallows, an obloquy of our
source and our sight.....
has this happened before? is history
a circle that catches itself by the tail,
a dream, a nightmare,
a general's dream, a presidents dream,
a dictators dream...
can't we awaken?
or are the forces of life greater than we are?
can't we awaken? must we forever,
dear friends, die in our sleep?
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  #7  
Old 09-01-2008, 06:25 AM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Young Jeezy

That's How Ya Feel

Red paint, inside's peanut butter (peanut butter)
They seeing me, but I don't see them suckers (see them suckers)
I ain't gon lie, man my shit tight (tight)
Hoes jocking, got em stopping like a red light (ay, yeeeeeeah)
Wake me up, this a sick dream (what)
Got the Alpine with the flat screen (that's right)
These n----- ain't aware mayne (ware mayne)
12's in the trunk sounding like an airplane (ay, ay, jeah)
A 757 jet (jet)
He ain't know? You dealing with a fucking vet (yeeeeeah)
n----- cold like banana splits (jeah)
That's why I cop the AR with banana clips (ay, ay)
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  #8  
Old 09-01-2008, 06:38 AM
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The Illiad's pretty funky.
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  #9  
Old 09-01-2008, 07:09 AM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Stephen Crane
A spirit sped
Through spaces of night;
And as he sped, he called,
"God! God!"
He went through valleys
Of black death-slime,
Ever calling,
"God! God!"
Their echoes
From crevice and cavern
Mocked him:
"God! God! God!"
Fleetly into the plains of space
He went, ever calling,
"God! God!"
Eventually, then, he screamed,
Mad in denial,
"Ah, there is no God!"
A swift hand,
A sword from the sky,
Smote him,
And he was dead.
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  #10  
Old 09-01-2008, 07:43 AM
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Quote:
He's dead
the dog won't have to
sleep on his potatoes
any more to keep them
from freezing

he's dead
the old bastard -
he's a bastard because

there's nothing
legitimate in him any
more
he's dead
he's sick-dead

he's
a godforsaken curio
without
any breath in it

he's nothing at all
he's dead
shrunken up to skin

Put his head on
one chair and his
feet on another and
he'll lie there
like an acrobat -

Love's beaten. He
beat it. That's why
he's insufferable -

because
he's here needing a
shave and making love
an inside howl
of anguish and defeat -

he's come out of the man
and he's let
the man go -
the liar

Dead
his eyes
rolled up out of
the light - a mockery

which
love cannot touch -

just bury it
and hide its face
for shame.
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  #11  
Old 09-02-2008, 12:07 PM
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Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
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  #12  
Old 09-02-2008, 12:10 PM
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i'd post the mahabharata, but it's 74,000 verses in sanskrit.
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  #13  
Old 09-02-2008, 01:34 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Shel Silverstein
my beard grows down to my toes
i never wears no clothes
i wraps my hair
around my bare
and down the road i goes
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  #14  
Old 09-02-2008, 01:36 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by SDMX View Post
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
You beat me to it.
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  #15  
Old 09-02-2008, 03:25 PM
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Poems are for girls. Pshh. Next you guys will be telling me you have feelings.
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  #16  
Old 09-02-2008, 07:15 PM
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I'd say the Odyssey. I also love the Illiad and Paradise Lost.

For more modern shorter poetry I'd say The Raven by Poe.
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  #17  
Old 09-02-2008, 07:47 PM
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Yeah, I am a huge poetry fan, but when I tried to start up a discussion over a year ago I just got some dirty limmericks and rap lyrics in response. I'm glad this is going a bit better!

Here's one by one of my two longtime favorites,

An Anniversary by Wendell Berry

What we have been becomes
The country where we are.
Spring goes, summer comes,
And in the heat, as one year
Or a thousand years before,
The fields and woods prepare
The burden of their seed
Out of time's wound, the old
Richness of the fall. Their deed
Is renewal. In the household
Of the woods the past
Is always healing in the light,
The high shiftings of the air.
It stands upon it's yield
And thrives. Nothing is lost.
What yields,though in despair,
Opens and rises in the night.
Love binds us to this term
With its yes that is crying
In our marrow to confirm
Life that only lives by dying.
Lovers live by the moon
Whose dark and light are one,
Changing without rest.
The root struts from the seed
In the earth's dark -- harvest
And feast at the edge of sleep.
Darkened, we are carried
Out of need, deep
In the country we have married.

5/29/79
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  #18  
Old 09-02-2008, 08:20 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Brickroad View Post
Shel Silverstein
This man gets it. This man right here.

Fun Fact: Before he published his own books, Shel Silverstein wrote for Playboy.
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  #19  
Old 09-03-2008, 12:53 AM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by JFink View Post
Fun Fact: Before he published his own books, Shel Silverstein wrote for Playboy.
Suddenly this makes perfect sense.
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  #20  
Old 04-25-2009, 12:02 PM
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Arise, thread, arise and do my bidding! Moo hoo wa ha ha!

...Anyway, I've been thinking about poetry for the past few days. I think my all-time favorite is probably still a poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca, "What's Real and What's Not", but right now the ones that have been bouncing around in my head for the past year or so have almost all been Kipling. Specifically, his Chant-Pagan:

Chant-Pagan
(english irregular, discharged)

Me that 'ave been what I've been -
Me that 'ave gone where I've gone -
Me that 'ave seen what I've seen -
'Ow can I ever take on
With awful old England again,
An' 'ouses both sides of the street,
And 'edges two sides of the lane,
And the parson an' gentry between,
An' touchin' my 'at when we meet -
Me that 'ave been what I've been?

Me that 'ave watched 'arf a world
'Eave up all shiny with dew,
Kopje on kop to the sun,
An' as soon as the mist let 'em through
Our 'elios winkin' like fun -
Three sides of a ninety-mile square,
Over valleys as big as a shire -
"Are ye there? Are ye there? Are ye there?"
An' then the blind drum of our fire . . .
An' I'm rollin' 'is lawns for the Squire,

Me!

Me that 'ave rode through the dark
Forty mile, often, on end,
Along the Ma'ollisberg Range,
With only the stars for my mark
An' only the night for my friend,
An' things runnin' off as you pass,
An' things jumpin' up in the grass,
An' the silence, the shine an' the size
Of the 'igh, unexpressible skies -
I am takin' some letters almost
As much as a mile to the post,
An' "mind you come back with the change!"

Me!

Me that saw Barberton took
When we dropped through the clouds on their 'ead,
An' they 'ove the guns over and fled -
Me that was through Di'mond I'll,
An' Pieters an' Springs an' Belfast -
From Dundee to Vereeniging all -
Me that stuck out to the last
(An' five bloomin' bars on my chest) -
I am doin' my Sunday-school best,
By the 'elp of the Squire an' 'is wife
(Not to mention the 'ousemaid an' cook),
To come in an' 'ands up an' be still,
An' honestly work for my bread,
My livin' in that state of life
To which it shall please God to call

Me!

Me that 'ave followed my trade
In the place where the Lightnin's are made;
"Twixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon -
Me that lay down an' got up
Three years with the sky for my roof -
That 'ave ridden my 'unger an' thirst
Six thousand raw mile on the hoof,
With the Vaal and the Orange for cup,
An' the Brandwater Basin for dish, -
Oh! it's 'ard to be'ave as they wish
(Too 'ard, an' a little too soon),
I'll 'ave to think over it first -

Me!

I will arise an' get 'ence -
I will trek South and make sure
If it's only my fancy or not
That the sunshine of England is pale,
And the breezes of England are stale,
An' there's something' gone small with the lot.
For I know of a sun an' a wind,
An' some plains and a mountain be'ind,
An' some graves by a barb-wire fence,
An' a Dutchman I've fought 'oo might give
Me a job where I ever inclined
To look in an' offsaddle an' live
Where there's neither a road nor a tree -
But only my Maker an' me,
An I think it will kill me or cure,
So I think I will go there an' see.

Me!
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  #21  
Old 04-25-2009, 12:17 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Paul le Fou View Post
You beat me to it.
And you beat me too.

Quote:
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse

They fuck 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 fucked 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.
Quote:
A.E. Housman (Untitled poem from A Shropshire Lad)

"Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh, many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie god knows where,
And carried half-way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt
- I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.
(I wish I could find Auden's poem on Housman...)

Quote:
W.B. Yeats - The Fascination of What's Difficult

The fascination of what’s difficult
Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent
Spontaneous joy and natural content
Out of my heart. There’s something ails our colt
That must, as if it had not holy blood,
Nor on an Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,
Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt
As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays
That have to be set up in fifty ways,
On the day’s war with every knave and dolt,
Theatre business, management of men.
I swear before the dawn comes round again
I’ll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
I also like Paradise Lost

(Satan is speaking here)

Quote:
Be then his Love accurst, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay curs'd be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I flie
Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire?
Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell;
And in the lowest deep a lower deep
Still threatning to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heav'n.
O then at last relent: is there no place
Left for Repentance, none for Pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
DISDAIN forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduc'd
With other promises and other vaunts
Then to submit, boasting I could subdue
Th' Omnipotent. Ay me, they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vaine,
Under what torments inwardly I groane;
While they adore me on the Throne of Hell,
With Diadem and Scepter high advanc'd
The lower still I fall, onely Supream
In miserie; such joy Ambition findes.
But say I could repent and could obtaine
By Act of Grace my former state; how soon
Would highth recal high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feign'd submission swore: ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have peirc'd so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall: so should I purchase deare
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my punisher; therefore as farr
From granting hee, as I from begging peace:
All hope excluded thus, behold in stead
Of us out-cast, exil'd, his new delight
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  #22  
Old 04-25-2009, 12:22 PM
Dizzy Dizzy is offline
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Quote:
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
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  #23  
Old 04-25-2009, 12:54 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Dizzy View Post
DH Lawrence
Another of my all-time favorites. Good choice.
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  #24  
Old 04-25-2009, 12:57 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Healy View Post
So hey! What's your favorite poem, Talking Tyrants?
Do I look like a fag?
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  #25  
Old 04-25-2009, 12:59 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Stephen Crane
A spirit sped
Through spaces of night;
And as he sped, he called,
"God! God!"
He went through valleys
Of black death-slime,
Ever calling,
"God! God!"
Their echoes
From crevice and cavern
Mocked him:
"God! God! God!"
Fleetly into the plains of space
He went, ever calling,
"God! God!"
Eventually, then, he screamed,
Mad in denial,
"Ah, there is no God!"
A swift hand,
A sword from the sky,
Smote him,
And he was dead.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Also Stephen Crane
I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never -"

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.
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  #26  
Old 04-25-2009, 01:19 PM
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Bongo Bill Bongo Bill is online now
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I don't know that I have a favorite of any of this, but I do entertain a fondness for Rudyard Kipling, in spite of his rather didactic tendencies.

Quote:
'The City of Brass'
Rudyard Kipling
1909

Here was a people whom after their works thou shalt see wept over for their lost dominion: and in this palace is the last information respecting lords collected in the dust.
-The Arabian Nights

In a land that the sand overlays—the ways to her gates are untrod—
A multitude ended their days whose fates were made splendid by God,
Till they grew drunk and were smitten with madness and went to their fall,
And of these is a story written: but Allah alone knoweth all!


When the wine stirred in their heart their bosoms dilated,
They rose to suppose themselves kings over all things created—
To decree a new earth at a birth without labour or sorrow—
To declare: 'We prepare it to-day and inherit to-morrow.'
They chose themselves prophets and priests of minute understanding,
Men swift to see done, and outrun, their extremest commanding—
Of the tribe which describe with a jibe the perversions of Justice—
Panders avowed to the crowd whatsoever its lust is.

Swiftly these pulled down the walls that their fathers had made them—
The impregnable ramparts of old, they razed and relaid them
As playgrounds of pleasure and leisure with limitless entries,
And havens of rest for the wastrels where once walked the sentries;
And because there was need of more pay for the shouters and marchers,
They disbanded in face of their foemen their bowmen and archers.
They replied to their well-wishers' fears—to their enemies' laughter,
Saying: 'Peace! We have fashioned a God Which shall save us hereafter.
We ascribe all dominion to man in his factions conferring,
And have given to numbers the Name of the Wisdom unerring.'
They said: 'Who has hate in his soul? Who has envied his neighbour?
Let him arise and control both that man and his labour.'
They said: 'Who is eaten by sloth? Whose unthrift has destroyed him?
He shall levy a tribute from all because none have employed him.'
They said: 'Who hath toiled? Who hath striven, and gathered possession?
Let him be spoiled. He hath given full proof of transgression.'
They said. 'Who is irked by the Law? Though we may not remove it,
If he lend us his aid in this raid, we will set him above it!
'
So the robber did judgment again upon such as displeased him,
The slayer, too, boasted his slain, and the judges released him.

As for their kinsmen far off, on the skirts of the nation,
They harried all earth to make sure none escaped reprobation,
They awakened unrest for a jest in their newly-won borders,
And jeered at the blood of their brethren betrayed by their orders.
They instructed the ruled to rebel, their rulers to aid them;
And, since such as obeyed them not fell, their Viceroys obeyed them.
When the riotous set them at naught they said: 'Praise the upheaval!
For the show and the word and the thought of Dominion is evil!'

They unwound and flung from them with rage, as a rag that defiled them
The imperial gains of the age which their forefathers piled them.
They ran panting in haste to lay waste and embitter for ever
The wellsprings of Wisdom and Strength which are Faith and Endeavour.
They nosed out and digged up and dragged forth and exposed to derision
All doctrine of purpose and worth and restraint and prevision:
And it ceased, and God granted them all things for which they had striven,
And the heart of a beast in the place of a man's heart was given…

---------------------------

When they were fullest of wine and most flagrant in error,
Out of the sea rose a sign—out of Heaven a terror.
Then they saw, then they heard, then they knew—for none troubled to hide it,
An host had prepared their destruction, but still they denied it.
They denied what they dared not abide if it came to the trial,
But the Sword that was forged while they lied did not heed their denial.
It drove home, and no time was allowed to the crowd that was driven.
The preposterous-minded were cowed—they thought time would be given.
There was no need of a steed nor a lance to pursue them;
It was decreed their own deed, and not chance, should undo them
The tares they had laughingly sown were ripe to the reaping,
The trust they had leagued to disown was removed from their keeping.
The eaters of other men's bread, the exempted from hardship,
The excusers of impotence fled, abdicating their wardship.
For the hate they had taught through the State brought the State no defender,
And it passed from the roll of the Nations in headlong surrender.
Or, if you prefer, Ogden Nash is certain to entertain.

Quote:
So Does Everybody Else, Only Not So Much
Ogden Nash

O all ye exorcizers come and exorcize now, and ye clergymen draw nigh and clerge,
For I wish to be purged of an urge.
It is an irksome urge, compounded of nettles and glue,
And it is turning all my friends back into acquaintances, and all my acquaintances into people who look the other way when I heave into view.
It is an indication that my mental buttery is butterless and my mental larder lardless,
And it consists not of "Stop me if you've heard this one," but of "I know you've heard this one because I told it to you myself, but I'm going to tell it to you again regardless,"
Yes I fear I am living beyond my mental means.
When I realize that it is not only anecdotes that I reiterate but what is far worse, summaries of radio programs and descriptions of caroons in newspapers and magazines.
I want to resist but I cannot resist recounting the bright sayins of celebrities that everybody already is familiar with every word of;
I want to refrain but cannot refrain from telling the same audience on two successive evenings the same little snatches of domestic gossip about people I used to know that they have never heard of.
When I remember some titlating episode of my childhood I figure that if it's worth narrating once it's worth narrating twice, in spite of lackluster eyes and dropping jaws,
And indeed I have now worked my way backward from titllating episodes in my own childhood to titillating episodes in the childhood of my parents or even my parents-in-laws,
And what really turns my corpuscles to ice,
I carry around clippings and read them to people twice.
And I know what I am doing while I am doing it and I don't want to do it but I can't help doing it and I am just another Ancient Mariner,
And the prospects for my future social life couldn't possibly be barrener.
Did I tell you that the prospects for my future social life couldn't be barrener?
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  #27  
Old 04-25-2009, 01:29 PM
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Lucas Lucas is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by JFink View Post
Fun Fact: Before he published his own books, Shel Silverstein wrote for Playboy.
I love Shel Silverstein starting with his children's poetry books when I was little, and quickly graduating to his more adult songs like "Freaking at the Freaker's Ball" and "Father of a Boy Named Sue" when I was older. You know, when I was about ten or twelve.

When I heard he died, it felt like I'd lost an uncle =(
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  #28  
Old 04-25-2009, 05:47 PM
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ShakeWell ShakeWell is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Lewis Carroll
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
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  #29  
Old 04-25-2009, 05:51 PM
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Sanagi Sanagi is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Gwendolyn Brooks
We Real Cool

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.
.....
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  #30  
Old 04-25-2009, 06:04 PM
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Tavir Tavir is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Shel Silverstein
Pinnochio

Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
That little wooden bloke-io,
His nose, it grew an inch or two
With every lie he spoke-io.

Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
Thought life was just a joke-io,
‘Til the morning that he met that cat
And the fox in a long red cloak-io.

They cried, “Come on, Pinocchio,
We’ll entertain the folk-io,
On puppet strings you’ll dance and sing
From Timbuktu to Tokyo.”

Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
Got sold to a trav’lin’ show-kio,
Got put in a cage by a man in a rage
With a stick to give him a poke-io.

So Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
Out of that cage he brokie-io
To the land where boys just play with toys
And cuss and fight and smoke-io.

Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
He finally awoke-io
With donkey ears and little-boy tears,
And his poor wooden heart was broke-io.

So back home ran Pinocchio,
As fast as he could go-kio,
But his daddy, he had gone to sea,
So off to sea went Pinocchio.

Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
He got quite a soak-io
When he lost his sail and got ate by a whale,
And it looked like he was gonna croak-io.

But Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
A fire he did stoke-io
Inside that whale, who sneezed up a gale
And blew him out in the smoke-io.

Pinocchio, Pinocchio,
Next mornin’ he awoke-io,
And he had no strings or puppety things,
And his donkey ears had disappeared,
And his nose– – surprise– – was the normal size,
And his body felt fine, not made of pine,
And he cried, “Oh joy, I’m a real boy,
And everything’s okey-dokey-o.”
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