Poetry

Lady Sidhe · 01-31-2004, 08:41 PM

(Reposted from the "Well?" thread...)

Ok, first poem...I had to write a sonnet for a poetry class, so it was the first sonnet I ever wrote...and very concrete, which I wasn't accustomed to, which was why I was so tickled when it got published...

I tried to bring across the idea of the lonliness of someone who who has survived her partner of many years, and has been somewhat "forgotten" by her children, and yet still dresses up in the hope that someone may visit her.

I wrote it because I remember when a friend and I once visited a nursing home on a whim, and the lonliness on the faces of all those old people whose children had abandoned them to an institution just broke my heart. I and a friend sat and talked to a group of old folks all day, just to give them some company...the stories they told about their lives...the things they'd seen and done...it was amazing, and their children didn't know the living history they were missing by ignoring their relatives. All in all, it was a fascinating day, but it made me so sad I never went back...this poem is one poem I think that maybe I DID write, subconsciously, for other people...a memorial to all those old people who were abandoned in that nursing home.

A SONNET IN FUTILITY

In an ancient, chipped, brown rocking chair
The old woman sits in her very best;
She sits and rocks, and rocks and stares
At the winter-abandoned paper nest
Underneath her front-porch eaves.
Like the wasps, her own have flown...
Around the nest, the windy leaves
Swirl, as she sits poised beside the phone.
No more busy buzzing noise
Of insect nest or active house
She rocks and thinks with downcast eyes
Of long-gone children, long-dead spouse.
But still, she peers from her window-nest,
Rocking, in her very best.

Sidhe

Lady Sidhe · 01-31-2004, 08:48 PM

Another one from poetry class...just in case you're wondering, the instructor didn't believe in rhyme, or abstraction in poetry...

Winter Storm

With old, arthritic fingers
the half-naked tree
clutches the dirt-brown
wrinkled leaves,
like remnants of tattered clothing
fluttering in the frigid wind,
as if to shield itself from
the cutting crystal tears
wept by the shivering sky.
A half-cradled bird's nest,
abandoned,
is perched in the crook of Tree's arm,
rocked precariously with each rough breath.
The empty feeder flings back and forth,
like a swing out of control;
The Wind nibbles and chews...
Tree is losing.

28 Oct. 1992
Sidhe

Skunks · 02-01-2004, 02:23 AM

I'm no poet, but this makes me want to be one. In the age old tradition of mixing thread-hijacking with possibly insufficient citation of somebody else's work, here's a snippit of a poem I got a kick out of:

Quote:

Unceasingly I tippled the wine and took my joy,
unceasingly I sold and squandered my hoard and my patrimony
till all my family deserted me, every one of them,
and I sat alone like a lonely camel scabby with mange;
yet I saw the sons of the dust did not deny me
nor the grand ones who dwell in those fine, wide-spread tents.

So now then, you who revile me because I attend the wars
and partake in all pleasures, can you keep me alive forever?
If you can't avert from me the fate that surely awaits me
then pray leave me to hasten it on with what money I've got.

But for three things, that are the joy of a young fellow,
I assure you I wouldn't care when my deathbed visitors arrive--
First, to forestall my charming critics with a good swig
of crimson wine that foams when the water is mingled in;
second, to wheel at the call of the beleaguered a curved-shanked steed
streaking like the wolf of the thicket you've started lapping the water;
and third, to curtail the day of showers, such an admirable season,
dallying with a ripe wench under the pole-propped tent,
her anklets and her bracelets seemingly hung on the boughs
of a pliant, unriven gum-tree or a castor-shrub.

So permit me to drench my head while there's still life in it,
for I tremble at the thought of the scant draught I'll get when I'm dead
I'm a generous fellow, one that soaks himself in his lifetime;
you'll know tomorrow, when we're dead, which of us is the thirsty one.

To my eyes the grave of the niggardly who's mean with his money
is one with the wastrel's who's squandered his substance in idleness;
all you can see is a couple of heaps of dust, and on them
slabs of granite, flat stones piled shoulder to shoulder.

(from the Mu'allaqa of Tarafa, by way of "The Seven Odes: The First Chapter in Arabic Literature" compiled by A.J. Arberry [London: Allen & Unwin, 1957])

Lady Sidhe · 02-03-2004, 01:33 PM

There's one I read in college--our poetry instructor used it as a bad example, but of course, I liked it. It's called, "Life, Friends, is Boring." My box of poetry is MIA, so until I find it, let's see if I can remember the poem:

John Berryman

Dream Song 14

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

I really identified with this poem, because I get bored very easily.

Sidhe

Lady Sidhe · 02-03-2004, 01:42 PM

One of my favorite poets is Robert Service. He was called "The World War II Poet," and he wrote several books of poetry, one of which is called "Songs from the Yukon and Other Tales." One of his poems is called "The Burning of Sam McGee," which some of you might know. Anyway, two of my favorites iare "The March of the Dead" and "The Cynic" Let's see if I can remember them.

The Cynic

My Father Christmas passed away
when I was barely seven;
At twenty-one, alack-a-day,
I lost my hope of heaven.

Yet not in either lies the curse,
the hell of it's because
I don't know which loss hurt the worse,
My God or Santa Claus.

The March of the Dead

The cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.

And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming -- it's the Army of the Dead."

They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!

"They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop
On this, our England's crowning festal day;
We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso -- we're the men who had to pay.
We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before."

The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands -- oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then -- it was a dream.

There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.

Sidhe

Lady Sidhe · 02-10-2004, 09:46 PM

This is a song, but I put it here because, after all, a song is only a poem put to music. Considering some of the relationship-oriented threads I've seen floating around, I thought this would be an interesting take on things.

Sidhe

START WITH THE ENDING
from What You Whispered
David Wilcox
..............................................

The secret of a happy marriage,
maybe you should write this down
If you want to keep a love together,
the best way is to end it now
Because when you both know its over,
suddenly the truth comes out
You can talk about your secret passion,
you can talk about your restless doubt

When there's no pretending,
then the truth is safe to say,
Start with the ending,
get it out of the way
Now there's no defending,
because no one has to win
Start with the ending,
its the best way to begin

After you have both decided,
you were missing something that you need
The ways that you were too short-sighted,
get easier for you to see
And after all the expectations
shatter on the kitchen floor
You just see another human suffering,
and you wonder what the war was for

When there's no pretending,
then the truth is safe to say,
Start with the ending,
get it out of the way
Now there's no defending,
because no one has to win
Start with the ending,
its the best way to begin

Happy anniversary darling,
we go back a long, long time
I think about our lives together,
I'm so grateful you are here in mine
And I know you'll keep on changing,
you're moving in this dance with me
I love the way we embrace the future
and keep the past a memory

So there's no defending
that the old ways could remain
We start with the ending
and things will never be the same
Now there's no defending,
because no one has to win
Start with the ending,
its the best way to begin
Now there's no pretending,
then the truth is safe to say,
Start with the ending,
get it out of the way
Now there's no defending,
because no one has to win
Start with the ending,
its the best way to begin
Now there's no defending,
because no one has to win
Start with the ending,
its the best way to begin

01-31-2004, 08:41 PM	#1
Lady Sidhe That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.... Join Date: Nov 2003 Location: Hammond, La. Posts: 978	Poetry (Reposted from the "Well?" thread...) Ok, first poem...I had to write a sonnet for a poetry class, so it was the first sonnet I ever wrote...and very concrete, which I wasn't accustomed to, which was why I was so tickled when it got published... I tried to bring across the idea of the lonliness of someone who who has survived her partner of many years, and has been somewhat "forgotten" by her children, and yet still dresses up in the hope that someone may visit her. I wrote it because I remember when a friend and I once visited a nursing home on a whim, and the lonliness on the faces of all those old people whose children had abandoned them to an institution just broke my heart. I and a friend sat and talked to a group of old folks all day, just to give them some company...the stories they told about their lives...the things they'd seen and done...it was amazing, and their children didn't know the living history they were missing by ignoring their relatives. All in all, it was a fascinating day, but it made me so sad I never went back...this poem is one poem I think that maybe I DID write, subconsciously, for other people...a memorial to all those old people who were abandoned in that nursing home. A SONNET IN FUTILITY In an ancient, chipped, brown rocking chair The old woman sits in her very best; She sits and rocks, and rocks and stares At the winter-abandoned paper nest Underneath her front-porch eaves. Like the wasps, her own have flown... Around the nest, the windy leaves Swirl, as she sits poised beside the phone. No more busy buzzing noise Of insect nest or active house She rocks and thinks with downcast eyes Of long-gone children, long-dead spouse. But still, she peers from her window-nest, Rocking, in her very best. Sidhe __________________ My free will...I never leave home without it. --House Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be. -Rita Rudner

01-31-2004, 08:48 PM	#2
Lady Sidhe That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.... Join Date: Nov 2003 Location: Hammond, La. Posts: 978	Another one from poetry class...just in case you're wondering, the instructor didn't believe in rhyme, or abstraction in poetry... Winter Storm With old, arthritic fingers the half-naked tree clutches the dirt-brown wrinkled leaves, like remnants of tattered clothing fluttering in the frigid wind, as if to shield itself from the cutting crystal tears wept by the shivering sky. A half-cradled bird's nest, abandoned, is perched in the crook of Tree's arm, rocked precariously with each rough breath. The empty feeder flings back and forth, like a swing out of control; The Wind nibbles and chews... Tree is losing. 28 Oct. 1992 Sidhe __________________ My free will...I never leave home without it. --House Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be. -Rita Rudner

02-03-2004, 01:33 PM	#4
Lady Sidhe That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.... Join Date: Nov 2003 Location: Hammond, La. Posts: 978	There's one I read in college--our poetry instructor used it as a bad example, but of course, I liked it. It's called, "Life, Friends, is Boring." My box of poetry is MIA, so until I find it, let's see if I can remember the poem: John Berryman Dream Song 14 Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored means you have no Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as Achilles, who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag. I really identified with this poem, because I get bored very easily. Sidhe __________________ My free will...I never leave home without it. --House Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be. -Rita Rudner Last edited by Lady Sidhe; 02-03-2004 at 01:35 PM.

02-03-2004, 01:42 PM	#5
Lady Sidhe That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.... Join Date: Nov 2003 Location: Hammond, La. Posts: 978	One of my favorite poets is Robert Service. He was called "The World War II Poet," and he wrote several books of poetry, one of which is called "Songs from the Yukon and Other Tales." One of his poems is called "The Burning of Sam McGee," which some of you might know. Anyway, two of my favorites iare "The March of the Dead" and "The Cynic" Let's see if I can remember them. The Cynic My Father Christmas passed away when I was barely seven; At twenty-one, alack-a-day, I lost my hope of heaven. Yet not in either lies the curse, the hell of it's because I don't know which loss hurt the worse, My God or Santa Claus. The March of the Dead The cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet! We watched the troops returning, through our tears; There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street, And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers. And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between; The bells were pealing madly to the sky; And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen, And the glory of an age was passing by. And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear; The bells were silent, not an echo stirred. The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer; We waited, and we never spoke a word. The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack There came a voice that checked the heart with dread: "Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black; They are coming -- it's the Army of the Dead." They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow; They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride; With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe, And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide. Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips! The reeling ranks of ruin swept along! The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips! And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song! "They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop On this, our England's crowning festal day; We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop, Colenso -- we're the men who had to pay. We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain? You owe us. Long and heavy is the score. Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain, And cheer us as ye never cheered before." The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead; Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice; And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead, The pity of the men who paid the price. They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace; Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam; They were coming in their thousands -- oh, would they never cease! I closed my eyes, and then -- it was a dream. There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street; The town was mad; a man was like a boy. A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet; A thousand bells were thundering the joy. There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret; And while we stun with cheers our homing braves, O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget The graves they left behind, the bitter graves. Sidhe __________________ My free will...I never leave home without it. --House Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be. -Rita Rudner

02-10-2004, 09:46 PM	#6
Lady Sidhe That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.... Join Date: Nov 2003 Location: Hammond, La. Posts: 978	This is a song, but I put it here because, after all, a song is only a poem put to music. Considering some of the relationship-oriented threads I've seen floating around, I thought this would be an interesting take on things. Sidhe START WITH THE ENDING from What You Whispered David Wilcox .............................................. The secret of a happy marriage, maybe you should write this down If you want to keep a love together, the best way is to end it now Because when you both know its over, suddenly the truth comes out You can talk about your secret passion, you can talk about your restless doubt When there's no pretending, then the truth is safe to say, Start with the ending, get it out of the way Now there's no defending, because no one has to win Start with the ending, its the best way to begin After you have both decided, you were missing something that you need The ways that you were too short-sighted, get easier for you to see And after all the expectations shatter on the kitchen floor You just see another human suffering, and you wonder what the war was for When there's no pretending, then the truth is safe to say, Start with the ending, get it out of the way Now there's no defending, because no one has to win Start with the ending, its the best way to begin Happy anniversary darling, we go back a long, long time I think about our lives together, I'm so grateful you are here in mine And I know you'll keep on changing, you're moving in this dance with me I love the way we embrace the future and keep the past a memory So there's no defending that the old ways could remain We start with the ending and things will never be the same Now there's no defending, because no one has to win Start with the ending, its the best way to begin Now there's no pretending, then the truth is safe to say, Start with the ending, get it out of the way Now there's no defending, because no one has to win Start with the ending, its the best way to begin Now there's no defending, because no one has to win Start with the ending, its the best way to begin __________________ My free will...I never leave home without it. --House Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be. -Rita Rudner

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