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[nimrod]

Poetry is something Ive been drawn to for a couple of years, maybe in some it comes with age....the appreciation, or maybe just the patience required for reading and introspective thought.......who knows ?

My life since aged 10 (besides my job) has been all about music, studying it, playing it, learning how to read it, write it and formulate/understand things in my head like Harmony, Counterpoint etc and I still love all aspects of it, but poetry has entered my world and Im darn glad it did.


I was reading this the other day and really admired it, its about the loss of innocence, its better if you hear it of course as you can appreciate Hopkins syntax and rolling words into one..........please posts your favourite works;

Spring and Fall: To a Young Child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

[Moogmodule]

Great idea for a thread Kev. Like you I've been more into music than poetry. One reason I've never been a confident lyricist perhaps. I've got more into it as I've got older though. Also loving Benjamin Britten's music I've been exposed to Wilfred Owens poems through Britten's War Requiem. The poetry of the doomed youth of WW1 has a particularly affecting quality.



Move him into the sun--
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds--
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

Wilfred Owen

[nimrod]

Yes moog, very moving that...





One of my faves, (Michael Gambon recites this beautifully in the film The Good Shepherd)

A true work of art imo.



SONG

A bud has burst on the upper bough
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
I know where the pale green grasses show
By a tiny runnel, off the way,
And the earth is wet.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Not yet.”)

I nabbed the fly in a briar rose
(The linnet to-day in my heart did sing);
Last night, my head tucked under my wing,
I dreamed of a green moon-moth that glows
Thro’ ferns of June.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “So soon?”)

Good-bye, for the pretty leaves are down
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
The last gold bit of upland’s mown,
And most of summer has blown away
Thro’ the garden gate.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Too late.”)

Trumbull Stickney

[Moogmodule]

I can't recall seeing that one before. That's got a wonderful wistful quality to it.

I have to say with a name like Trumbull Stickney he was always more likely to be a poet more than an accountant or the like

[Moogmodule]

I always liked Clive James sardonic poetic touch.

The Book of my Enemy Has Been Remaindered'(excerpt)

The book of my enemy has been remaindered
And I am pleased.
In vast quantities it has been remaindered
Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized
And sits in piles in a police warehouse,
My enemy's much-prized effort sits in piles
In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs.
Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles
One passes down reflecting on life's vanities,
Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews
Lavished to no avail upon one's enemy's book --
For behold, here is that book
Among these ranks and banks of duds,
These ponderous and seeminly irreducible cairns
Of complete stiffs.

Clive James

[nimrod]

I can't recall seeing that one before. That's got a wonderful wistful quality to it.

I have to say with a name like Trumbull Stickney he was always more likely to be a poet more than an accountant or the like

Yes the poem is written 'as from a cuckoo'

you reminded me of this when you mentioned Benjamin Britten, his cuckoo is music of great beauty

'Cuckoo'-Choir Of Downside School, Purley, Viola Tunnard, Benjamin Britten

[Moogmodule]

Yes the poem is written 'as from a cuckoo'

you reminded me of this when you mentioned Benjamin Britten, his cuckoo is music of great beauty



'Cuckoo'-Choir Of Downside School, Purley, Viola Tunnard, Benjamin Britten

Yes. Britten wrote gorgeous melodies.

http://youtu.be/hxYG-EU4iSI
 

[KelMar]

Wonderful stuff! I love poetry and write it from time to time. I need to dig out my Emily Dickinson book. There's one in there I especially like. Or maybe guys don't dig her. LOL

[nimrod]

Wonderful stuff! I love poetry and write it from time to time. I need to dig out my Emily Dickinson book. There's one in there I especially like. Or maybe guys don't dig her. LOL

Please do Kelley   

[oldbrownshoe]

Would it be awful of me if I share with you a Tony Hancock poem from 'The Poetry Society'?

'The Ashtray' by Anthony.

"Steel rods of reason through my head.
Salmon jumping, where jump I?
Camels on fire, and spotted clouds.
Striped horses prance the meadow wild,
And rush on to drink at life's fountains deep.
Life is Cream, I am puce.
Ching. Chang. Cholla."

[nimrod]

Would it be awful of me if I share with you a Tony Hancock poem from 'The Poetry Society'?

'The Ashtray' by Anthony.

"Steel rods of reason through my head.
Salmon jumping, where jump I?
Camels on fire, and spotted clouds.
Striped horses prance the meadow wild,
And rush on to drink at life's fountains deep.
Life is Cream, I am puce.
Ching. Chang. Cholla."

No mate, not awful at all, I remember Tony Hancock well, very funny guy.

[Moogmodule]

Wonderful stuff! I love poetry and write it from time to time. I need to dig out my Emily Dickinson book. There's one in there I especially like. Or maybe guys don't dig her. LOL

Post some favourites Kelley. I'm really not familiar with most poets. So getting some favs shared is a great way to expand knowledge.

[Moogmodule]

Would it be awful of me if I share with you a Tony Hancock poem from 'The Poetry Society'?

'The Ashtray' by Anthony.

"Steel rods of reason through my head.
Salmon jumping, where jump I?
Camels on fire, and spotted clouds.
Striped horses prance the meadow wild,
And rush on to drink at life's fountains deep.
Life is Cream, I am puce.
Ching. Chang. Cholla."

Hancock was one of those unfortunate classic cases of a comedian who suffered severe depression wasn't he?

Gotta love a poem that ends with that last line.

[Hello Goodbye]

Unrhymed Iambic Pentameter...

Julius Caesar "Dogs of War"

Brutus Speech at Caesar's funeral

Mark Antony's Speech

[Moogmodule]

Unrhymed Iambic Pentameter...

Shakespeare did have a way with words.

Brando was good in his day wasn't he.

[Hello Goodbye]

Shakespeare did have a way with words.

Brando was good in his day wasn't he.

Virtus versus intercalaris.

Brando Marcus Antonius optimus erat.

[Kaleidoscope_Eyes]

I love poetry! I used to write when I was younger (but I lost my touch/muse).
Here is a poem I love by Lord Byron. It also makes an appearance in Midsomer Murders (which is a series I love as well )

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

[Kaleidoscope_Eyes]

The Cuckoo one is brilliant, by the way

[Moogmodule]

I love poetry! I used to write when I was younger (but I lost my touch/muse).
Here is a poem I love by Lord Byron. It also makes an appearance in Midsomer Murders (which is a series I love as well )

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

That's one that would have passed me by as a youngster. It seems a lot more poignant to me now.

[nimrod]

Maiden Name

Marrying left your maiden name disused.
Its five light sounds no longer mean your face,
Your voice, and all your variants of grace;
For since you were so thankfully confused
By law with someone else, you cannot be
Semantically the same as that young beauty:
It was of her that these two words were used.

Now it's a phrase applicable to no one,
Lying just where you left it, scattered through
Old lists, old programmes, a school prize or two
Packets of letters tied with tartan ribbon -
Then is it scentless, weightless, strengthless, wholly
Untruthful? Try whispering it slowly.
No, it means you. Or, since you're past and gone,

It means what we feel now about you then:
How beautiful you were, and near, and young,
So vivid, you might still be there among
Those first few days, unfingermarked again.
So your old name shelters our faithfulness,
Instead of losing shape and meaning less
With your depreciating luggage laden.

   -- Philip Larkin