Separate names with a comma.
Discussion in 'Reading & Writing' started by Sheldon Scott, Aug 5, 2015.
"orange"…never realized that Joe but you're right, there's nothing to rhyme with it..nothing. A poet would have to resort to near-rhyme for that word for which there are only three…torrent, abhorrent, or warrant.
Those 3 near-rhymes are barely close and they don't have anything to do with orange….Roses are red, Sunsets are orange, Sugar is sweet, And you're abhorrent...just isn't working
The first verse of Louis MacNeice's Dublin:
Grey brick upon brick,
On sombre pedestals -
O'Connell, Grattan, Moore -
And the brewery tugs and the swans
On the balustraded stream
And the bare bones of a fanlight
Over a hungry door
And the air soft on the cheek
And porter running from the taps
With a head of yellow cream
And Nelson on his pillar
Watching his world collapse.
As The Dubliners observed, poet and prophet.
What about "sponge"?
Here is an original poem by yours truly.
always spoken about
is beautiful when got
is wonderful with knot
abundant in life start.
I hope you like it.
I liked it Krissttina! @Tom Locke , Louis MacNiece's poem reminds me of a poem I wrote a year or so ago and posted in an online-literature forum…although his is far more profound. It even uses the word "balustrade" which is a bit uncommon. (my name I used in online-literature was Melanie because no one used their real name there but my profile pic matches me)
My poem inspired by Henri-Cartier Bresson's photo
"Aquila Degli Abruzzi" by Lara M.
Take my hand and come with me
Through rhythmic patterns and pauses
Down pebbled streets, between stone walls
Around spiral stairway balustrades.
In contrast to complexities
Of shapes and textures, and history
Live pure and humble humankind
In modest commonality.
Come taste their bread. We'll feed their birds.
Their simple lives of tranquility
Centered in prayer, "Oro Pro Nobis"
In Aquila Degli Abruzzi.
Re the MacNeice poem. I'm a fan of both poet and poem, but there was also a facetious element that I probably ought to explain. Nelson's Pillar stood in Dublin's O'Connell Street from 1809 until it was blown up by Irish republicans in 1966. The Dubliners, an Irish folk band, sang a song about it (Nelson's Farewell), hence the "poet and prophet" line I added at the end.
Apologies to anyone cognisant of these facts, but I thought I should explain!
Nelson is still a head!
Nelson’s head, now in the Dublin Civic Museum. (Mark Fiennes)
Has written a lot of books for children and is one of the Liverpool Three as they were often known (Adrian Henri, Roger McGough and Brian Patten).
I have always loved Patten's poetry as have all my family, his poetry helped with the pain of my marriage break up and a couple of other painful relationships. The three poems below I particularly like.
And Nothing is Ever as Perfect as You Want It to Be
You lose your love for her and then
It is her who is lost,
And then it is both who are lost,
And nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.
In a very ordinary world
A most extraordinary pain mingles with the small routines,
The loss seems huge and yet
Nothing can be pinned down or fully explained.
You are afraid. If you found the perfect love
It would scald your hands,
Rip the skin from your nerves,
Cause havoc with a computed heart.
Everything you touched became a wound.
You tried to mend what cannot be mended,
You tried, neither foolish nor clumsy,
To rescue what cannot be rescued.
You failed, a
And now she is elsewhere,
And her night and your night
Are both utterly drained.
How easy it would be
If love could be brought home like a lost kitten
Or gathered in like strawberries,
How lovely it would be;
But nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.
When I think of her sparkling face
And of her body that rocked this way and that,
When I think of her laughter,
Her jubilance that filled me,
It’s a wonder I’m not gone mad.
She is away and I cannot do what I want.
Other faces pale when I get close.
She is away and I cannot breathe her in.
The space her leaving has created
I have attempted to fill
With bodies that numbed upon touching,
Among them I expected her opposite,
And found only forgeries.
Her wholeness I know to be a fiction of my making,
Still I cannot dismiss the longing for her;
It is a craving for sensation new flesh
Cannot wholly calm or cancel,
It is perhaps for more than her.
At night above the parks the stars are swarming.
The streets are thick with nostalgia;
I move through senseless routine and insensitive chatter
As if her going did not matter.
She is away and I cannot breathe her in.
I am ill simply through wanting her.
When You Wake Tomorrow
I will give you a poem when you wake tomorrow.
It will be a peaceful poem.
It won’t make you sad.
It won’t make you miserable.
It will simply be a poem to give you
When you wake tomorrow.
It was not written by myself alone.
I cannot lay claim to it.
I found it in your body.
In your smile I found it.
Will you recognise it?
You will find it under your pillow.
When you open the cupboard it will be there.
You will blink in astonishment,
Shout out, ‘How it trembles!
Its nakedness is startling! How fresh it tastes!’
We will have it for breakfast;
On a table lit by loving,
At a place reserved for wonder.
We will give the world a kissing open
When we wake tomorrow.
We will offer it to the sad landlord out on the balcony.
To the dreamers at the window.
To the hand waving for no particular reason
We will offer it.
An amazing and most remarkable thing,
We will offer it to the whole human race
Which walks in us
When we wake tomorrow.
We are all a little weird and life's a little weird,
and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours,
we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and
Call it LOVE.
I may have said so before but I like this one:
The Purpose of Poetry
By Jared Carter
This old man grazed thirty head of cattle
in a valley just north of the covered bridge
on the Mississinewa, where the reservoir
stands today. Had a black border collie
and a half-breed sheep dog with one eye.
The dogs took the cows to pasture each morning
and brought them home again at night
and herded them into the barn. The old man
would slip a wooden bar across both doors.
One dog slept on the front porch, one on the back.
He was waiting there one evening
listening to the animals coming home
when a man from the courthouse stopped
to tell him how the new reservoir
was going to flood all his property.
They both knew he was too far up in years
to farm anywhere else. He had a daughter
who lived in Florida, in a trailer park.
He should sell now and go stay with her.
The man helped bar the doors before he left.
He had only known dirt under his fingernails
and trips to town on Saturday mornings
since he was a boy. Always he had been around
cattle, and trees, and land near the river.
Evenings by the barn he could hear the dogs
talking to each other as they brought in
the herd; and the cows answering them.
It was the clearest thing he knew. That night
He shots both dogs and then himself.
The purpose of poetry is to tell us about life.
My favorite by J.R.R.Tolkien, I memorized it when I was very young:
All that is gold does not glitter.
Not all who wander are lost.
The old that is strong does not wither.
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken.
A light from the shadows shall spring.
Renewed shall be blade that was broken.
The crownless again shall be king.
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (in part)
- Dr. Seuss 1957
Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot
But the Grinch who lived just North of Whoville did not!...
...It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight.
It could be his head wasn't screwed on just right.
But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that his heart was two sizes too small…
...Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously drumming,
"I must find some way to keep Christmas from coming!
And then they'll do something I hate most of all!
Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small,
They'll stand close together, with Christmas bells ringing.
They'll stand hand-in-hand, and those Whos will start singing!"...
Then he got an idea! An awful idea!
The Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea!…
...You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch. You really are a heel.
You're as cuddly as a cactus. You're as charming as an eel.
Mr. Grinch! You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel!
You're a monster, Mr. Grinch. Your heart's an empty hole.
Your brain is full of spiders. You've got garlic in your soul.
Mr. Grinch! I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole!...
...Where the little Who stockings hung all in a row.
"These stockings," he grinched, "are the first things to go!"
Then he slithered and slunk, with a smile most unpleasant,
Around the whole room, and he took every present!...
...You're a vile one, Mr. Grinch. You have termites in your smile.
You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile.
You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch. You're the king of sinful sots.
Your heart's a dead tomato splotched with moldy purple spots.
Mr. Grinch! You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce!…
...Then he stuffed all the food up the chimney with glee.
"Now," grinned the Grinch, "I will stuff up the tree!"
As the Grinch took the tree, as he started to shove,
He heard a small sound like the coo of a dove.
He turned around fast, and he saw a small Who!
Little Cindy-Lou Who, who was no more than two.
She stared at the Grinch and said, "Santy Claus, why,
Why are you taking our Christmas tree? Why?"
But, you know, that old Grinch was so smart and so slick,
He thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick!
"Why, my sweet little tot," the fake Santy Claus lied,
"There's a light on this tree that won't light on one side.
So I'm taking it home to my workshop, my dear.
I'll fix it up there, then I'll bring it back here."
And his fib fooled the child. Then he patted her head,
And he got her a drink, and he sent her to bed.
And when Cindy-Lou Who was in bed with her cup,
He crupt to the chimney and stuffed the tree up!...
...You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch. You're a nasty-wasty skunk.
Your heart is full of unwashed socks. Your soul is full of gunk.
Mr. Grinch! The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote, "Stink, stank, stunk"!...
They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!
Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
Then the Whos down in Whoville will all cry boo-boo!…
...But this sound wasn't sad!
Why, this sound sounded glad!
Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small,
Was singing without any presents at all!
He hadn't stopped Christmas from coming! It came!
Somehow or other, it came just the same!
And the Grinch, with his grinch feet ice-cold in the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling. "How could it be so?
It came without ribbons! It came without tags!
It came without packages, boxes, or bags!"
He puzzled and puzzed till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store.
Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more!
And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say
That the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day!…
...With a smile to his soul, he descended Mount Crumpet
Cheerily blowing "Who! Who!" on his trumpet.
He road into Whoville. He brought back their toys.
He brought back their floof to the Who girls and boys….
...Welcome Christmas while we stand
Heart to heart and hand in hand.
My favorite poetry is by Kahil Gibran. On Love is a favorite of mine... but then so are all the others in his book The Prophet.